A solitary figure stepped out of the black and walked along the tracks, a thin pistol in his right hand. There was no sound, save his own languid footsteps and the rats, scratching against the darkness. The man moved closer to the wal and stopped. He’d tracked the woman here, then waited. He’d heard the voices, but couldn’t make out any words. Then, the gunshot. Maybe someone had done the man a favor. Now he’d find out. Just ahead, he saw a shal ow pool of white floating against the black. The man crept closer and clicked on his flashlight. She was crumpled in a corner, eyes closed, breathing even. Her left hand was cuffed to a locker, and she’d taken a bul et in the leg. The man crouched down to take a closer look. Flesh wound. Hardly this woman’s biggest problem. He glanced at the scatter of paperwork on the floor, but didn’t bother with any of it. He hadn’t been told to read anything. Hadn’t been told to col ect anything. And the man did what he was told. He compared the woman’s face with the picture they’d given him. Then he stood up, raised his pistol, and fired twice. Two tiny pops. Two smal holes. He checked the woman again. Satisfied, the man slipped the pistol into his coat and pul ed the gray cashmere close around him. Then he turned and walked away, his left foot dragging behind him. The man hated rats and could feel them as he walked, staring out at him from the darkness.