'Then,' she says, 'they started shooting.' Chizhevsky: 'The first bullet came into my eye. Rose glanced toward the door: two men wearing ski masks. Behind him was a girl I’ll call Rose, a few weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday. In the hall, a man named Dmitry Chizhevsky was looking for his jacket. 'We’re looking for our friend!' replied one of the strangers. They crossed the lot toward a stand of scrub trees and weeds and took a left down a narrow path, then down an even darker set of uneven stairs to an unmarked steel door. Here they may have stopped to put on their masks. They went through the arch and down a dark alley before they arrived at an unlit empty parking lot, blacktop crumbling. They walked down a long street between a busy road and a canal until they came to an arch in a building. One evening in November-the city center like a bowl of pastel candies, Orthodox onion-domes rising above it like spun sugar-two strangers found their way to LaSky.
