After Winston excused himself, Smith and Fox found an empty booth with a good view of the bar. Smith settled into the leather seat while Fox kept her phone out, monitoring the Continental's network.
"So," Fox said, glancing at her screen. "Which unlucky bastard has a bounty on their head?"
Smith took a sip of his bourbon, savoring the burn. "Someone named John Wick."
Fox looked up, surprised. "Wait, that's the guy you wanted me to see? The 'good show' you mentioned?"
"That's the one."
Fox frowned. "I thought maybe you were planning to take the contract yourself. But what's so special about watching a retired assassin? He's probably rusty after all these years out of the game."
Smith had told Fox about John Wick years ago, when he'd first learned about the Continental Hotel's network. It had been part of her education about the larger underworld that existed beyond the Fraternity.
Fox's opinion of Continental assassins was pretty low. In her view, the Fraternity were heroes. They hunted the guilty, protected the innocent, served a higher purpose. After learning that her own family's tragedy had been caused by a failed assassination, and that the Fraternity had executed the responsible party, she'd become even more devoted to their cause.
But Continental assassins? They were just guns for hire. Mercenaries who killed for money, no questions asked. Morally bankrupt rats who'd murder anyone if the price was right.
And in terms of pure skill, the Fraternity's members were simply better. Mr. X and Cross could make shots that seemed physically impossible. The Butcher could fight through a dozen armed men without breaking a sweat. Even the newer members like Wesley were being trained to a level that most Continental assassins would never reach.
A retired assassin with a bounty on his head didn't seem particularly noteworthy.
Smith heard the dismissiveness in Fox's tone and smiled. "Just watch. Trust me on this. You'll understand soon enough."
Fox shrugged and turned her attention back to her phone, scrolling through contract updates.
Elsewhere in New York
John Wick pulled his car to a stop outside the Continental Hotel. The trunk and backseat held the bodies of twelve men. Twelve assassins sent by Viggo to kill him in his own home.
None of them had succeeded.
John grabbed his suitcase from the passenger seat and slung a canvas bag over his shoulder. Both contained weapons, ammunition, and supplies he'd need for the war he was about to wage.
He walked toward the Continental's entrance, his stride steady and purposeful. His face was grim, set in hard lines. The violence of the previous night clung to him like a second skin. He radiated danger, a volcano on the verge of eruption.
The doorman opened the door without a word. Everyone could see what John Wick was. What he'd become again.
The lobby was quiet, elegant. Classical music played softly. A few guests moved through the space, conducting their business with hushed voices.
As John approached the front desk, a woman turned away from Charon, nearly bumping into him. She was attractive, dressed in stylish but practical clothing, her eyes sharp and alert.
"John!" Her smile was genuine, if surprised. "Good to see you again."
John recognized her immediately. "Perkins. You too."
They'd worked together once, years ago. She was competent. Professional. Exactly the kind of person who'd take a two-million-dollar contract without thinking twice about the consequences.
Perkins gave him a small wave and headed for the exit. John watched her go, then turned to Charon.
"Good evening, Mr. Wick," Charon said smoothly. "Will you be staying with us?"
"Yes. One night. Maybe more."
"Of course, sir." Charon's fingers moved across his keyboard with practiced efficiency. "We have your usual suite available. Room 818."
John accepted the key card and headed for the elevators.
Room 818
John set his bags down and locked the door behind him. The room was exactly as he remembered. Clean, comfortable, anonymous. A place to rest between killings.
He pulled out his phone and opened his photo gallery. The video started automatically. Helen, smiling at the camera, her voice weak but full of love.
"John, if you're watching this, I'm gone. But I don't want you to be alone..."
John's hand tightened around the phone. He'd watched this video a hundred times since her death. It never got easier.
He reached to his pocket and pulled out the Dragon Ball, the orange sphere warm against his palm.
"Helen," John whispered. "If this is real, if I can really bring you back, nothing will stop me. I'll find all seven of these. I'll make the wish. I'll get you back."
The Dragon Ball seemed to glow a little brighter in response, though it might have been his imagination.
John found a small drawstring bag in his luggage and carefully placed the Dragon Ball inside. He tied the cord securely, then hung it back around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. Keeping it close was the safest option. He couldn't risk losing it.
After changing into a fresh suit, John checked his weapons one more time, then headed out. He needed information. Needed to know where Viggo was keeping his son.
Time to visit the bar.
Continental Hotel - Bar
John paid his gold coin at the entrance and descended into the underground bar. The atmosphere was subdued tonight, conversations held in low voices, everyone aware that something big was happening.
John scanned the room out of habit, cataloging faces and potential threats. Something was off. Normally the bar had a more diverse crowd, but tonight it seemed... selective. Certain types of assassins were conspicuously absent.
Strange.
He spotted Perkins sitting at a corner table and gave her a nod. She raised her glass in response.
Through the crowd, John saw Winston sitting alone in a booth, reading a newspaper. John made his way over.
"Hello, Winston."
Winston looked up, folded his newspaper, and removed his reading glasses. "Jonathan. What a surprise." His tone suggested it was anything but. "As I recall, you were never one to make a mess and leave it for others to clean up."
John allowed himself a small smile. "More or less."
"So." Winston gestured to the seat across from him. "What brings you to my establishment?"
John sat down. "Viggo Tarasov."
"What about him?"
"I need to find him."
Winston took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving John's face. "I see. That kind of 'find.' I'm familiar with that particular verb." He set his glass down. "Jonathan, I have to ask. Have you thought this through? You retired once. Got out clean. Now you're diving back in. You might think you can surface again, but the water gets deeper every time. Eventually, you won't be able to find your way back up."
"Where is he?" John's voice was flat. Final.
Winston sighed. He picked up a pen and pulled a napkin closer, preparing to write an address. But John cut him off.
"This is personal, Winston. Not business."
Winston's hand paused. "Is it? Because once you step through these doors covered in blood, the whole world sees you as active again. Retirement is a one-way exit, Jonathan. You can't just visit."
John stood. "Where can I find him?"
Winston studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "The bar. Talk to Eddie. And Jonathan? Remember the rules. No business on Continental grounds. I won't tolerate any violations."
"Understood."
John walked toward the bar, leaving Winston alone in his booth.
Winston watched him go and muttered, "Once you're back in, you're back in. Whether you admit it or not."
At the bar, Eddie looked up from polishing a glass and his face lit up with genuine pleasure.
"Oh my God, John" He came around the bar and pulled John into a hug, kissing both his cheeks in the European style. "It's been, what, four years?"
"More than five," John corrected.
Eddie stepped back, grinning. "So? How's retirement treating you? Living the good life?"
"It was good, Eddie. Better than I deserved."
The past tense wasn't lost on Eddie. His expression shifted, becoming more somber. "Hey, I heard about your wife. I'm really sorry, man."
"Thank you."
Eddie studied John's face, reading things that most people would miss. "I've never seen you like this before."
"Like what?"
Eddie's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Afraid."
John took a deep breath, the word hitting harder than he'd expected. "I'm retired, Eddie."
Eddie smiled sadly. "No. If you were retired, you wouldn't be drinking here." He gestured to the impressive array of bottles behind the bar. "Same as usual?"
"Thanks, Eddie."
Fox glanced at her phone again and whistled softly. "Smith, the bounty just jumped to four million dollars."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "Four million? That went up fast."
"Plus, four extra Continental gold coins for whoever completes the contract." Fox looked up from her screen. "Viggo must be desperate. That's a fortune. Every assassin in the city is going to take a shot at this."
"Let them try," Smith said. He'd been watching John Wick since the man entered the bar. Watching the way he moved, the way other assassins gave him space, the way even Winston treated him with a mixture of respect and concern.
This was going to be interesting.