“Your family may have started something with that bear they will not want to finish.”

“Oh?”

“They took all the money he had in his bank accounts, had him declared dead—” Livy snorted at that; she didn’t mean to, but that had to be Jake—“stole everything out of his house and destroyed the foundation. It’s crumbling as we speak.”

“That last part wasn’t Kowalskis,” Livy admitted. “That was Mongolian badgers. But I’m sure my family asked them to do it.”

“I warned Rostislav to let it go, but he won’t. Not now. Not after what your family did.”

“You wanted proof Rostislav Chumakov was protecting Whitlan. Now you have it.”

“Anyone could have tacked Whitlan’s body to the front of Chumakov’s house. It doesn’t mean the man had been living there.”

“So the BPC is still protecting Chumakov? Even now?”

Ben-Zeev took a breath, released it. “No, we’re not. But there are bears, friends of Chumakov’s, who do not believe he had anything to do with Whitlan. That he was set up by honey badgers who just wanted his money. And they are willing to protect him. To hide him. So it may take some time for us to track him down, and until we do—you and your family are in danger. He won’t stop until he destroys all of you.”

“Yes. I’m sure that’s true.” She smiled at the She-bear. “Thanks for letting me know.”

She stepped around Ben-Zeev and walked back toward her office. That was when she saw Vic. The way he was scowling, she knew he was looking for her. Not surprising with her past history involving bears tracking her down at the Sports Center.

“I’m okay,” she announced right off the bat.

“What’s going on?” he demanded. “There’s a small caravan of BPC bears outside the Sports Center.”

“Ben-Zeev came here to warn me that Chumakov went underground.”

“Because your family fucked with him?”

Livy laughed, took Vic’s hand. “I didn’t know they were going to, but I’m not exactly sorry.”

“I feel like I should put you into protective custody or something.”

“No more hiding.” She tugged his arm until he came down and she could easily kiss him on the cheek. Then she whispered, “Honestly, I wouldn’t worry much.”

“He’s a vindictive prick.”

She smiled, nuzzled his jaw. “Vic, you still don’t get it . . . I come from a family of vindictive pricks.”

Kiril wanted to run away. He wanted to get out of here. But something told him he should not be noticed. Not by these men.

There were lots of big men in Moscow. He was used to them. But there was something about these three men . . .Then they began talking. Talking about killing. First a girl and her boyfriend, then the girl’s mother, and uncles.

Kiril was horrified. He knew gangsters came to the banya for a good steam. Some banyas were just for them. But those criminals never talked business in front of outsiders. Never. Yet these men . . .

Did they know Kiril was in the room? Did they have any idea? Or did they just plan to kill him, too? He didn’t know, and he was too terrified to make a run for it. It was like dealing with a dangerous dog. Any sudden moves would have the vicious animal focusing on you. He didn’t want that. He just wanted to go home.

Eventually, the two younger men stood—holy God, the size of them. The sheer size of them!—and the older one stayed behind, pouring water over his head. He was no youngster, but his muscles, his body in general, was still very fit. He bore scars. Some looked like old knife marks, a few gunshots, but some seemed to be claw marks.

Kiril knew he should get up now, but this older man was scarier than the younger ones. So much scarier.

While he kept his head down, pouring water over it, the older man didn’t notice the wooden bench beside him. Like the one Kiril sat upon, it was hollow, the entire thing tacked to the wall. But a piece of wood at the bottom was moving and suddenly it opened.

Fascinated and horrified, Kiril watched a small woman work her way out. She was old. And Asian. Chinese maybe? A long scar on one side of her neck. Without a sound, she eased her way out of the tiny space she’d been in. How she’d fit in there, he didn’t know. Kiril was sure there was a vent behind that bench, but how did she get through it? She was not slim. Just a wide-shouldered old lady.

She got to her feet, and Kiril saw the walking stick she held. Using her other hand, she grasped the head of the stick and pulled out a thin, stainless steel dagger. She stepped up to the older man, and when he lifted his head, suddenly realizing someone was standing next to him, she proceeded to stab him in the throat.

It wasn’t wild stabbing, either. But very precise, deep jabs all across his neck.

Gasping for air and wrapping his hands around his throat to stop the bleeding, the man stood, stumbled, and fell to the ground. The old woman walked over to him, flipping him onto his back. Not an easy feat considering his size, but she seemed to have no trouble. She straddled his chest and then sat on it. She watched him for a bit.

“You never understood, did you?” she said in perfect Russian. “Kowalskis never forget . . . but Yangs never forgive.” She tossed white hair that had slipped out of her simple bun from her eyes. “If you’d like, though,” she taunted, “you can pretend this last bit is mercy. But,” she said as she raised her arm, “we’ll both know it really isn’t.”