Winston gestured toward the corridor. "In fact, the body is still here. Getting cold within these walls."
The Adjudicator's expression remained impassive. "I want to see it."
Winston nodded and led her deeper into the hotel's infrastructure, down service corridors rarely seen by guests. Their footsteps echoed in the sterile hallway until they reached the incinerator room, a utilitarian space of concrete and steel where the Continental disposed of its more inconvenient problems.
Santino D'Antonio's corpse lay on a transfer gurney, awaiting cremation. The body was still dressed in his expensive suit, now stained dark with dried blood.
The Adjudicator approached the body with clinical detachment. "Santino D'Antonio. Newly appointed member of the High Table. Killed by Mr. Wick while seeking sanctuary at the Continental Hotel."
She leaned over the corpse, studying the wound in his forehead with the focus of a medical examiner. "A .45 ACP, judging by the entry wound. Colt 1911, most likely."
She straightened and turned to face Winston, her dark eyes boring into him.
Winston met her gaze steadily. "I cannot control Mr. Wick's actions."
"Yet he's still alive because of you, isn't he?"
"Yes," Winston admitted. There was no point denying the obvious.
The Adjudicator circled him slowly, like a prosecutor closing in on a defendant. "You've known Mr. Wick for many years. It wouldn't be inaccurate to call you friends, would it?"
Winston said nothing.
"You didn't stop him. Didn't shoot him." She paused beside the gurney. "You stood by and watched him kill Santino D'Antonio. Right in front of you. On Continental grounds. Then you let him walk away."
Winston felt the trap closing. "I excommunicated him. Expelled him from the Continental."
"After giving him an hour's head start." The Adjudicator's voice remained flat, but the accusation was damning.
"He broke the rules in my hotel, "
"Your hotel." The Adjudicator seized on the words immediately. "That's precisely the problem. Your hotel. Your rules. Your mercy." She moved closer, invading his personal space. "Where do your loyalties lie, Winston?"
Winston drew himself up to his full height, summoning decades of authority. "I have served the High Table for over forty years, "
"Under the High Table," the Adjudicator corrected sharply. "You serve under it. Everything exists under it. The Continental, the rules, your position, all of it flows from the High Table's authority." She clasped her hands behind her back. "I know you understand loyalty. But this transgression cannot be overlooked."
She let the silence stretch for three long heartbeats.
"I am here to judge you."
Winston's carefully maintained composure cracked. "What?"
"You have seven days to settle your affairs. At that time, your successor will be named." The Adjudicator's tone was final, absolute. "Rules are the only thing separating us from, "
"Animals," Winston finished quietly. He'd spoken those words himself countless times over the decades.
"Seven days." The Adjudicator turned on her heel and walked toward the exit. After two steps, she paused and glanced back. "If you require assistance during this transition, you'll find me in room 217."
Winston forced the words through clenched teeth. "Enjoy your stay at the Continental."
The Adjudicator held his gaze for a moment longer, then disappeared into the corridor.
Winston stood alone with Santino's corpse, the weight of his situation settling over him like a burial shroud. The High Table was stripping him of everything, his position, his hotel, possibly his life. All because he'd shown John Wick a sliver of mercy.
He couldn't simply accept this fate. He wouldn't.
Fraternity – Conference Room
Smith Doyle spread the intelligence reports across the conference table, studying the network of power that comprised the High Table. Twelve seats. Twelve families. Centuries of accumulated wealth, influence, and violence.
Dismantling them all simultaneously was impossible, even for the Fraternity. These weren't just criminal organizations; they were dynasties that had survived wars, revolutions, and the rise and fall of nations. A direct assault on all twelve would unite them in mutual defense, and the Fraternity's forces, however skilled, couldn't fight the entire underworld at once.
Better to strike surgically. Break them piece by piece. Three targets initially, enough to demonstrate the Fraternity's capability without overextending their resources. The remaining families would panic, turn on each other, scramble to protect themselves. Divide and conquer.
But which three families to target first?
Smith considered the variables: geographic distribution, military strength, symbolic value. The Camorra in Italy had deep roots but were complacent. The Russian Bratva were vicious but disorganized. The Triads,
The conference room door opened.
Smith set down the documents. "Take a seat, John."
John Wick crossed the room and settled into the chair opposite Smith, his posture attentive but relaxed. The recovery had done wonders, he looked like a different man from the blood-soaked wreck who'd arrived yesterday.
"How are the injuries?"
John touched his shoulder experimentally, then his neck. "Completely healed. Not even a scar." He shook his head in mild disbelief. "That wax-bath is extraordinary."
"Good." Smith leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Let's talk about the High Table. To truly destroy it, we need to eliminate the power structures behind the twelve seats, not just the Elders themselves."
John nodded, listening intently.
"Simply assassinating the twelve Elders accomplishes nothing," Smith continued. "Each seat is inherited through bloodline. Kill one Elder, and the family elevates another heir from the main branch. Kill the entire main branch, and they'll draw from branch lines. These dynasties have survived for centuries precisely because they're redundant, layered, and deeply entrenched."
He tapped the documents spread before him. "We have to strangle the organizations behind them. Completely. Root and branch."
The implications weren't lost on John. His expression grew somber. "What do you need me to do?"
Smith slid several photographs across the table. "We've identified eleven of the twelve seats and located their centers of power. But one remains elusive. We know the Elder is based somewhere in the Moroccan desert near Casablanca, but the exact location is hidden."
He met John's eyes. "I need you to find them."
John studied the sparse intelligence on the mystery Elder. "I know of an Elder who operates in that region. But finding them..." He paused, considering. "If I go alone, as a supplicant, I might be granted an audience. But if I bring an army, they'll disappear into the sand. These people have survived this long by being invisible."
"We'll accompany you to Casablanca," Smith said. "But you'll approach the Elder alone. Your task is to locate them and survive long enough for us to act."
John frowned. "It's a desert. How will you find me once I'm out there?"
Smith's smile was enigmatic. "Bring the Dragon Balls with you. They're... trackable. We'll be able to pinpoint your location no matter where you go."
John absorbed this new information with a thoughtful nod. The Dragon Balls just kept revealing new properties.
Smith withdrew another photograph and placed it in front of John. A woman's face, elegant, sharp-eyed, dangerous.
"Sofia Al-Azwar. Senior executive at the Casablanca Continental. Also an old friend of yours, I believe."
John's eyes widened slightly. "Sofia. Yes, we have history."
"She currently possesses a Dragon Ball." Smith watched John's reaction carefully. "That makes her one of your primary objectives in Morocco."
John picked up the photograph, studying Sofia's face with a complex expression, part nostalgia, part calculation. "She owes me. I hold one of her markers." He set the photo down. "Getting the Dragon Ball from her should be... manageable."