“SURE YOU DON’T WANT us to come in with you?” Josh asked. He was turned around, talking to Joe and Yelena in back, while Liam drove. They were downtown, near Wall Street, but the quiet, dark block, a narrow gorge cut into the towering buildings of old stone that seemed to almost touch above them, was a world away from the noise and crowds that were fading as things wound down at the 9/11 memorial, right across the narrow island. They pulled up behind Cash and Juno, who had been tracking Sergey’s black Benz, which was parked down the block.
“That’s okay,” Joe said. “It looks less suspicious if we just go in together. You wait out here and catch any rats who try to flee.” To Yelena he said, “Ready?”
“Of course.” She held up a bikini.
“Brilliant,” Liam said, and to Joe. “Where’s yours?”
He frowned at Yelena who was stuffing hers back into her tote bag. “I thought they gave you something. You didn’t tell me . . .”
She shrugged and opened the door. “You better hope. Otherwise you will be fighting one handed.”
He got out after her and shut the door, and they walked down the street, pausing by Cash and Juno as they passed.
“Sergey went in about an hour ago. And it’s been a cast reunion since then.”
“Anton?” Joe asked.
“Yup and the soldier boys we met in Jersey. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see y’all.” He frowned. “Though I know I’d feel safer if you two had guns.”
“No place to hide it,” Joe said. “Everybody has to strip in the locker rooms. We’d never get through to the baths.” Both had also left their phones, wallets, and keys in the car.
Cash leaned across from behind the wheel. “This banya place. Is it like the massage joints Uncle Chen runs? A rub and tug?”
“Only if your idea of a happy ending is a big Russian dude beating you with birch branches and cracking your neck.”
Cash shrugged. “To each his own.”
“It’s a shvitz,” Yelena told him. “More like the Korean spa in Queens.”
“Gotcha,” Cash said. “Well maybe I will try it sometime. If it’s still standing after tonight.”
“You do the talking,” Joe whispered to Yelena as they walked down the steps. A young woman, blondly plump and rosy-cheeked, looked up from her phone. Yelena greeted her in Russian, and Joe paid cash for two. After a bit more back and forth, she handed over a brand-new pair of men’s swim trunks, large, baggy, and decorated with a beach scene in tropical colors—sand, sea, palm, birds. Joe paid another twenty for it and she cut off the tags. Then they were given keys and sent to separate locker rooms. They changed quickly and met in the hall, Yelena emerging in her stylish black bikini and holding two rolled white towels, one of which she handed to Joe. He was in his new trunks.
“You look great,” he told her.
“Beauty and terror?” She smiled and gave a little spin, then gestured for him to turn as well. He raised his hands as if under arrest and turned.
“Straight to terror?” he asked.
She laughed. “No, I like these for you. The parrot makes your ass look good.”
“Thanks,” Joe said, and opened the inner door for her.
They were in the banya, the Russian bathhouse, one of the oldest in the city. The signs on the wall were in Russian, Hebrew, Yiddish, and misspelled English. An underground warren, its hallways connected a series of chambers, including a restaurant, saunas, a steam room, a cold plunge, massage rooms, and, down a floor below, a large swimming pool and Jacuzzi. The overall decor was fake Roman grotto—white painted columns, patterned tiles, plaster statues of naked cherubs and demure maidens, and murals depicting pastoral antiquity—hills, sea, ruins—not a bad job on the landscapes, but the people looked like they’d been done by kids. Everything was warm, wet, dank—moisture clung to every surface and water dripped like you were in a cave. You were in a cave—deep in the bowels of the city, the old saunas built into the foundation of the building.
Yelena led Joe through the restaurant where wet customers wrapped in towels ate blintzes and drank borscht. A few ogled her as they passed, but no one seemed concerned, and she turned down the hall toward the Russian-style sauna. Two big, hairy men sat on a bench outside, one in baggy trunks and a heavy gold cross, the other with a wet towel around his shoulders and another around his waist. Yelena set their rolled towels on the bench and Joe reached for the door.
“Sozhaleyu. Zakryto,” the one with the gold chain said, standing to block Joe’s way. “Broken,” he added in English, though steam was visible through the small window in the door. Meanwhile the sitting man winked appreciatively at Yelena, who smiled back.
Joe nodded, humbly, and turned to go, then, spinning back for momentum, slammed his right fist into gold-chain’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him. He gasped, leaning forward, and Joe stepped aside, grabbing his arm and tripping him in one motion. The big man slid smoothly on the wet tile and went down, knocking his head hard on the bench. Yelena, meanwhile, had moved fast, yanking the wet towel from around the sitting, leering man’s neck and whipping it across his eyes. He cursed and reached for her blindly. She eluded him easily, kicking his ankle out from under him and, as he stumbled to his knees, she looped the wet towel around his throat, pulling it tight. Grunting, he struggled, but she had her foot on his back now and gripped hard. After a few seconds, he passed out, and she let him drop. She grabbed her rolled towel and handed Joe his. He opened the door to the sauna.
The room was like the inside of a brick pizza oven, or a deep inner VIP chamber of Hades. Raw bedrock, granite blackened with age formed one whole wall, the others were stone and brick. Staggered rows of wooden benches ran along three sides, and, in the corner, an iron furnace wheezed and growled, radiating waves of stunning heat, a red heart flaming behind the window in the furnace door. A wooden bucket with a ladle sat under a dripping faucet. Anton was laid out like a lox in a smokehouse, facedown on the top bench, close to the ceiling, while a minion scrubbed him down with soapy water. Sergey sprawled on the other top bench, and man-spread across the lower shelves, legs wide, arms out, were the three mercs, Trey, Dirk, and Baxter, slicked in sweat.
The intense heat seemed to slow everything down, vision blurred, time melted, and it took a second for the men to react to the two new bodies in the room. First they all looked at Yelena, grinning like wolves. Then Trey looked at Joe.
“Hey.” He opened his eyes wider. “You killed Tony!”
Joe frowned, trying to remember. He looked to Yelena. “Who’s Tony?”
She shrugged, then, before anyone else could move, she kicked Dirk in the chin, as Joe snatched up the wooden bucket and whacked it across Baxter’s head. Now everyone moved. Trey leapt up in a rage and came at Joe, swinging, while Sergey, thinking a bit further ahead, reached into a robe that was hanging on the wall and drew a switchblade, which he clicked open. Dirk bounced back up and dove for Yelena’s legs while the big boy who’d been sluicing down Anton turned and swung his bucket at her head.
As Joe turned to block Sergey’s knife with his towel, Trey landed a hard right to his head, knocking him off center, then came up with a roundhouse that caught his jaw. As he spun, Joe kicked back, catching Trey behind the ankle, and elbowing him hard in the chest so that he slid on the wet floor, landing with a hard thud. He stopped Sergey’s blade with his towel, which was slashed and, stepping back, drew a combat knife, a long, evil blade that had been rolled inside the towel. He faced both men, winding the towel around his arm for defense.
Yelena, meanwhile, having deflected the bucket, was twisting free of Dirk’s grip while striking him hard across the ear with a cupped palm, rupturing his eardrum. By now, however, the big masseur was on her, leaping down from the upper bench. She pivoted into his body as he landed on her and both went flying back against the stone wall. Then, abruptly, he stopped, his broad body pressed against hers, gasping as his eyes went wide in surprise and pain. She stared right back into them, now holding him tight, as though in a dance she was leading. She let go and he slid away, torso covered in blood. Blood dripped from the combat knife she’d had sheathed in her own towel. He dropped to the floor and the red ran into the wooden slats and away.
By then, however, Dirk was back on his feet and Anton was in motion. Cursing in Russian, Anton lifted the squeeze bottle of soap and squirted it in Yelena’s eyes. Blinded, she tried to slash out at Dirk but he slammed her hard and she skidded back, hissing like a scalded cat when her shoulder fell against the furnace door.
Joe saw this, but was too penned in to help, fending off Sergey’s blade with his towel-wrapped arm and slashing and kicking at Trey, who was closing in. Then Baxter, who’d been stunned on the floor, reached under a bench and drew a .32, a flat automatic that he aimed up at Joe. Joe jumped. The bullet went under him and ricocheted off the stone wall, echoing in the small chamber. As he leapt over Baxter, who was crouching, Joe’s left foot connected with Trey’s chin, knocking him off balance on the soapy floor. He fell back. Sergey was lifting his arm high for a downward stab with his blade, and as Joe passed, he slashed deep across Sergey’s wrist, severing the arteries and tendon. The switchblade clattered to the floor.
Gritting her teeth, Yelena caught the handle of the furnace and kept from falling as the door swung back, then shoved her towel into the open mouth. It caught immediately. As Dirk came at her, she flung the burning towel onto his face and he stumbled back, panicked by the flames. Anton, seizing the moment, ran from the sauna, leaving the door open, yelling in Russian for help.
Now Joe, landing on the upper bench, spun around, kicking Baxter in the back of head, sending him sprawling, and stuffed the bucket down on Trey’s head just as he regained his feet. He hurled his blade, which arced through the humid air and struck deep into Sergey’s chest. Launching himself, Joe jumped onto Trey and knocked him forward, into the open door of the sauna. Sergey lay fallen against the furnace now, his eyes blank, his body steaming against the hot iron, but he felt nothing. He would never feel anything again. Joe pulled his knife free and grabbed Yelena, giving Baxter another hard kick in the kidneys.
“Come on.” They pushed into the hall as Trey rolled under their feet. The two goons were gone, fleeing or maybe fetching weapons. There was no sign of Anton. “How’s the burn?” Joe asked as they hurried down the hall. Now he heard yelling from upstairs.
“Hot,” Yelena admitted.
“Maybe this will help,” Joe said, and they jumped into the cold plunge. A small, chest-high pool full of frigid water, it was meant to shock the system after the hot rooms and it worked, dulling Yelena’s burn slightly. Then, as the two goons returned and Trey came down the hall, they ducked low in the water, up against the wall of the pool where they hoped the extended concrete rim would hide them from view.
“You see where they went?” Trey asked the goons. Baxter and Dirk were following behind him from the sauna. The goons shook their heads. One now had a gun, the other a bat.
“Okay,” Trey said. “Let’s check everything. Spread out.”
Joe and Yelena remained motionless, careful not to splash, heads still under the rim of the pool, breathing slow with their bodies still submerged in the water. It was very cold. Joe could feel his fingers and toes going numb. Finally, the men moved.
“Now,” Yelena whispered, and they crawled up onto the floor. They ducked into the closest door, the steam room. Joe’s towel was shredded from Sergey’s blade and soaked from the cold water. He tore it into strips and tied them around Yelena’s arm while she kept an eye on the glass door. They were in a tiled box with benches and vents on the floor for steam. Joe climbed to the thermostat and stuffed the remains of his wet, ragged towel around it. The cold water triggered the mechanism and the room began to fill with thick clouds of hissing steam. Soon he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. Yelena was invisible beside him. Then the door opened.
When Anton made it out onto the street, he couldn’t believe his luck. He’d fled crazily through the banya, sending his men back to fight, and huffing up the stairs. He even had time to grab his robe, which contained his wallet and keys. He pulled it on now as he hit the sidewalk, tasting the fresh (or at least city-scented) air, seeing the night sky (or at least the city’s lamplit ceiling), feeling the flow of normal life around him, and he realized, putting a hand in a pocket, even his cigarettes were there. He was alive and dying for a smoke. That’s when a car door opened, blocking his path.
“Hey there, Anton, you need a ride?” It was Liam, one of the Madigan brothers, the pretty one with the smart mouth. “You’ll get in trouble walking the streets in your dressing gown.”
Now the other door was opening, and it was Josh, the Israeli, a tough-looking Sephardic who worked for Rebbe Stone. He was holding a gun. “You look tired,” he said. “Puffing like you’re going to have a heart attack. Better ride with us.”
Anton stopped. Liam came up beside him. “It’s the smoking,” he told Josh. “I’m telling you. It’s a killer, right Anton?”
Anton held his arms up. “Money,” he said. “Lots of it. And the dope business too. I can tell you all about it.”
“Excellent,” Liam said. “We can’t wait to hear. But we have to talk on the way. We’re late.”
“Late?” Anton asked, feeling the hope drain from his body.
“It’s a surprise party,” Josh told him. “And you’re the guest of honor. All your friends are waiting.”
Joe and Yelena remained completely still, holding their breath. The fogged-over glass door to the steam room opened and enough light streamed in from behind for them to see it was the two goons from the hall, armed with a pistol and a bat. Then the door swung shut and the steam swallowed them. The men looked around, peering into the thick fog, failing to see the ghosts just in front of them.
“Let’s go,” one said. “I’m dying in here.” They turned to go. Simultaneously, Joe and Yelena moved. They crept silently forward, emerging from the clouds. As the thug with the bat glanced right, he saw Yelena’s blade, appearing as if from nowhere, slice across his friend’s throat, releasing a ribbon of blood. He started, but it was too late. Joe’s arm was snaking out around his own neck and Joe’s blade found his throat too, cutting the jugular. He staggered forward, blood spraying, and fell. Then a bullet shattered the glass door.
Joe jumped back as the bullet cut through the clouds of steam and cracked the tile wall. Yelena dropped to the floor and felt for the goon’s fallen gun. As the gunman approached, stepping into the doorframe, Joe saw it was Baxter and tossed the bat. That distracted him long enough for Yelena to raise the gun and fire, chasing him back. Yelena went into the hall after him, firing again as he took cover around a corner. A statue of Cupid had been shattered; now headless, it looked more like a real ruin than the cheap plaster copy it was.
“This way,” she called back at Joe, who came after her, crossing the glass that now covered the steam room floor from the broken door. He felt it cutting into his feet, but there was no time for that now. Crouching low, he followed Yelena, who fired another shot to keep Baxter back and led Joe down the hall into the next room.
These were the massage booths. A long, low-ceilinged room, dimly lit and divided by curtains hung on crisscrossing cords, with a massage table in each nook. Yelena and Joe moved through quickly and quietly, brushing the curtains aside, she with the gun poised in one hand and the knife in the other, he with his knife hand cocked back and ready. Then, in a corner, there he was: Nikolai, laid out on a table, his back red and scored, while a big bald Russian in a tiny speedo worked over him with a leafy birch branch. He paused when he saw them, holding the branch aloft.
“You—back,” Yelena said. He raised his hands and stepped back. Nikolai rolled over, squinting his eyes. “And you, pig,” she told him, “wake up. I want you to see the bullet coming.”
Nikolai blinked at her. “Ah,” he said. “Yelena. I was hoping we’d meet.”
Just then, from the corner of his eye, Joe saw the shape of Baxter’s gun pushing against the curtain to his left. He grabbed the muzzle, forcing it aside as it fired, the bullet tearing through the curtain, whizzing past, and tearing the curtain beyond, leaving two smoking burn holes in the fabric. During that moment’s distraction, the big Russian tossed the branch at Yelena and snatched up a knife. As he raised his arm to throw it, Yelena fired: the first bullet went through his knife hand, and the next two went through his heart. Then her gun clicked. Empty. She turned to the empty table and the rustling curtains. Nikolai was gone.
“Go,” Joe said as he wrestled Baxter through the curtain, keeping him wrapped tight. His pistol went off twice more, burning more holes in the curtain. Then he heard Baxter’s gun also hit an empty chamber. Holding Baxter in a hug, Joe reached high and brought his knife down in a sweeping arc, stabbing through the curtain. He felt him slump, as blood began to seep through the fabric, and let him drop.
Joe went after Yelena, out through the back of the room to the hallway, but stopped when he saw Dirk and Trey go by, calling to each other, “She went down here.” He waited for them to pass and then followed, down the stone steps. He could see that he was leaving bloody footprints, but it didn’t matter: he was the pursuer now, not the pursued. He didn’t need to hide.
Yelena entered the pool room. This was a large space, farther underground, and it felt cool and quiet, as if further from the city. A swimming pool filled its center like a blue window, sending reflected ripples across the ceiling, also painted blue. Beside it was a big Jacuzzi, a tiled circle in which the water churned and foamed. There was a bar, a mural along the long wall depicting a waterfall tumbling from forested cliffs into an ocean where a ship sailed to an island with a castle, where a poorly painted king and queen stood on a tower waving, their faces and hands pink smudges. There were tables and chairs and lounges, all empty.
From behind the bar came Nikolai, hefting a machete. He was wearing trunks and a gold cross but had no tattoos; he was not a criminal. He smiled as she came around the pool to face him, holding her blade.
“Do your American friends know what your tattoos mean, Lenochka? Or do these dumb hipsters just think it’s cool? A fashion trend like theirs? You don’t have to even hide them here in New York.”
“I never hide them,” she answered, moving closer.
“And what about your boy, Joe? Does he know that they mark you as trash? A whore and a thief? Scum born to scum in a sewer? The child of a junkie whore and God knows who? Some drunk who couldn’t afford better.”
Yelena smiled. “He knows. That’s why he likes me.” She waved the blade point at him. “But you don’t need any tattoos do you? The mark of the pig is right there on your face for all to see. Now I’m going to carve it into your hide.”
Nikolai laughed. “I’m sure you’d love to try.” He shrugged. “But are you good enough? Remember, I taught you everything you know.”
Now Yelena laughed. “You taught me to dress and fix my hair. To be polite. To eat caviar and to lie in five languages. But to fight? I was born into that, like you said. I inherit it from my whore mother. And now I’m going to kill you in her name. Whatever it was.”
And she charged toward him.
When Joe came into the pool room, he saw Trey and Dirk, backs turned, in silence. Dirk’s skull was buzzed close; Trey’s long ponytail hung down. They were watching Yelena and Nikolai, across the pool, dueling. Well matched, they thrust and parried, dodged and darted, as tightly-focused and oblivious to their audience as any pair of champion dancers. Joe came up fast and kicked Trey, sending him into the Jacuzzi. Then, before Dirk could react, he drove his knife between his shoulder blades. Trey was fast, though, and strong, and he came up quick, grabbing Joe by the ankle. Joe lost his balance and fell into the whirlpool with Trey, his knife still in Dirk’s back as he too plunged into the churning water, dyeing it red as he bled out.
When Joe felt his chin hit the bottom of the shallow pool, banging it hard, he pushed out with his arms, trying to propel himself back up. But he was too far under, and as Trey locked his grip on his legs, standing over him and forcing his head beneath the water, he had no choice but to struggle like a snake, arching his back, fighting to get his head up and breathe. He broke the surface just long enough to glimpse Yelena and Nikolai, clutched together now, each holding the other’s knife arm, each raising a blade, topple together into the pool. Then he was under again, with the whirlpool swirling around him and the massage jet pummeling his face. Trey had the leverage, his own legs planted so that he was standing in the water, clenching Joe’s legs with all his considerable upper body strength. Joe struggled and kicked, his head remained below the surface, and he knew it was only a matter of time. A couple minutes. The length of a breath.
Instead of fighting to rise up, toward the air, Joe went down, thrusting himself deeper into the water. Trey kept his grip, his clench was tight around Joe’s ankles, but Joe managed to reach Dirk’s body, to grasp his dead hand and pull it closer. As his vision clouded and he felt himself about to pass out, or just as bad, breathe in a lungful of water, Joe drew the knife from Dirk’s back and then curled lower, swimming between Trey’s legs. He sawed across both his ankles, severing the tendons.
Trey let go. As his legs gave out, he dropped Joe and Joe somersaulted away. His feet touched bottom and he stood, gasping for air. Trey collapsed, sitting in the water as his useless legs folded, and Joe grabbed his right hand and cut the cord in his wrist too, squirting more blood into the already crimson whirlpool, which now seemed to boil like a cauldron. Limping on his bloody feet and still catching his breath, Joe hobbled up the steps and felt Trey grab him. His one good hand, his left, still with some strength in it, was holding Joe’s ankle. Joe looked down to see Trey, grunting with effort, trying to come after him. A look of confusion came over him as he realized his body would no longer obey. Joe had cut his strings, severing the tendons in both feet and one hand. He sprawled back onto the lip of the Jacuzzi like a broken marionette, staring up at Joe. He nodded. Joe nodded back. Then he shut his eyes, in surrender, as Joe leaned over and sank the blade into his heart.
That was when Joe realized: Yelena was nowhere in sight. She and Nikolai were both gone. He stood and saw that the pool was rippling, stirred from below, and that a cloud of red was blooming across the blue skin. He held his breath. Then the surface broke and a body floated up. It was Nikolai with a knife in his back. A second later, Yelena emerged, rising from the water like a siren, or a nightmare, one of those avenging furies who haunt men’s dreams. She came up the steps, back straight, head up, eyes forward, a newborn goddess, blood spreading in her wake.