CHAPTER 23: THE BODY COUNT
My apartment felt smaller with the Ledger open.
The new function wasn't like Ghost Mode—discrete, controllable, something I could activate and forget. The Ledger was a constant presence now, a stream of information flowing through my consciousness like a second heartbeat. I could tune it out, mostly, but when I focused on it...
[TARASOV SOLDIERS: -12] [BOUNTY HUNTERS: -4] [JOHN WICK: STATUS - ACTIVE] [LAST KNOWN LOCATION: BROOKLYN (2 HOURS AGO)]
Twelve dead. Sixteen total if you counted the bounty hunters. In forty-eight hours, John Wick had carved through Viggo's organization like a hot knife through butter.
I sat on my bed—the same bare mattress I'd woken on a month ago, transmigrated into a stranger's body—and watched the numbers climb.
[TARASOV SOLDIERS: -14] [BOUNTY HUNTERS: -5]
Two more. While I'd been watching. While I'd been counting.
The local news played on my laptop, volume low. A stern-faced anchor discussed "gang violence in Brooklyn." Three dead in an industrial area. Police investigating.
Three? Try fourteen.
The gap between civilian reality and underworld truth had never felt wider. To the regular world, this was just another surge in organized crime violence. Statistics to be compiled, sound bites to be delivered, then forgotten by the next news cycle.
To me—to everyone at the Continental—this was an extinction event. The Tarasov organization, one of the biggest Russian operations in North America, was being systematically dismantled by a single man.
I'd been tracking patterns for six hours when the opportunity emerged.
The Ledger wasn't just a kill counter. It showed money flows, contract movements, the invisible infrastructure that kept the underworld running. And when that infrastructure collapsed, interesting things happened.
[FINANCIAL ANOMALY DETECTED] [TARASOV ACCOUNTS: UNUSUAL ACTIVITY] [SUBJECT: SERGEI VOLKOV - ACCOUNTANT] [STATUS: FLEEING]
Sergei Volkov. Not the same Volkov I'd killed in Brighton Beach—different branch of a common Russian name. This one was a numbers man, not muscle. According to the Ledger, he'd been managing the Tarasov organization's books for eight years.
More importantly, he was running.
[FLIGHT BOOKED: JFK → ZURICH] [DEPARTURE: TOMORROW, 9:45 PM] [ESTIMATED LIQUID ASSETS: $200,000+]
A rat fleeing a sinking ship. And taking a sizable chunk of cheese with him.
The Ledger pulsed with a new notification.
[SIDE CONTRACT AVAILABLE] [TARGET: SERGEI VOLKOV] [DESIGNATION: BRONZE] [REWARD: 150 BLOOD COINS] [ISSUER: [REDACTED]] [NOTE: TARGET FLEEING WITH ORGANIZATION ASSETS. RECOVERY BONUS POSSIBLE.]
Someone wanted Sergei dead before he could disappear. Someone who didn't want to dirty their own hands with a fleeing accountant while John Wick was systematically murdering everyone associated with the organization.
Vulture thinking, I'd called it earlier. But vultures served a purpose. They cleaned up what others left behind.
I accepted the contract.
[SIDE CONTRACT ACCEPTED] [KILL WINDOW: 36 HOURS] [BONUS: ASSET RECOVERY WILL BE REWARDED]
Thirty-six hours. The flight left tomorrow at 9:45 PM. That gave me time to prepare, track Sergei's movements, find the right moment.
JFK. Public space. Thousands of witnesses.
Not ideal. But I'd managed tighter windows with harder targets. Chen's test in Chinatown had taught me the value of controlled chaos—the right moment of privacy in a crowd of people.
I pulled up everything the Ledger knew about Sergei. Home address in Staten Island—risky, too many variables. Office in Midtown—already abandoned, probably crawling with attention from both Wick and whoever was cleaning up the Tarasov mess. Known associates—mostly dead or running.
The airport was the best option. Controlled environment, predictable movements, and Sergei would be focused on escape, not watching for threats.
The bathroom. Every terminal has them. Private, contained, easy cleanup.
I started planning.
The next morning brought more updates.
[TARASOV SOLDIERS: -18] [BOUNTY HUNTERS: -7] [ORGANIZATION INFRASTRUCTURE: COMPROMISED]
John Wick wasn't just killing people. He was destroying capabilities. The Ledger showed safe houses raided, weapons caches eliminated, communication networks disrupted. Methodical. Systematic. Professional.
He's not just hunting Iosef. He's burning everything Viggo built.
I thought about Elena's warning. The fear in her voice. The crack in her composure.
This is what she was afraid of.
A legend coming out of retirement. A man who'd completed the impossible task—killing everyone a Tarasov rival had ever cared about—to earn his freedom. A boogeyman who'd become myth in an organization that dealt in death daily.
And Iosef Tarasov, in his infinite wisdom, had killed his dog.
The Ledger updated Sergei's movements. He'd left his Staten Island home at 6 AM, headed to a storage facility in Queens. Probably gathering whatever liquid assets he'd stashed. Smart play—cash was harder to trace than bank transfers.
I checked my own equipment. Both Glocks clean, loaded, suppressors attached. Extra magazines in the shoulder bag. Ghost Mode ready, though I'd need to be careful about its limitations in a public space.
Four minutes of electronic invisibility. Ten minutes cooldown. More than enough for a bathroom kill.
My phone buzzed. Elena.
Same time Thursday?
I texted back: Wouldn't miss it.
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. Then: Be careful out there.
You too.
The exchange felt almost normal. Thursday drinks with a woman who knew what I did for a living but never asked. Simple. Human. The kind of routine that kept you sane in a world of blood and bullets.
After this contract. After Sergei.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. The subway would get me to JFK in about an hour. Plenty of time to scout the terminal, identify choke points, wait for my target.
The Ledger hummed with updates I didn't need. More dead Tarasov soldiers. More failed bounty hunters. The organization bleeding out while I prepared to profit from its death.
War is profitable.
The thought should have bothered me. It didn't.
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