Marked Man by Jared Paul

shrugged and admitted that he could not.
    “They had every advantage. The German army was the most sophisticated and well trained fighting force on the continent. They were disciplined. They had belief in what they were doing. They were better supplied, their generals were for more knowledgeable, and their weapons advanced beyond our comprehension. When Hitler betrayed us and attacked, Stalin did not believe it for days. Not until he saw the destruction with his own eyes. He had several men executed for lying when they told him even. Anyway. They pushed the Red Army back and back, wiped out our villages, killed our children, raped our women, there was almost no resistance. Pathetic.”
    Shirokov stopped his telling of the story when Nadiya returned with a fresh glass of vodka. He offered a taste to Vitaly who knew enough to refuse. Shirokov took a drink and resumed.
    “So how did we win? What d efeated the almighty German war machine in the end? Heh. The stupidity of it. There were simply too many of us. We died and we died and we died. By the millions we died; died of the cold, died of disease, died of starvation, died from Germans, died from being shot for desertion. Any normal, sane country would have surrendered. That was the genius of Stalin. He did not care how many Russians died. Even to the last man, the last child. And so no matter how many the Germans killed, there were always more. We offered up so much human meat to be ground up that we broke the machine, we stuffed the Germans and suffocated them with the stench of our own death. That is how it was won. Not because we were smarter or tougher or had better generals. We won because the Germans ran out of bullets to kill us with. We had a greater capacity for suffering. Let that be a lesson. Anything can be done. It is only a question of time and manpower. There are always more Russians to die. Understood?”
    Vitaly replied thoughtfully that he did understand then Shirokov dismissed him back to his post. He read for another fifteen minutes then he was interrupted by Nadiya knocking at the door.
    “Roman Dorokhin is here to see you.”
    “Send him in.”
    Three men, led by Roman were ushered into Shirokov’s private office. Vitaly crowded in behind them, blocking the doorway. Shirokov did not invite any of them to sit. The other two low level men had names, he was sure, but he had forgotten them, a trivial detail. There were always more Russians. Roman Dorokhin was one of Shirokov’s more accomplished, competent operatives. He dressed and conducted himself professionally and so had earned the right to a name. Vladimir offered his right hand, the pinky decorated by a blinding sapphire ring.
    Bowing low, Roman took Shirokov’s hand in his own and kissed the eight-pointed star tattooed just below the knuckles.
    “ Avtorityet.” He whispered reverentially.
    “You have news?”
    “Da. We have killed the man, this husband of the activist woman who attacked Anton. They killed Boris and Sergei on the bridge, but we got them.”
    “ Otlichno , good. Show me.”
    Roman Dorokhin stammered and looked to his anonymous comrades for help. The two of them busied themselves by examining the laces on their running sneakers, or the fascinating carpentry on the floor. Finally Roman came out with it.
    “They were drowned. They drowned in the river. We drove them off and then shot them in the water.”
    Curiosity stimulated, Shirokov raised his eyebrows at his underling.
    “They?”
    “There was a police woman. She picked him up from station and drove him.”
    “And this police woman was drowned and shot as well?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good! Good work, Roman. Show me the bodies.”
    “I…”
    For several minutes Roman Dorokhin made a spectacle of himself, spittle flying as he supplicated himself before his boss, apologizing, trying his best to explain that there was no time to exhume them from the water as the NYPD was converging on the location, but he was certain that they