September 28th. Raccoon City. 7:35 P.M.
John Wick's suppressed pistol remained steady, pointed directly at the center of the woman's chest. The gunpowder haze and the stench of death mixed with the expensive perfume emanating from the stranger. She held his gaze, a slight, challenging smile playing at the corners of her mouth, her scarlet trench coat a beacon of audacity against the gray cement of the station.
"The High Table wants to help," John repeated, his voice a low, dangerous growl, laced with sarcasm. He lowered the pistol tip by only an inch, not out of trust, but to better see her expression. "And what made them think I'd want their 'help'? I thought the Casablanca incident made my status regarding their rules clear."
The woman laughed softly, a melodic sound utterly out of place in the subway station full of corpses. She took another step toward John, closing the safe distance, forcing him to slightly raise his chin.
"Come on, John. No need to bring up your forced vacation," she said, her voice an intimate whisper that contrasted with the danger. Her almond-shaped eyes settled on John with an intensity designed to disarm. "Don't you think it's impolite to point a gun at a lady who is only trying to be helpful?"
John was unmoved, his face a granite mask. He had seen too many tactical tricks in the field for beauty and calculated vulnerability to have any effect.
"If you stand in front of the barrel, you are not a lady. You are a target. Who are you?" John asked, keeping his tone unwavering.
She sighed with a feigned irritation, her hand moving to brush back a strand of black hair that wasn't out of place. "I am the key to your elevator, John. My name is Ada." She straightened, the seduction giving way to seriousness. "You see, John, Umbrella is a problem for everyone, even for those above you and me. This 'infection' or 'virus,' whatever they call it, is what we call a market disruption. It doesn't respect the rules, it doesn't accept gold, and most importantly: it threatens anonymity."
She paused, allowing the concept to sink in. "When the world goes insane, our havens stop being safe. Raccoon City is a containment failure so monumental that if it isn't stopped here, the High Table, the Continental, and the entire infrastructure that supports our way of life... will collapse. The walking dead don't accept our rules of no business on Continental grounds."
John lowered the weapon, but only to maintain control over the situation, not out of respect. Ada had articulated the only point that mattered. The Table never acted out of morality, but out of survival of the system.
"And what do you have to do with all of this, Ada?" John asked, using her name grudgingly.
"I am their contact. I am the key," she said, her tone becoming professional and cold. "Not only will I tell you how to get into the Umbrella underground base, but I am here to retrieve an object of interest that is inside. An object the Table does not want to fall into the wrong hands, not even Umbrella's."
"An object, or your ticket out?" John countered.
"The High Table cares about stability. I care about power," Ada whispered, a fleeting glimmer in her eyes. She gestured toward the imposing Humvee. "Now, Hunter. We have a trip to the RPD Police Station. You need access, and Chief Brian Irons is a known Umbrella asset. If there's a service entrance to their hive beneath the city, he knows it. You need his knowledge... and I need you to take me there."
John looked at the Humvee, then at the woman in the cocktail dress and scarlet trench coat. Distrust was a primary instinct, but on this chessboard where the pieces were monsters and the only exit was a hell, an ally, however suspicious, was a necessary risk.
"Get in," John ordered.
He walked to the driver's door of the Humvee, without looking back, knowing she would follow.
Ada smiled. The grapnel gun that had been concealed beneath her trench coat went back into place. The plan was in motion.
"A pleasure doing business, John Wick," she said, before getting into the passenger seat of the armored vehicle.
A few minutes ago...
Ada Wong was on the verge of exasperation, a state she rarely allowed herself. Raccoon City was a labyrinth of chaos, ash, and death, but the worst part was its inefficiency. She had been in the city for two days. The chaos had made locating a man who was supposedly in plain sight a logistical nightmare.
She moved across the rooftops near the city center, the cocktail dress and scarlet trench coat a ridiculous contrast to the surroundings. She sighed. Too much money was at stake to fail.
Her most secondary objective was the G-Virus, the crown jewel that her mysterious informant and ally, Albert Wesker, had tasked her with retrieving from the depths of Umbrella. Wesker had offered a paltry $4 million for the sample.
But then there was the High Table. They, terrified that the Raccoon City outbreak would destroy their global anonymity, wanted her to focus on the T-Virus (the main outbreak) and, conveniently, on neutralizing the Baba Yaga. The Table had doubled Wesker's offer, offering $10 million for the T-Virus sample, in addition to the $20 million bounty on John Wick's head.
Her plan was elegant and simple: She would use John Wick, the man capable of decimating an army would handle the dirty work, the ones who would block the entrance to her objective. She would convince him of a temporary truce, using the excuse of the High Table's collaboration, so that he would lead her directly to her target.
Once John had paved the way, she would liquidate him, collecting the bounty. Thirty million dollars for a single day's work, plus the G-Virus for Wesker. The risk was high, but the reward was worth it.
She was about to give up and try to access the police station on her own, when a heavy, persistent noise broke the moan of the distorted sirens: a heavy diesel engine.
From her position on the ledge, Ada saw a black armored Humvee H1 speed past on a side street, ignoring the debris. Her mind immediately went to work. Umbrella agents usually didn't drive such a discreetly armored Humvee, and the vehicle seemed to be moving with a fierce purpose.
It's probably Umbrella's, Ada thought. Perhaps they are heading toward a fight with John Wick, or to his extraction point. Besides, if John Wick isn't there, I have nothing to lose.
The possibility was too sweet to ignore. If the fight had already happened, maybe she would find the Humvee next to John's body, weakened or dead, which would turn the $20 million into a simple pickup.
Ada didn't waste a second. She pulled out her grapnel gun and fired the anchor at the building across the street. She launched into an agile and silent dash across the rooftops, following the vehicle's trail.
The trail led her directly to the subway station. Ada approached cautiously and saw a group of Umbrella elite soldiers (the Hunter team, if her knowledge of the Table was correct) stealthily enter, armed to the teeth. She hid and waited, hearing a series of muffled shots and a subsequent silence.
An eternal minute passed.
When the heavy metal door opened, it wasn't the soldiers who came out. It was a man in a completely black tailor-made suit, with traces of blood and gunpowder, but alert to the environment. John Wick.
Ada felt a pang of frustration. She would have preferred to find a dead John Wick; it would be the easiest way to earn $34 million (the $20 million for him plus the $14 million she expected to get for the viruses). But at least if she had found John, who was standing, it meant he had killed an elite Umbrella team just to get to the surface.
The collaboration option would have to do, for now. She would have the Baba Yaga do the heavy lifting. All she had to do was sell him the lie of the "truce" and the "system stability." The plan was underway.
Ada stepped out of the shadows. The game had begun.
Returning to the present
She slid into the passenger seat of the armored Humvee with excessive grace for the occasion. Her scarlet trench coat, vibrant in the city's sinister twilight, settled. The process of buckling the seatbelt was slow, a purely performative act seeking John's gaze.
Her presence was a magnetic field of expensive perfume and calculated danger that, for the first time in days, didn't smell of gunpowder or death.
The Humvee, with John at the wheel, roared. Crashed and burning cars, staggering infected, and survivors running in panic filled the streets. John kept his gaze fixed on the armored windshield, his movements on the wheel precise to dodge obstacles and avoid unnecessary contact. The buildings passed like fleeting visions of an urban nightmare: looted grocery stores, apartments with broken windows, and the thick smoke rising from the financial district.
Ada broke the tense silence.
"It's a very practical car," Ada commented, her voice low and silky. "Although I suppose your taste is usually something more... classic. A Chevrolet Malibu? But with good armor, of course. Something classy so as not to offend the Continental doormen."
John moved the wheel to crush an overturned police car. The scrap metal crunched under the wheels. "Utility trumps aesthetics. Besides," John didn't look at her, "the Malibu wouldn't survive being run over..."
A tiny smile, an almost imperceptible movement, curved Ada's lips. It was the closest thing to laughter she allowed. "Wow. Sarcasm. An unexpected weapon. I like it." Suddenly, she changed the subject, pointing to a collapsed cinema marquee. "Did you see the billboard? They were going to premiere a romantic comedy. I wonder if the ending would have been happier than ours."
"Probably more predictable," John replied, dodging a zombie that lunged toward the cabin. "And I doubt the movie needs as many replacement fuses as this car. And what was the plot about, Ada? The hero marries the woman who has been lying to him since the introduction?"
Ada took a moment to respond, savoring John's subtle jab. "Something like that. But, getting back to business," her tone became philosophical, as if they were in a seminar and not aboard a war vehicle. "John, even you must admit there's something fascinating about all this. So much anarchy. The world of rules and gold coins is dying. It's exciting, don't you think? What new order will emerge? This is the biggest power restructuring we will see in our lives."
John tightened his grip on the wheel. "Order? Chaos is just a preamble to the new hierarchy. Order doesn't die, Ada, only those who dictate the rules change. And there is always someone waiting to collect the bill. Those seeking the new order are the ones who caused this disaster, or the ones who will profit from it." He paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous tone. "And I am not interested in either of those categories."
Ada nodded, her face becoming serious as she acknowledged the truth in John's words. "That's the executioner's perspective, John. I have the engineer's perspective. If civilization collapses, there are no markets for my services. Think about the consequences: Who will accept a coin if the dead devour their children?"
The conversation took another abrupt turn. Ada leaned in a little, studying him. "And how the hell do you maintain that suit? It's ridiculous. You've been through a slaughterhouse and that fabric still looks... professional. A Continental tailor on call, perhaps?" The question, though frivolous, was an attempt to penetrate his armor.
John let out a heavy sigh, which might have been exasperation. "It's a secret. It's just a suit. It's easier to maintain than it looks, unlike driving while answering an oral exam on philosophy, women's fashion, and zombie geopolitics."
The reply earned him a genuine smile, a fleeting flash of amusement in Ada's eyes.
"You're teasing me," she whispered, entertained. "I like that. Most men would start screaming or asking for my phone number. Tell me, John, when was the last time you were with someone?"
John ignored the question, his eyes fixed on the road. "I won't give you the satisfaction of talking about my personal life while dodging corpses. What about you? Why did it take you two days to locate me if the High Table is so interested in me? Were the heels a delaying factor?"
"Ah, the key question," Ada smiled, regaining her composure. "Well, let's just say tracking you down in the middle of the apocalypse is complex. Satellites don't distinguish well between John Wick and a zombie with very good taste, and I had to fly from Paris to an abandoned airport. And my boots are surprisingly comfortable. But, John, the High Table sent me to cooperate, an impromptu team. The High Table hates chaos, and I love money. We are the perfect team."
"The Table only offers a market price for things," John retorted. "And usually, I'm the item on the price list. What guarantee do I have that my price won't change once you get your 'object'?"
"My guarantee," Ada said with a coldness that momentarily froze the flirtation, "is that I need you alive to get into the Umbrella hive. You are my key. Besides," she added, returning to her light tone, "I am the letter of credit that allows you to keep buying your time. For once, you are the strategic asset."
John nodded once, without taking his eyes off the road. The RPD was in sight. They were getting close, a few more blocks and they would arrive.
In that very instant, less than a hundred meters from the imposing structure of the Police Station, the satellite phone John kept in the cup holder, a rugged, encrypted model, began to vibrate with furious intensity. It flashed with an unregistered number. John, who didn't usually take calls from unknown numbers, grabbed it anyway, sensing that the fury of the vibration was a prelude to something worse.
"Well, it looks like fate has called you," Ada joked with a playful smile, without taking her eyes off the street. "It must be important if the Great John Wick deigns to talk to anonymous people. Either it's a bill collector, or your dog is calling you."
John ignored her, his face granite. He lifted the phone and brought it to his ear, without stopping driving.
"Wick," he said, his voice low and unadorned.
On the other side, a woman's voice broke through, rough with fear and adrenaline. Jill Valentine.
"John, it's Jill! There's a monster, it's coming for you! Its target is..."
"Jill...?" John began, trying to get his mind to process the warning.
Just as he was about to speak again, he felt the world fall apart. An inhuman, violent crash erased the sound of the phone. In the next instant, gravity inverted and his body became dead weight inside the vehicle. The call cut off with a squawk of static.
The blow didn't come from the front, nor from the side. It came with apocalyptic power from the rear, an impact so brutal and centered that the four-ton vehicle was lifted into the air as if it were made of paper. John's speed, combined with the force of the impact, turned the Humvee into an uncontrolled projectile.
John felt the world slow down. The sound of screaming tires and twisting metal became a dull hum. It was the sound of time stopping in the middle of chaos. The air rushed from his lungs in a forced exhale as the seatbelt held him tightly, but the impact shoved him toward the steering wheel. The pressure made him gasp, and he felt a sharp pain in his rib cage, a reminder that, even in an armored vehicle, inertia was invincible.
He saw Ada's expression in the passenger seat: a moment of total surprise and then, almost immediately, the cold acceptance of a professional death risk. There were no screams, only a terrible stillness. Ada instinctively brought a hand toward the belt of her trench coat, looking for a handhold or, perhaps, the grip of one of her hidden weapons.
The armored windshield became a web of radial cracks, and fine dust from the road and the shattered interior began to float in the air like dark frost. The smell of hot fuel and burning rubber flooded the cabin, mixing with Ada's sweet, anachronistic perfume.
The Humvee flipped onto its side, raising a dense cloud of dust and sparks as it dragged metal across the asphalt. The world became a succession of blurred images: gray asphalt, red twilight sky, and then more asphalt. Each rotation was a new blow, a new deformation of the metal reminding them they were in a spinning death trap.
For a fraction of a second, as the vehicle spun out of control, John was able to glimpse the thing that had hit them.
It was an immense silhouette, almost twice the size of a normal man, clad in a heavy black leather coat that concealed its deformed proportions. It moved with a brutal unnaturalness; it didn't run, but advanced with an relentless march that made the ground vibrate. Its head was hidden by what appeared to be a containment mask or a rudimentary bag, but John didn't need to see the face to understand that he was looking at an elite executioner.
The most alarming thing was not its size, but the machinery that accompanied it. In its hand, or rather, coupled to its arm instead of a hand, it carried a monstrous rocket launcher. It wasn't held; it was integrated. The trail of fresh smoke confirmed the ignition. It was the ultimate expression of directed annihilation: an industrial assassin, a biological aberration designed solely for the hunt.
It was the embodiment of Umbrella's industrial death. A Punisher designed for annihilation.
The vehicle slammed down, hitting the roof before rolling onto one side and sliding with a prolonged screech that John felt directly in his bones. The Humvee finally stopped on its side, the driver's door now facing upward, toward a smoke-covered sky.
The interior became a centrifuge of debris, glass fragments, loose equipment, and the weapons that had been thrown from their mounts.
The world didn't go black for John. Instead, it lit up in a million points of paralyzing pain.
The impact had broken several bones; he could feel the bruised flesh beneath the ballistic suit, the deep, throbbing pain with every shallow breath. His head pulsed with a migraine that promised fracture.
John tried to move, but the seatbelt and the unnatural position of the vehicle held him captive. He was injured, battered, and trapped, but awake. His vision was a battlefield of flashing lights, but he focused through the pain.
Next to him, Ada Wong had not been so lucky. Her body, less accustomed to that kind of vehicular punishment, hung limply from the seatbelt.
Her head rested against the shattered side window, her neat ponytail undone and black strands covering one side of her face. There was no movement, no sound; only the faint breathing that rose and fell in her chest. She was unconscious.
The danger didn't stop at the executioner. A more acrid, chemical smell began to flood the cabin, a distinct odor from the rubber. John focused his gaze on the engine, now inverted and wrinkled.
A column of black, greasy smoke rose from the shattered hood, and a few orange flames licked the sheet metal. The Humvee, his mobile fortress, was rapidly turning into an oven.
Author's Note: Many thanks to those who support the story and continue to donate power stones, especially to Diptson_Estrada