Baba Yaga's Arc

Chapter 5 of 7

John walks the perimeter of the old warehouse district where they used to meet after jobs that went sideways. The kind of place where concrete absorbs sound and security cameras died years ago. She'll make contact here if she's going to make contact at all. The Continental sits three blocks north, its windows glowing gold against the black stone facade. Neutral ground. The one place in the city where contracts can't be executed, where assassins walk past each other like strangers at a museum. John spots the body on the hotel's front steps, positioned carefully in the lamplight where it can't be missed. The man wears the gray suit of someone who worked clean jobs, the kind who rarely got his hands dirty. John recognizes him—Viktor, the contractor who handled intelligence and logistics, who triple-checked exit routes and always knew which border guards could be bought. The man who told John about Budapest, who vouched for Ms. Perkins when others said she'd gone soft. A single dart protrudes from Viktor's neck, its wooden shaft carved with intricate patterns that catch the light. The craftsmanship is deliberate, showy. Ms. Perkins never used darts in Budapest. This is new technique, acquired in the two years she was gone. John kneels beside the body and finds the black glove tucked into Viktor's jacket pocket, fingers folded inward like a closed fist. He remembers that glove. She wore it to the opera once, the only time they pretended to be something other than what they were. The placing is too precise to be anything but a message. She killed Viktor on The Continental's steps because he trusted her enough to meet her there, because he thought neutral ground meant safety. John pulls the glove free and feels the weight of what it means. She's not just following The Table's orders. She's eliminating everyone who knew them both, everyone who might tell John what really happened in Budapest. Viktor wasn't just the sixth contractor. He was John's last link to understanding why The Table brought her back. The hotel's front door opens. A concierge steps out, glances at the body without surprise, and meets John's eyes for exactly three seconds before retreating inside. No help coming. No authorities. The Continental acknowledges death on its steps but doesn't investigate it. John stands, pockets the glove, and walks away from the light. Ms. Perkins just answered his question about whether she'd meet him face to face. She won't. She's already three moves ahead, killing everyone he might turn to for answers, leaving him with nothing but her calling cards and a contract with his name on it. The target The Table fears isn't just protected by seven dead contractors. It's buried under them, and she's making sure he digs alone.