“Maks,” I say, “call Tikhon. I want them analyzed.”
I dig the bullets out of the holes with my pocket knife. When they drop into my palm, I realize there’s something written onthem. Letters.
Without wasting a second, I stride back to Slavik’s body and turn it over.
The last bullet is stuck into his skull. “Maks,” I call. “Get this out, now.”
Maksim’s face looks a little queasy. “You want me to dig around Slavik’s brain?”
“Unless you’ve got a better option for retrieving the bullet.”
I can tell his scruples are bothering him. Out of all my men, Maksim has always been the most honorable. But right now, I don’tneed honor. I need to get s**t done, and I need it yesterday.
Muttering curses in Russian, Maksim slips on a pair of gloves and gets to work.
As he picks our dead comrade’s
