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After a few very long minutes, the shadows in the far corners of the room begin to move.
The first man to step forward from behind a wooden room divider is built like a wrestler. He’s a few inches shorter than I am, but he makes up ground in the thick muscle of his neck, arms, and chest. He’s wearing a thick beard and a nasty scowl.
The moment he sits down, the second Babai appears. This one is tall and lean, built like a gazelle, all wiry sinew and stretched skin. Unlike the first Babai, he bears a semi-smile as he approaches the table. I’m surprised by how young he looks—mid-thirties at the latest. Young to have such a reputation. He slides gracefully into his seat, his blue eyes fixed on me, unblinking.
The last Babai joins us at the table a few breaths later. He’s more grizzled, more scarred, more intense than the others. I can sense his aura radiating dangerously, as if the shadows he emerged from have stuck with him, cloaking his shoulders and face.
The room charges up with the static that precedes a thunderstorm. The lights feel dimmer. Every creak louder than the last. Only our breathing breaks up the silence.
The legend of the Babai has boiled for hundreds of years in the underworld. It immigrated here right along with the Russians. It’s the stuff of stories to scare children and fools. But as I sit here, at a round table with these three nameless ghouls, I realize that even I bought into the myth. I let legend cloud my common sense.
Because the three men that sit before me are not phantoms or ghosts or demons. They’re men.
And men are something I can deal with.
“I am The Bear,” the eldest Babai says, breaking the prickly quiet. He points towards the thickly muscled wrestler to his left. “This is The Tiger.” Lastly, he points to the skinny one. “This is The Wolf.”
I nod to each of them in turn. “Thank you for agreeing to this meeting.”
“You have a job for us?” The Bear rumbles.
The Tiger looks bored. His eyes glaze over and he crosses his arms over his chest, causing the sleeves of his shirt to pucker. If he strains any harder, the fabric will just give up.
“I do,” I say. “If you are willing to accept it.”
The Bear glances towards his brothers. I notice that he makes eye contact with The Wolf, but not The Tiger. “First, you must answer three questions. One-word answers only. One word is all we require. Then we will decide if we want to accept your proposition.”
My pulse quickens, but I remain still. “Ask me anything.”
“The first question,” The Bear rasps. “Why are you here?”
My answer is immediate: “Revenge.”
“For whom are you here?” The Tiger growls.
“Family.”
“Now, the third question,” The Wolf intones with a sinister twinkle in his eye. “What will you do after the job is done?”
Celebrate?It’s one word, but not exactly true. I rummage around for an answer—the truth, really. But I draw a complete blank.
“The clock is ticking,” The Wolf warns. “You must answer before we stand. What will you do after the job is done?”
With a deep breath, I clear my mind and say the first thing that pops into my head: “Mourn.”
Apparently, my answer is as surprising to them as it is to me. The Bear and The Wolf exchange an intrigued glance. The Tiger smolders like dying embers. The silence in the room grows heavy with expectation.
But of what?
Finally, The Bear nods. “Very well. We accept your offer. Tell us who must die.”
13
MISHA
We’re almost at the mansion and Konstantin hasn’t stopped asking me questions since I returned to the car. “I’ve never heard of the three questions thing before. And you said you had to give them one-word answers? That’s some medieval shit. Cryptic. Very biblical. What did they look like?”
“They looked like men.” I turn into the driveway of the mansion and park. “Men who bleed and get sick and make mistakes. They’re human, Konstantin. No matter what the legends say, they’re just men.”
