Continental Hotel - New York
The doorman at the Continental Hotel accepted the two gold coins Smith offered with a professional nod, pulling open the heavy door. Smith and Fox stepped into the lobby, their footsteps echoing on the polished marble floor.
The Continental was neutral ground. Sacred ground. A place where the rules of the underworld were absolute. No business could be conducted on Continental grounds. Break that rule, and you'd have every assassin in the city hunting you down.
Smith didn't pause in the lobby. He'd been here before, knew the layout well. Instead of heading to the front desk or the lounge, he led Fox directly toward the stairs that descended to the underground bar.
Behind the front desk, Charon watched them go. The concierge was a fixture of the Continental, as much a part of the building as the walls themselves. His hand moved to the phone almost automatically.
"Manager Winston," Charon said quietly when the line connected. "Smith Doyle has arrived at the hotel with Fox. They're heading down to the bar now."
Winston's voice came through calm and controlled. "Understood. Thank you, Charon."
The line went dead.
Charon set the phone down and muttered to himself, "Good thing I live here. Something tells me I don't want to be on the streets for the next few days."
Winston's Office
Winston hung up the phone and rubbed his temples, a gesture that had become far too common lately.
"Why are those two here?" he said to the empty room.
The Fraternity. Even the name made some people nervous. They operated outside the High Table's structure, following their own rules, executing their own justice. And Smith Doyle, the young man they called GOD, had built quite a reputation in the last few years.
Winston stood and moved to his window, looking out over the city. Eighteen years ago, the Fraternity had been different. They'd killed seemingly at random, targets that made no sense, people who appeared to have done nothing wrong. Then, suddenly, they'd changed. Their targets became specific. Gang leaders. Serial killers. Human traffickers. People who, frankly, probably deserved what was coming to them.
In New York alone, the Fraternity had systematically eliminated dozens of criminals that law enforcement couldn't touch. Perfect success rate. No failures.
The Continental Hotel and several major crime families had reported the situation to the High Table, concerned about this powerful group operating independently. The High Table had sent an Adjudicator to meet with the Fraternity's leadership.
Whatever was said in that meeting, it had ended with the Adjudicator leaving and the High Table taking no action against the Fraternity.
Winston had heard rumors, though. Whispers that when the High Table was first formed, they'd invited the Fraternity to join. Had even offered them an Elder seat. The Fraternity had declined.
That kind of confidence, that kind of power, meant they were not to be taken lightly.
And then there was Smith himself. The kid had killed a lot of people over the years. A lot of assassins registered with the Continental. All of them outside hotel grounds, of course. All of them technically fair game.
But there was a pattern Winston had noticed. Most of Smith's targets shared certain characteristics. And while Winston didn't want to jump to conclusions, the pattern was... troubling.
"Please tell me he's not here to identify targets," Winston muttered, grabbing his jacket. He needed to get down to that bar.
Continental Hotel - Underground Bar
Smith handed two more gold coins to the attendant at the bar entrance. The coins clinked as they dropped into the collection box. Entry fee and information fee, both in one payment.
The bar was busy tonight. Assassins from across the city filled the leather booths and occupied the barstools, drinks in hand, conducting quiet conversations about contracts and kills. The air smelled of expensive liquor and gun oil.
When Smith and Fox walked in, heads turned. It was instinctive. Every killer in the room automatically cataloged new arrivals, assessed potential threats, calculated angles and exits.
Some of the assassins recognized Smith and relaxed. A few even raised their glasses in greeting. GOD from the Fraternity. Dangerous, sure, but not here for trouble. Not in the Continental.
Others had a very different reaction.
Several assassins, all of whom happened to fit a certain profile, immediately turned away. Some stood and walked quickly toward the bathrooms. Others pulled their hats down low, trying to make themselves less visible.
Fox noticed the wave of movement and smiled. "You're like a shark, Smith. They scatter the moment you enter the water."
Smith shrugged, heading toward the bar. "Just doing my job. Cleaning up the trash."
"You certainly have a type," Fox observed. "I don't think I've ever seen you go after anyone who wasn't—"
"Guilty?" Smith interrupted smoothly. "Yeah. That's kind of the point. Every single one of them deserved it. Not a single mistake."
Fox nodded thoughtfully. In her mind, Smith just had a particular... preference in his targets. The Fraternity had even stopped recruiting certain individuals once they'd noticed Smith's pattern. Easier to avoid potential conflicts.
What Fox didn't know, what none of them knew, was that Smith's "preference" had nothing to do with what they thought. It had everything to do with his knowledge from his previous life. He knew which assassins in the Continental's network were involved in particularly heinous crimes. Human trafficking. Child exploitation. The worst of the worst.
He just happened to be working his way through a list that had some demographic similarities. Coincidence. Mostly.
Smith reached the bar and caught the bartender's attention. "Two Blanton's, Eddie."
Eddie, the bartender, was a fixture of the Continental's underground bar. He'd seen everything, heard everything, and remembered everything. He poured two glasses of bourbon and slid them across the polished wood.
"Smith," Eddie said with a wry smile. "Business always drops off when you show up. I bet half the guys who just left are texting their friends right now, telling them to stay away from the Continental for a few days."
Smith took a sip of his bourbon. "That's the smart move."
"Yeah, except I know what you're thinking," Eddie continued, cleaning a glass. "They come here to hide, you remember their faces, and then you track them down the moment they leave."
"The rules are the rules," Smith said innocently. "Can't conduct business on Continental grounds. But outside?" He shrugged.
Eddie shook his head, amused. "So what can I do for you? Those two gold coins you paid aren't just for the drinks."
Smith pulled out a piece of paper and quickly sketched something on it. Four star arranged in a specific pattern, enclosed in a circle. He slid the paper across to Eddie.
"If anyone comes here asking about this, or looking for something that matches this description, send them to me."
Eddie picked up the paper, studying the drawing. "A crystal ball with star inside? That's oddly specific." He looked up. "What is this, some kind of mystical artifact?"
"Something like that. Just pass along the message if anyone asks."
Eddie tucked the paper into his vest pocket. "You got it."
Fox leaned against the bar, giving Smith a curious look. "What is that thing? And what about this 'good show' you promised me?"
Before Smith could answer, a voice called out from behind them.
"Mr. Smith! What a pleasant surprise!"
Winston approached with his usual polished confidence, every inch the professional manager. His suit was immaculate, his smile warm but calculating.
Smith turned, bourbon in hand. "Manager Winston. It's been a while."
"Fox," Winston nodded to the red-haired assassin. "Always a pleasure."
"Mr. Winston," Fox replied politely.
Winston snapped his fingers at Eddie. "Bring out my 1972 Macallan. I want to treat our guests properly."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "That's an expensive bottle, Winston. You trying to bribe us or just showing off?"
Winston's smile widened. "Good wine is meant to be shared with good company. And besides, you two have earned it. The work you do for the Fraternity is... impressive."
Eddie returned with three crystal glasses filled with amber liquid. The whisky was smooth and rich, decades of aging evident in every nuance of flavor.
Smith took a sip and nodded appreciatively. "This is excellent. Though I've heard the 1926 vintage is even better."
"The 1926 is nearly impossible to find," Winston said. "And even if I could get my hands on a bottle, I'm not sure I could bring myself to open it. Some things are too valuable to use."
"What's the point of having something if you never use it?" Smith countered.
"A fair point." Winston swirled his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. Then his expression became more serious. "I assume you're aware that establishments like mine are not within the Fraternity's usual scope of operations."
"You think we're here to shut down the Continental?" Smith asked, amused.
"The thought crossed my mind when Charon called to tell me you'd arrived. You can understand my concern."
Smith set his glass down. "The Continental Hotel serves a purpose. Neutral ground keeps the underworld from tearing itself apart completely. We have no interest in disrupting that balance."
"I'm glad to hear it," Winston said, visibly relaxing. "The rules here have served us well for a very long time."
"They're good rules," Smith agreed. "We respect them."
Fox had been quiet during this exchange, but now she pulled out her phone, frowning at the screen. "That's interesting."
"What?" Smith asked.
"The Continental just posted a new contract," Fox said, scrolling through the information. "Two million dollars."
She looked up, her eyes sharp. "Smith, this isn't the show you were talking about, is it?"
Winston's expression shifted immediately, all business. "Two million? Let me see that."
Fox handed over her phone. Winston's face went carefully neutral as he read the details, but Smith could see the tension in his shoulders.
"This is going to be a problem," Winston said quietly.
Smith smiled and took another sip of his bourbon. "It's going to be interesting, that's for sure."