Olena beat him to it. She swung in front of Marcus, the flat of her palm upraised. So fast. She snatched the coin just before it would’ve hit his face. Marcus stared at her upraised fist, right there in front of him, a small, white-knuckled fist, gripping the coin. The wail of misery inside Marcus began so deep it had a long way to rise. He felt it, though, coming, raging up, taking shape as his grasp of what was about to happen did.

Vasel knew as well, and he found his voice faster than Marcus. He bellowed something in Russian. Two words, over and over again.

Olena opened her hand, turned it to reveal the coin. It was there, stuck fast to her palm, pulsing with energy. That stopped Vasel’s shouting. Olena shook her hand, trying to drop the coin, but it was stuck fast, embedded in her skin. She stared at it again, as did Marcus and everyone else. The moment stretched, long and silent. Nobody moved. Marcus held his breath, afraid that if he marked the passage of time the fate that awaited those on the receiving end of Vasel’s coin would fall on Olena as well.

Olena said, flatly, “I’m not dead.”

As if freed by the words, Vasel approached her. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t get a word out. Olena—her words as hard and compact as stones—said, “I hate you. I wish you were dead.” When he tried to speak again, she smacked him. The hand with the coin flew with such speed and fury that it cut Vasel off mid-word. The blow snapped his head to the side. When he looked back, an oval-shaped slash had been burned into his cheek. “Die, Papa! Die.”

An expression of utter grief possessed Vasel’s features. His flesh shriveled and squeezed taut against the bones of his skull. His eyes hollowed and his lips drew back, revealing teeth that looked instantly ghastly. Before their eyes and in just a few seconds, the life drained out of him. He reached out toward his daughter with a now skeletal hand that clutched at the air but didn’t reach her. Then he crumpled to the ground.

“Whoa,” Bugsy said, “that was a serious bitch-slap.”

Michelle held Joey’s face gently in her hands. They were in the hangar that served as a base for the Committee and the remnants of the Kazakh and Red Crescent forces. Soldiers and what Michelle assumed to be black ops were engaged in various make-ready activities. All armed to the teeth, and even the doctors wore sidearms.