“There’s a traffic police checkpoint// on the way out of town — you can’t go around it.”
“Then we’ll walk around it. On foot.”
And so they did.
Oleg dropped them off about fifty metres before the traffic police checkpoint, on a deserted road outside the city — behind them, staring at their backs, were the last bleak tower blocks of a working-class district. There was some woodland on the left and depressing wastelands on the right.
The Volga, huffing, puffing, and snaking left and right, slowly drove off, dirty snow flying out from under the skidding wheels.
“There he goes with all our grub,” Venka said as Oleg pulled away.
“Do we just walk along the road?” Verochka asked Sasha.
“No, that seems kind of stupid. They may have our mugshots at the checkpoint…”
“Shoot to kill, no negoti
