Nikolai Vatutin lay underneath the overturned car, bleeding heavily from a stomach wound. His bulldog-like face clenched in pain as he realized the extent of his injuries. His green dress tunic was awash with crimson stains, and his blood stained the finery of his Army General’s uniform. Gunfire from his guards grunted and sputtered as the fleeing bandits tried to vanish into the woods. Given the volume of fire, it was unlikely that his attackers would make it away. Vatutin straightened his olive peaked cap, creased and torn from the injustices of a car flipping over onto itself. Nikolai relaxed, and laughed as loudly as the gaping hole in his stomach would allow. Bleeding slowly and inexorably onto the pebbled leather of the sedan’s seat, Vatutin reached into the pocket of his dark blue trousers, fingers skirting a bullet lodged in his femur. Producing a crumpled cigarette, Nikolai Vatutin poked it into his underbite, chuckling his way into the afterlife his country denied.