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You do extend your hand and plant the keyring in Rashidov’s outstretched palm; his hands are small for his size.
“We got lucky, these are the keys to the police station. But –“ you pause for emphasis here, “you are still to treat the precinct as an uncleared building with potential hostiles and traps. We don’t know what to expect from the occupiers.”
He fiddles with the dozen or so keys threaded on the large steel ring: “Any idea which one is… ummm… the one for the…”
“No, not yet. The fourth opens a maintenance shed at the rear of the building, accessible from the motor pool lot. There is an entrance to the building there too, in addition to the one on the street front.”
“Understood, sir. We’ll act as if the building is occupied until it is determined otherwise. And sir, on the drive there, should I take point?” You nod, letting the powerfully built truck lead your little convoy up the street. With that settled, he salutes again and, seeing as you have made no comment nor any attempt to stop him, walks back to the waiting truck and hops in the cab. You enter your own vehicle and, seeing that you are ready, the transport truck lurches forward with a plume of dark exhaust.