Page 73 of Assassin Anonymous

We’re led to a door, behind which is a staircase. At the bottom is a storage room, mostly restaurant supplies. The man reaches underneath one of the heavy wooden shelves, flips something, and pulls it aside. The shelf swings out to a large room—an ornate lounge with a bar on one end and tables loosely filling the space. At one, there’s a spirited poker game going.

As we walk through the space, the poker game stops and people stand from the tables, dragging them away, creating room in the middle of the floor.

Booker told us to hang back and trust him, so I’m giving him the leeway on that, but I drop into a loose fighting stance when out of the shadows steps a man who looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a brick wall. He’s massive, with a shaved head covered in faded, blurry, grayscale tattoos—the kind you pick up in a prison.

Between this Russian and my Russian, what the hell are they feeding these guys that makes them so big?

He smiles and cracks his sausage fingers, then shrugs out of a black blazer and throws it in the corner. He’s wearing a tank top underneath, showing off fighter-jet arms. Booker is squared up: his right foot drawn back, his left heel planted forward, his hands at his waist.

The goon laughs as he moves toward Booker and throws a massive haymaker, which, if properly landed, would take Booker’s head clean off. But he telegraphs it too far in advance, allowing Booker to slip underneath and slam a sharp, nasty hook into the brute’s side.

The Russian winces but doesn’t budge, then puts his weight into an elbow, snapping it down on top of Booker’s head. Booker goes down hard, sprawling on the floor.

People are cheering now, trading dollar bills and rubles. There’s a woman at the back, draped in shadow, so that I can barely make her out. All I can see is the burning ember of her cigarette and a slight sparkle in her eye.

The Russian lifts a massive boot into the air and is about to bring it down on Booker, who rolls out of the way and springs to his feet. He steps back, creating a little more distance, letting the Russian come at him, and his foot snaps out into a well-aimed and efficient teep kick, with just enough force to stop the giant’s momentum.

As he stumbles, Booker follows it with a hard low roundhouse, wrapping his shin around the back of the Russian’s knee. The Russian lands so hard on that knee I think I hear it crunch, even over the yelling. Then Booker follows with another hook, getting his entire body behind it. The tooth-shaking blow lands and the Russian jerks his head but still doesn’t go down.

Booker manages to hook his arm around the Russian’s throat as he throws his body over the man’s back, yanking him to the floor and putting him in a choke hold, moving into a high-elbow guillotine on the ground. It’s a smart move, good for smaller grapplers fighting bigger opponents. The Russian’s head is tucked close to Booker’s torso, and Booker curls his body tight against the man, trapping one arm and robbing him of leverage. The Russian swings wildly but can’t land a solid blow.

From here, Booker just has to hold tight until the Russian tires himself out.

The yelling from the crowd intensifies, which causes Booker to tighten his grip. The Russian’s face is red and he can’t break free. He smacks Booker hard on the back a few times, and Booker lets go. The two of them get off each other, the Russian’s chest heaving like he’s breathing through a straw. They shake hands and the Russian retreats to the back of the room and disappears. Booker comes over to me, his face coated in sweat. He nods to me.

“She’ll see you now,” he says.

I pat him on the shoulder before heading over to the table in the back. The men sitting there get up and move away, leaving me and the woman by ourselves.

She’s ancient, her skin like parchment, gray hair cut in a bob. She’s wearing a black pashmina over a red dress, with minimal makeup and a heavy jewel-encrusted sapphire ring on the hand she’s smoking with, which she uses to gesture to the seat across from her. She looks like she’d blow away on a stiff breeze, but even then, her eyes would be left behind in the wake. She has shark eyes.

“A celebrity in our midst,” she says.

Tables squeal as they’re moved back into place. The poker game resumes.

I nod over my shoulder. “What was that about?”

She stamps out her cigarette in a marble ashtray. “Dmitri and your friend had some unfinished business.”

“Dmitri needs to work on his ground game.”

She offers the briefest flash of a smile and points that ring finger at me again. “I have been telling him this, but he does not listen.” She gives the table a little slap. “Please sit.”

I take the seat across from her. “I’m looking for someone.”

She savors a long sip of wine. “Aren’t we all?”

“He’s tall. Six and a half feet at least. Hair shaved into a Mohawk. On his arm”—I hold up my own forearm—“he has a tattoo. A dot, surrounded by four more. I’m told it’s supposed to mean he was in prison.”

“Yes,” she says. “He was.”

“You know him?”

She smiles at me, disappointed and upset.

Like, How dare you?

“What’ll it cost?” I ask.

---