UnAlaska

18. Form a Posse

Dmitry rode the elevator to the sixth deck. It was slow and smooth.

He was pushing a small cleaning cart. It was made of pebbled, gray plastic. It was rough and hastily manufactured, but at least the caster wheels were silent on the thick carpet. Yellow trash bags hung from each side, and the center was covered in small divided storage spaces. They were filled with plastic gloves, cleaning supplies, and packaged soaps in neat rows. He knew that a cleaning cart gave anyone near total anonymity. No one wanted to think too hard about who cleaned their mess, especially these guests.

His silenced submachine gun was stowed in the mouth of the garbage bag closest to him. He had attached the shoulder sling to the cart so it draped just into the opening of the bag. Then, he had covered it in a superficial layer of crumpled paper towels to obscure it.

He walked at a steady, unhurried pace. Guests walked by and smiled. He smiled and nodded back. He passed by a dining room on his left. It was neatly set with crisp, white tablecloths and delicate vases full of flowers. Waitstaff was milling around, preparing for the dinner rush. The first few guests were starting to be seated.

Further down the hall, a small bar on the right was teeming with guests getting drinks before dinner. He heard the shunk-shunk-shunk of ice in a cocktail shaker. Another bartender poured a glass of red wine and handed it to a carefully coiffed woman in a black dress.

Past the bar, there was a long bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. He could see the ocean was choppy. He couldn't feel any of the wind or the spray. The ship was too large to be bounced around by anything less than a hurricane. A faraway rocky shore was barely visible through the gray. It was covered in trees and a spattering of structures. He thought it must be Unalaska. He knew they would be making port in Dutch Harbor after dinner. The plan depended on it.

The hallway jockeyed toward the center of the ship. Ahead, there was a large movie theater. The seats were overstuffed, and arranged like couches. The doors were open. Guests were filtering in for a screening of 'Vindicator.' It was the latest comic book franchise movie. A lot of action and not a lot of substance. He shook his head. Dmitry loved cinema, and detested the watered down pablum he saw in theaters. He knew no American movie would ever compare to Battleship Potemkin.

Across from the theater, the hallway doubled back and became smaller. He saw the door up ahead. It was wide, and brightly colored. A door for adults stood further ahead, with a smaller door for children beside it. A sign overhead read, "Junior Wayfarers." He supposed it was a safari theme, or possibly exploration in general. He knew the Americans had cooled on the idea of a safari in Africa. Too many sad pictures of dead, majestic animals.

Next to the door stood a tall and solidly built security guard. He was in a dark suit with a serious but bored expression. He turned to face Dmitry as the cart approached.

Dmitry wheeled the cart closer, near the door. He kept his body pointed down the hallway, where there would be no collateral damage behind the guard. He knew that bullets didn't care when they hit their target. They had a tendency to keep sailing right on through, regardless of how important or delicate their backstop might be.

Beyond the guard, he saw another man in a chef's coat and checked pants approaching. He was pushing a cart of food. His head was turned away from the security camera in the hallway. He paused under the camera and raised a can of spray paint. With a short, nearly silent hiss, the camera was covered. The man in the chef's apron gave Dmitry a quick nod. He pushed his cart to the opposite side of the hallway, clearing a space behind the guard.

The guard looked coolly at Dmitry. "Why are you here?"

Dmitry rested his hands on the cart's handles. He looked nonchalant. "Cleaning. I was called for a spill."