Vasilyeva reached back, grabbed Wendy by the hair, and pulled her up to her feet. “Is this who you came for, General? I would not have wasted my time.” Patrick quickly searched for the gun around his feet. Vasilyeva pulled Wendy to her, wrapped her left arm around Wendy’s neck, and applied pressure with her right hand. “Do not move, or I will snap her neck,” Vasilyeva warned.

“Let her go.”

“Kharasho” Vasilyeva said. “It is you I want anyway.” And in the blink of an eye, the former Russian officer withdrew a knife from her belt and drew it quickly across Wendy’s throat. Wendy’s eyes rolled up inside her head, and Vasilyev let her drop to the floor.

“No!” Patrick shouted. “You bitch! You murderer!”

“It was you Comrade Kazakov wanted all the time,” Vasilyeva said, advancing on Patrick with the bloodied knife at the ready. “But where is this Tin Man armor he spoke of? No matter. Comrade Kazakov only desires you dead. I think I shall bring him a finger—that should be proof enough.”

Patrick’s bulging eyes shifted rapidly from his wife’s inert form to his attacker. He backed away a few steps— that only made the Russian smile. Patrick raised his hands. “Cut these handcuffs off and let’s make it a fair fight.”

“I do not wish a fair fight,” Vasilyeva said. “Comrade Kazakov only wanted you dead, not for me to give you a fair fight.” In the blink of an eye she was on him, and before he knew it her blade had sliced once across his right arm and once across his chest. She smiled evilly. “But he did not say it could not be slow and agonizing for you.” Patrick tried to back away, but he tripped and fell straight back. He tried to get back on his feet, but with his hands cuffed in front of him and his feet manacled, he was helpless. “I think,” Vasilyeva said, her teeth shining as she smiled at him, “that you should have matching cuts across your throats. Do you not think it would be fitting, General?”

A shot rang out and a bullet ricocheted off the wall. Vasilyeva turned and saw Wendy McLanahan, her torso a hideous blouse of dark red, not fifteen feet from her, leveling the submachine gun at her. “Very impressive, Comrade Doctor—to the very last,” Vasilyeva said. She spun the knife around until she was holding the blade, then threw it. The blade sunk into Wendy’s chest, and she toppled over backward. “How very touching. You must be proud, Gen—”

She never got to finish her sentence. Patrick had gotten to his feet, kicked the back of her knees to send her down, then jumped up, wrapped the chain connecting his ankle manacles around Vasilyeva’s neck, and rolled around to twist it tight. He rolled several more times until the chain was tight, then locked his feet together.