looked much older, but his steel-blue eyes burning with pure hatred could have belonged to a youngster. Kazakov tried to pry the man's hand off his throat, but he couldn't budge the fingers one millimeter.
'Good morning, Comrade Kazakov,' the man said in English. 'Having a nice game?' The fingers around his neck squeezed, not allowing any sound to escape. 'My name is Master Sergeant Christopher Wohl, United States Marine Corps, Retired. I have a message for you from General Patrick McLanahan.' Kazakov's eyes bugged when he heard that name…
… but they bulged even more when the commando held up a four-inch-long double serrated-edge T-bar push knife.
The knife easily pierced Kazakov's jacket, then his flesh, and then his diaphragm, twice, with two fast, powerful thrusts, filling the Russian drug dealer's lungs with blood. 'Those are for my two men your friend Jadallah Zuwayy tortured to death.' He raised the blood-soaked knife, showing the glistening wet blade to Kazakov. 'And this is for Dr. Wendy McLanahan.' And he plunged the knife into Kazakov's neck and slashed sideways, nearly slicing the neck in two.
The Icelandic guard stepped into the men's room just as Wohl let the blood-covered body drop to the floor. Wohl calmly took off his bloody jacket and dropped it too.
The two commandos looked at each other for a long moment; then Wohl said in Russian, 'Fa abasralsa na vannaya. Prasteetye. I really fucked up your bathroom. Sorry.'
'Suhadrochka. Nye za shta. Fseevo samava loochsheva,' the Icelandic commando replied in perfect, fluent Russian. He handed Wohl his own clean overcoat-it fit him very well. 'No problem. Don't mention it. Have a nice day.'
