Winston set down another tile on the Scrabble board at the Continental Hotel, his phone illuminating with a notification. A faint smile touched his lips.
"And so it begins."
At the front desk, Charon observed the executive hall corridor filling with killers. Every single one had stopped mid-stride, eyes fixed on their phones as the same message populated their screens simultaneously.
Within minutes, New York's underworld mobilized. A tide of predators surged toward Chinatown.
Even Smith Doyle and Fox received the bounty notification on the phones they'd acquired. Smith glanced at the screen, John Wick's face, the Dragon Ball specifications, the staggering sum, and dismissed it without comment.
John Wick had finished suturing his shoulder. Now he rifled through the doctor's medicine cabinet, searching among countless bottles and jars. Too many options, none of them labeled in English.
The doctor watched him struggle for a moment before speaking quietly. "Top shelf. Right side."
John's hand paused.
"Take four pills. They'll help with the pain and keep you alert."
Fox's eyebrows rose. She hadn't expected the doctor to risk helping John after the deadline had passed.
John followed the instructions, dry-swallowing the medication. Behind him, the doctor moved to a different cabinet, opened a drawer, and withdrew a pistol.
"Mr. Wick." The doctor's voice was steady despite the tremor in his hands. "They won't believe I stopped on time."
John turned to face him. "But you did stop."
"They'll come asking." The doctor held the gun out, grip-first. "They'll find out I told you where the pills were."
"What did you tell him?" John asked, though he already knew.
Fox supplied the answer. "The location of the painkillers."
"Yes." The doctor nodded. "Exactly that."
Understanding passed between them. The doctor walked to John and pressed the pistol into his hand, then moved to the chair and picked up a roll of hemostatic gauze. He lifted his shirt, exposing his abdomen, and pointed to a spot below his ribs.
"Here. Below the floating rib. Don't hit, "
Bang.
The doctor's words choked off as he collapsed into the chair, gasping. John lowered the weapon, preparing to leave.
"Wait." The doctor's voice stopped him. "One might not be convincing enough."
He unbuttoned his collar, exposing his shoulder and neck. "Don't hit, "
Bang.
The second shot echoed through the cramped room. The doctor groaned, clutching the new wound.
John retrieved his jacket and headed for the door.
"Good luck, Mr. Wick."
John paused at the threshold, glancing back at the doctor pressing gauze to his bleeding shoulder. "Thank you, doctor."
Then he was gone.
Fox turned to Smith. "Think he'll make it?"
Smith watched John disappear into the night. "Before the stitches? No chance. Now?" He shrugged. "His odds just improved significantly."
Rain fell in sheets as John emerged onto the street. Despite the weather, Chinatown's sidewalks remained crowded. He started running.
Near a fish stall, a vendor in a blood-stained apron looked up as John passed. His assistant appeared at his elbow.
"Boss. That's him."
The fishmonger stripped off his apron and tossed aside his hat. "Let's go get paid."
They weren't alone. All along the street, heads turned. Phones glowed. The hunters converged.
John ducked into a building and took the stairs two at a time, slamming the door behind him and throwing the lock. His lungs burned, but he kept moving. Third floor, a gun shop, its interior dark and shuttered.
The display cases were locked. John didn't hesitate. He smashed the glass, grabbed a revolver, and began loading it with cartridges from a broken ammunition box.
The door burst open behind him.
John spun and fired. The first killer through the entrance dropped with a hole between his eyes.
The fishmonger and two others rushed in. John was already moving, rolling behind a display case as bullets chewed into the wood. He fired blind around the corner, missed, but the shot forced them to scatter. One killer's weapon skittered across the floor.
John surged forward into hand-to-hand range. Two against one should have been overwhelming odds, but John Wick didn't fight fair. He grabbed one man's wrist and used him as a shield, then drove his elbow into the second man's throat.
They broke apart, circling. The fishmonger spotted the knife display and smashed it open, arming himself with a meat cleaver. His companion grabbed a combat knife.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Blades clashed in the darkness. John ducked under a wild swing and opened the fishmonger's femoral artery with a precise slash. The man collapsed, screaming.
More footsteps pounded up the stairs. John snatched throwing knives from the display and turned to face the doorway.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Each blade found a throat. Three more bodies fell.
The killers kept coming, a seemingly endless stream. John moved through them like a dancer, every motion economical and lethal. A knife to the kidney here. A pistol shot to the skull there. He used the terrain, the furniture, the weapons at hand.
Nine corpses littered the gun shop floor by the time the wave finally broke.
John staggered into the rain-soaked street, breathing hard. Blood, not all of it his own, soaked through his shirt. Somewhere behind him, fresh hunters were already picking up his trail.
Smith and Fox entered the gun shop, stepping carefully around the carnage.
Smith's scouter flickered as it catalogued the dead. He glanced at Fox. "You've been watching the show. What do you think?"
Fox surveyed the bodies sprawled across the floor. "Combat power doesn't tell the whole story."
"Elaborate."
"We've seen John fight opponents with his same rating, 6 points. We've seen him fight weaker opponents at 4 or 5." She nudged a corpse with her boot. "Some of these came at him multiple times in coordinated attacks. John's still standing. They're not."
Smith nodded approvingly. "Combat power is a guideline, not a prophecy. Timing, determination, killing intent, tactical awareness, all of these factor into the outcome. One mistake can end you, regardless of your rating."
"But there's a threshold," Fox said. "A point where raw power trumps skill."
"Exactly." Smith's eyes gleamed. "At higher combat levels, the gap becomes insurmountable. All the technique in the world won't save you."
Fox checked her own scouter reading, still registering at 6 points, same as John. "How much power would it take to shrug off small-caliber rounds?"
Smith considered the question. "Nine points. At that level, ordinary handguns become an annoyance rather than a threat. Your body's energy density makes you functionally bulletproof against anything smaller than a rifle round."
Fox did the mental math. Fifty percent increase from her current level. The number seemed achievable, until she remembered how much effort it had taken to reach 6 from 5. Increasing her body's total energy by half again? That would take years of training.
"Come on," Smith said, heading for the door. "Let's see what John does next."
They stepped back into the rain, leaving the dead behind.