Smith stared at his phone after Winston ended the call, his lips curling in contempt. The old man's game was transparent, set the Adjudicator on the Fraternity and buy himself breathing room.
Not that Smith was particularly concerned. The Adjudicator, for all her authority, wouldn't have the spine to declare open war between the High Table and the Fraternity. That decision lived far above her pay grade. Still, precautions were necessary.
He'd already assigned the teams. Cross and the Gunsmith would lead the Paris operation against Gramont, the High Table's appointed Marquis with full executive power., making him a priority target. The Repairman and the Butcher would handle the Camorra in Italy. Smith himself would led a team to Morocco to deal with the desert Elder.
That left Mr. X holding down the headquarters in case someone got ambitious.
Winston arrived at room 217 within minutes of ending his call.
The Adjudicator looked up from her laptop. "Having difficulties already?"
"No difficulties." Winston kept his expression neutral. "But I've discovered where John Wick found sanctuary."
That caught her attention. Her entire purpose in New York was to punish everyone who'd aided the excommunicated assassin.
"Someone dared violate the High Table's edicts?"
Winston let the question hang for a beat before answering. "Smith Doyle."
The Adjudicator's brow furrowed slightly. "Which organization does he represent?"
"He's not affiliated with the High Table. Not a registered Continental member either." Winston paused for effect. "But in New York's underworld, there's a name that inspires particular fear among certain killers. Some call him the Predator Killer."
He watched her reaction carefully. "According to my intelligence, he belongs to the Fraternity."
The Adjudicator's posture shifted almost imperceptibly. Everyone in the High Table's hierarchy knew about the Fraternity, the ancient order that existed parallel to their authority, neither subordinate nor openly hostile. A thousand-year-old organization that had never bent the knee.
"Anything else?"
"Nothing relevant." Winston turned to leave, satisfied that he'd planted the seed.
The Adjudicator watched him go, then pulled out her phone. She was young for her position, she'd never personally dealt with the Fraternity. But she knew enough to understand that this situation required escalation.
She dialed the High Table's Intelligence Division.
"Identity verification: 3C434A21."
A pause. "Verification complete."
"Retrieve everything on Smith Doyle. Complete file."
Within the Intelligence Division's climate-controlled archives, staff moved immediately. A clerk pulled a physical folder, paper records, immune to hacking, and rushed it to the scanning station. Within minutes, the digitized file landed in the Adjudicator's inbox.
She opened her laptop and began reading.
The dossier was comprehensive. Smith Doyle's first appearance at the New York Continental. His refusal to register as an official member. Behavioral analysis. Known associates. Financial transactions. And finally, Winston's formal intelligence report clearly identifying Smith as a Fraternity operative.
The Adjudicator closed the laptop and stared at the wall.
This was beyond her authority. Antagonizing the Fraternity over a single rogue assassin could trigger a war that would consume both organizations. The High Table's Elders needed to make this call.
She composed a detailed report and sent it to headquarters, flagging it as urgent.
The response came within twenty minutes: A messenger will be dispatched to the Fraternity. Continue addressing violations within High Table jurisdiction only.
Winston, currently enjoying a glass of scotch in his office, had no idea that his gambit had been escalated past the Adjudicator entirely.
Rain hammered New York City as the Adjudicator stepped out of a taxi in front of a small sushi restaurant. The neon sign read "Heike Sushi" in both English and Japanese characters.
She entered. The restaurant was empty except for the chef, a lean man in his fifties with the bearing of a soldier and the precision of a surgeon.
Zero looked up from the cutting board. "How may I help you?"
The Adjudicator sat at the counter and placed her gold coin, the one marking her as an Adjudicator, on the immaculate surface.
Zero's expression shifted immediately. He set down his knife and straightened. "I didn't expect the High Table to move this quickly."
"There's been a violation. Someone chose to stand against the High Table's authority."
Zero's eyes narrowed. "John Wick."
"Yes. But not just him." The Adjudicator's tone remained cold and professional. "Everyone who aided him must be held accountable. You've heard the reports, I'm sure. He's killed hundreds in the past week. All over, "
"A dog and a car," Zero finished. His expression was unreadable. "Yes. I understand his motivation completely. In fact, I find it... admirable."
He selected a piece of fugu, pufferfish, from a specialized container and placed it on a pristine white plate. The flesh glistened under the restaurant's lights.
"Fugu. Tetrodotoxin, one of nature's deadliest poisons. Preparation requires absolute precision." He slid the plate toward her. "One mistake, and it's fatal."
The Adjudicator picked up the chopsticks and ate the fugu without hesitation. Her expression didn't change.
Zero bowed deeply, followed by his two apprentices emerging from the kitchen. "I have always served the High Table. I will serve until death."
The Adjudicator collected her coin. "Then gather your students. We have work to do."
Zero and his disciples followed her into the rain.
Fraternity Headquarters
A black Mercedes pulled up to the textile factory just as night fell. A broad-shouldered man in an expensive suit emerged, holding a large umbrella against the downpour.
He approached the entrance and rang the bell.
The viewing slot slid open. Connery's face appeared.
The man presented an envelope. Even through the rain-speckled glass, Connery could see the seal, an ornate emblem that marked official High Table correspondence of the highest order.
Connery's casual demeanor evaporated. He snatched the envelope, closed the slot, and ran.
"Mr. X!" Connery burst into the workshop area. "A messenger from the High Table is here."
Mr. X looked up from the weapon he'd been inspecting. His first thought: Have they discovered our plans?
He took the envelope and examined the seal. Authentic. Whatever this was, it came from the Elders themselves.
"Bring him to the conference room. I'll meet him there."
The messenger followed Connery through the factory with measured steps, his posture military-straight, his gaze fixed forward. Water dripped from his coat onto the concrete floor. They climbed stairs, walked through corridors, and finally stopped outside a heavy wooden door.
Connery pushed it open and stepped aside.
The messenger entered, removed his hat, and bowed formally.
"Mr. X. It is an honor."