CHAPTER 24: AIRPORT INTERCEPT
Terminal 4 at JFK was a maze of exhausted travelers and overpriced coffee.
I'd been here for three hours, watching. The Ledger tracked Sergei's phone—he'd left Queens an hour ago, heading east on the Van Wyck. Traffic was a nightmare, but he'd arrive soon. His flight boarded at 9:15.
Plenty of time.
I sat in a seat near the security checkpoint exit, nursing a coffee that had gone cold hours ago. Just another tired traveler waiting for a delayed connection. Nothing remarkable. Nothing memorable.
The Ledger pulsed with updates I'd learned to filter. John Wick's body count had climbed past twenty. The Tarasov organization was in free fall. Viggo himself had gone to ground somewhere, surrounded by what remained of his security.
None of that matters. Focus on Sergei.
At 7:23 PM, the accountant appeared.
He emerged from security looking exactly like his Ledger profile—mid-forties, receding hairline, the soft body of a man who'd spent decades behind a desk. But his eyes gave him away. Too alert, too jumpy, scanning the terminal like he expected John Wick to materialize from the crowd.
He's scared. Good. Scared people make mistakes.
Sergei dragged an oversized carry-on that bumped against his leg with every step. Heavy. Whatever he'd grabbed from that storage facility in Queens, he was taking it with him to Zurich.
Asset recovery bonus. The Ledger mentioned that.
I let him pass, then stood and followed at a comfortable distance. Just another traveler heading to the gates. Nothing suspicious. Nothing memorable.
Sergei's phone came out every thirty seconds. Checking messages, probably. Tracking the chaos he was fleeing. His pace was quick—almost jogging—despite the awkward carry-on slowing him down.
Nervous. Rushed. Perfect.
Gate 43. Swiss International, Flight 17, departing 9:45 PM for Zurich. Sergei checked in at the counter, presented documents, answered questions with tight, one-word responses. The attendant smiled professionally and waved him through.
I found a seat three rows behind him in the gate area. Settled in. Waited.
The Ledger fed me Sergei's background while I watched. Eight years with the Tarasovs. Managed the legitimate business fronts—restaurants, car washes, the usual money-laundering infrastructure. Smart enough to skim, careful enough not to get caught.
Until now.
Someone noticed. Someone wants their money back. And their pound of flesh.
At 8:47 PM, Sergei stood. Grabbed his carry-on. Headed for the restrooms near Gate 40.
Here we go.
I gave him a thirty-second head start, then followed.
The restroom was nearly empty.
One occupied stall at the far end. Sergei at the urinals, carry-on parked against the wall beside him. The accountant didn't notice me enter—too focused on his phone, still checking for updates on the disaster he was fleeing.
Ghost Mode activated.
The security camera in the corner flickered. Its red light blinked once, twice, then went dark. Four minutes. More than enough.
I crossed the tile floor in three quick strides. The suppressor was already attached, the Glock warm in my hand.
Sergei turned.
His eyes went wide—recognition and terror mingling in the split second before comprehension. He opened his mouth to scream, to beg, to bargain for his life.
The bullet caught him through the left eye.
His body dropped. Phone clattered against the tile. The stall door at the far end remained closed—whoever was in there hadn't heard anything over the bathroom's industrial ventilation.
Clean. Professional. Finished.
[SIDE CONTRACT COMPLETE] [TARGET: SERGEI VOLKOV - ELIMINATED] [REWARD: 150 BLOOD COINS AWARDED] [BONUS: ASSET RECOVERY DETECTED]
I grabbed the carry-on before it could tip. Heavy—heavier than luggage should be. The zipper stuck twice before opening.
Cash. Bundles of it.
My estimate had been conservative. The carry-on held close to eighty thousand dollars in banded hundreds, plus a slim laptop and a flash drive clipped to an inside pocket. Sergei's getaway fund, accumulated over eight years of careful skimming.
Now it's my getaway fund.
I transferred the cash into my shoulder bag, leaving the empty carry-on beside Sergei's body. The laptop was too risky—traceable, potentially locked. But the flash drive was small, anonymous, potentially valuable.
Into my pocket it went.
The bathroom door opened. An elderly man in a rumpled suit shuffled toward the urinals, too focused on his own business to notice the body crumpled behind the partition wall.
I walked past him without breaking stride.
Three minutes on Ghost Mode. Still invisible to cameras. Clean exit.
The terminal swirled with travelers who had no idea what had just happened thirty feet away. Families heading to gates. Business people glaring at laptops. Children running between rows of seats while parents called after them.
Normal. Mundane. Completely unaware.
I glanced at the departure board as I passed. ZURICH - FLIGHT 17 - 9:45 PM - ON TIME.
Sergei won't be making his flight.
The thought brought something that might have been dark humor, if I still allowed myself such things. One month ago, the idea of killing a man in a bathroom and stealing eighty thousand dollars would have seemed like a fever dream. Now it felt like Tuesday.
No. It's Thursday. Elena's waiting.
The realization almost made me laugh. I had a date—if Thursday drinks counted as a date—in less than an hour. And I was standing in an airport terminal with a dead man's money in my bag and a dead man's blood drying on the soles of my shoes.
The absurdity of this life.
Ghost Mode faded as I reached the AirTrain platform. The security cameras resumed their silent surveillance, capturing footage of a man who definitely hadn't been in the terminal when a Russian accountant got his brains blown out in the restroom at Gate 40.
The train arrived. I stepped aboard.
Through the Ledger, I watched the Tarasov body count continue to climb. Twenty-two soldiers now. Eight bounty hunters. John Wick was a force of nature, and the organization that had wronged him was dying piece by piece.
And I'm getting rich on the corpse.
The train rattled toward Jamaica Station. From there, the E to Midtown, then a quick walk to the Continental. Elena would be at the bar. Thursday drinks. Routine.
I adjusted the bag on my shoulder—heavier now by eighty thousand dollars and one dead man's secrets.
The flash drive sat in my pocket, a mystery for later.
First, I needed to wash the blood off my shoes.
The Continental's bathroom had excellent hand soap.
I spent five minutes at the sink, scrubbing leather and rubber until no trace of Sergei remained. The flash drive transferred to my other pocket—safer there, away from prying eyes. The cash stayed in the bag, too bulky to hide but not unusual in a place where gold coins were standard currency.
When I emerged, Elena was at our usual spot. She looked tired but relieved to see me.
"You made it."
"Wouldn't miss it." I claimed the stool beside her. "Busy day?"
"The Continental's been chaos since Tuesday." She signaled the bartender. "Everyone's on edge. The body count keeps climbing."
I know. I've been watching.
"How many now?"
"Depends who's counting." Elena's voice dropped. "The Ledger says twenty-two Tarasov soldiers. Eight bounty hunters. But there are rumors about others—people who crossed Wick's path without meaning to. Collateral damage."
Through my own Ledger, I watched the numbers update again. Twenty-four soldiers now. The night wasn't over.
"It'll get worse before it gets better," I said.
"If it gets better at all." She accepted her vodka from the bartender. "Viggo's thrown everything at Wick. Nothing sticks. The organization's hemorrhaging money and men, and Iosef's still breathing somewhere." A pause. "Not for long, though."
I thought about the flash drive in my pocket. Sergei's insurance policy, probably. Records of transactions, account numbers, the kind of information that could destroy what remained of the Tarasov empire—or be sold to the highest bidder.
Later. Deal with that later.
"Any idea when it ends?"
"When Wick finds Iosef. Maybe when he finds Viggo." Elena's fingers tightened on her glass. "Or when someone manages to put him down, which seems increasingly unlikely."
The bartender poured my whiskey without being asked. Same brand as always. Routine.
I raised my glass to Elena.
"To surviving interesting times."
She almost smiled. "To surviving."
We drank.
The Ledger hummed with distant violence, counting bodies while I sat in comfort.
War was profitable. But the people who started wars rarely benefited.
The people who stayed out of the way? The vultures who cleaned up afterward?
They did just fine.
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