"The discussion is over," said the psychiatrist. "You can shut up now."
"Is that how you end your sessions with your patients?"
"I never said I was a psychiatrist," said the psychiatrist.
"Psychiatry was your education," said Petra. "And I know you had a practice for a while, because real people don't talk like shrinks when they're trying to reassure a frightened child. Just because you got involved in politics and changed careers doesn't mean you aren't still the kind of bonehead who goes to witch-doctor school and thinks he's a scientist."
The man's fury was barely contained. P
etra enjoyed the momentary thrill of fear that ran through her. Would he slap her? Not likely. As a psychiatrist, he would probably fall back on his one limitless resource--professional arrogance.
"Laymen usually sneer at sciences they don't understand," said the psychiatrist.
"That," said Petra, "is precisely my point. When it comes to military operations, you're a complete novice. A layman. A bonehead. And I'm the expert. And you're too stupid to listen to me even now."
"Everything is going smoothly," said the psychiatrist. "And you'll feel very foolish and apologize as you thank me when you get on the plane to return to Armenia."
Petra only smiled tightly. "You didn't even look in the cab of this delivery van to make sure it was the same driver before we drove off."
"Someone else would have noticed if the driver changed," said the psychiatrist. But Petra could tell she had finally made him uneasy.
"Oh, yes, I forgot, we trust your fellow conspirators to see all and miss nothing, because, after all, they aren't psychiatrists."
"I'm a psychologist," he said.
"Ouch," said Petra. "That must have hurt, to admit you're only half-educated."
The psychologist turned away from her. What was the term the shrinks in Ground School used for that behavior--avoidance? Denial? She almost asked him, but decided to leave well enough alone.
And people thought she couldn't control her tongue.
They rode for a while in bristling silence.
But the things she said must have been working on him, nagging at him. Because after a while he got up and walked to the front and opened the door between the cargo area and the cab.
A deafening gunshot rang through the closed interior, and the psychiatrist fell back. Petra felt hot brains and stinging bits of bone spatter her face and arms. The man across from her started reaching for a weapon under his coat, but he was shot twice and slumped over dead without touching it.
The door from the cab opened the rest of the way. It was Achilles standing there, holding the gun in his hand. He said something.
"I can't hear you," said Petra. "I can't even hear my own voice."
Achilles shrugged. Speaking louder and mouthing the words carefully, he tried again. She refused to look at him.
"I'm not going to try to listen to you," she said, "while I still have his blood all over me."
Achilles set down the gun--far out of her reach--and pulled off his shirt. Bare-chested, he handed it to her, and when she refused to take it, he started wiping her face with it until she snatched it out of his hands and did the job herself.
The ringing in her ears was fading, too. "I'm surprised you didn't wait to kill them until you'd had a chance to tell them how smart you are," said Petra.
"I didn't need to," said Achilles. "You already told them how dumb they were."
"Oh, you were listening?"
"Of course the compartment back here was wired for sound," said Achilles. "And video."
"You didn't have to kill them," said Petra.
"That guy was going for his gun," said Achilles.