the automatic weapon in her right hand, wedging the butt between elbow and ribs. In her left hand, the blade of the skinning knife jutted out, sharp edge up.
The door swung open. The man on the other side chuckled.
“Boom, boom, and you’re done. I like that. It leaves more for m—”
She stepped forward, pushed the muzzle into his face and held the knife against his throat.
“Just one word and you’ll be done too,” she hissed in perfect Russian.
“Ah, God!” he breathed. His face went white and he swallowed, causing the skin on his throat to touch the knife blade. A whine of fear leaked from the corner of his mouth.
“If you do as you’re told, you’ll live.” She glanced up and down the corridor. “Now turn around.”
He turned obediently and stood, knees shaking, waiting for her next order.
“Where’s your weapon?”
Keeping his hands high above his shoulders, he gingerly pointed down to his side. She glanced down to see the weapon hanging on a strap. She grinned quickly.
“Which hand do you write with?”
“I don’t know how to write, or read.”
“Okay,” she said with a sigh. “Which hand do you wipe your butt with?”
He wiggled his right hand.
“With your other hand, reach down, unhook your weapon, and hand it back to me, very slowly.”
“Yes.” He moved with exaggerated caution while following the orders.
She expertly thumbed the release and caught the clip in her hand. “Very good. Now hold the weapon in front of you and open the firing chamber.”
He put the machine pistol at present—arms and automatically snapped open the block. A round spun through the air and hit the floor.
“Who is in charge of this prison?”
“The colonel.”
“Yes. I mean who is in charge of this place today, right now?”
“Ensign Kopectny, but he would be in his office.”
“Dolt! Who do you report to if something goes wrong?”
When he hesitated, she jammed the muzzle into his right kidney. He jerked away with a small cry of pain.
“It’s up to you,” she said in a sharp whisper. “Die here, or do what you’re told and have a new chance at life.”
He held his weapon in the air and turned his head to speak. “Sergeant Brezhnev.”
“Are the records of recent arrests where he is?”
“Yes.”
“Can we get there without passing any other guards?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
They advanced down a long corridor and entered an office where Cora noticed a rack of automatic weapons with a locked chain running through the trigger guards. The sergeant behind the desk continued to scratch slow, labored words into a ledger for a moment without looking up.
“Speak and get out. What do you want?”
“The cell numbers of all prisoners arrested in the past four days,” Cora said.
His head snapped up and his practiced frown changed to wide-eyed astonishment.
“Clasp your hands behind your neck,” she ordered.
He did as he was told. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“Cell numbers for every Indian and
“What for? You don’t expect to get them out of the compound, do you?”
“Consider this; I am a very desperate woman, and if you do not do as I say, I will kill you.”
He looked at the guard. “Where’s Zabotin?”
“She killed him,” the guard said tightly.
“And you surrendered.”
“Or I would have killed him, also,” Cora said. “Now I’ll give you the same choice. I offer you a new life if you’ll join us, amnesty if you cooperate, or death if you slow me up another minute.” The knuckle on her trigger-finger whitened and resignation washed over his face.
“I need to turn the page on the ledger,” he said, nodding at the book in front of him.
“Do it.”
He quickly dropped his hand. Instead of landing on the desk, it fell behind the desk—out of sight. Cora shot him through the head with a single bullet.
The sergeant rocked back violently in the heavy chair and then fell forward onto the book.
“Get it before he bleeds all over it,” she snapped at the guard. He snatched it from under the sergeant’s ruined head.
“Hold it up so I can see it.”
The names meant nothing to her. The cell numbers were evident and the dates beside them ranged over the past ten days.
“Can you read numbers?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to take me to the last five cells listed. Right now.”
They moved silently down the corridor past three doors before stopping at the fourth. The guard opened the door and she saw Wohosni lying on the rude cot, his face crusted with dried blood.
“Damn,” she said fiercely and prodded the guard with the weapon. “Get in there.”
“Cora?” Wohosni said in a weak voice.
“Yes. It’s time. Can you move?”
“Water, I need water,” he said with a gasp. “Then I think I can do it.”
“Where’s water?” she asked the Russian. He gestured toward the door with his thumb and she gestured with her gun.
She followed him to an alcove in the passageway. He filled a bucket and led her back to her friend. Wohosni had sat up. He grabbed the water and drank deeply.
When he finished, he cleaned his face and eyes.
“Who did that to you?” she asked.
“Two guards on night duty got bored and beat me up for the sport of it,” he said tiredly. “Even though I thought this might happen when I was arrested, I’m real happy to see you.” Wohosni stood. “Okay, I’m ready to go now.”
They moved out into the corridor, Wohosni gripped the knife. They stopped at the next cell and the guard opened the door as quietly as he could. Anthony Cabinboy lay on the floor, staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
They looked at him for a moment and Cora pushed the muzzle of her weapon into the guard’s side.
“Are they all dead?”
“N-no! Only this one. The sergeant killed him this morning.”
“So that’s why he tried—”
“Yes.”
“What?” Wohosni asked.
“The sergeant didn’t cooperate with me a few minutes ago, so I shot him.”
“Ha.” Wohosni’s laugh lacked humor. “He didn’t know you like the rest of us do.”
“You never beat the prisoners?” she asked the guard lightly.
“Only if I must.”
“In order to rape them, you mean?”
“Please. You said if I helped, you would let me live.”
“Take us to the next cell.”
