Baba Yaga's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

John follows the tracker on his phone through streets he doesn't know, watching the blinking dot move two blocks ahead. The contract promised freedom if he finishes this job. One name. One kill. Then The Table lets him walk away. He's done this work for fifteen years, long enough to know when something feels wrong. The parchment sits folded in his jacket pocket, its edges sharp against his ribs. Ornate calligraphy spelled out the target's pattern. Times. Locations. Habits laid bare like someone had been watching for months. Too much detail for a target this dangerous. Too clean for something this dirty. But the seal was real, pressed in red wax with The Table's mark. He turns a corner and sees the motorcade first. Five black luxury cars parked in formation, engines idling. Chrome grilles catch the streetlight like teeth. Tarasov family colors on the flags. This neighborhood belongs to them now, which means his target shouldn't be anywhere near here. The tracker says otherwise. Two blocks ahead, still moving. The van comes into view at the next intersection, twisted metal still smoking. Fire has eaten through the interior, left the frame gutted and black. Bullet holes pattern the driver's side in tight clusters. Professional work, made to look like gang violence. The tracker dot pulses beyond it, steady and insistent. John stops walking. The van is fresh, maybe an hour old. The motorcade is positioned like a perimeter, not a patrol. Someone wants him to see this. Someone wants him to keep going. He touches the parchment in his pocket and feels the weight of what freedom costs. The tracker blinks. He doesn't move forward.