Baba Yaga's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

Gunfire splits the intersection into zones of cover and exposure. John keeps moving between parked cars and doorways, tracking the muzzle flashes that mark each contractor's position. They're not coordinating anymore—every shooter wants the bounty for themselves. A woman in dark tactical gear breaks from cover, sprinting toward The Continental's grounds fifty yards east. Two contractors cut her down before she reaches the property line. John follows the gap she created, staying low as rounds crack overhead. The fighting spills past the street into The Continental's garden—bright flowers trampled under boots, petals scattered across fresh blood. Bodies drop among the blooms as contractors turn on each other, forgetting the bounty in favor of survival. The garden wasn't meant for this. Its carefully tended paths and vibrant colors make the violence look staged, unreal. John clears the garden and reaches the service entrance. A woman lies face-down on the stairwell inside, one arm stretched toward the upper landing. Blood pools around her shoulders, soaking into silk that might have been pink before the gunfire caught her. John rolls her over and sees the face he's been hunting—Ms. Perkins, eyes still open, a fountain pen clutched in her left hand. The pen is ornate, engraved with symbols he recognizes from Table contracts. She carried the authority to write his death, and someone else claimed it first. Her lips move once, forming words without sound, then stop. John takes the pen from her fingers and stands. The bounty she authored dies with her, but The Table's contract remains. He's no closer to freedom than he was this morning, but the board has changed. The woman who knew what happened in Budapest, who could have told him why The Table wanted everyone eliminated, is gone. John pockets the pen and walks up the stairwell, stepping over the chalk outline someone already drew around her body. The Continental's staff works fast. They always do.