[The large hand was warm against Raikov's cold chest.]

One.

Two.

Three.

[The process was quick, for the most part: The agony of digging was now the agony of heat and irritation. A twitch of his arm and a toss. His palm was bloody, the bullet was bloody and it marked the floor as it bounced away. More of that terrible toilet paper was grabbed, Raikov seized against whatever he was feeling at that moment, and placed against the wound to ease the bleeding.]

That might not be all of it.