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overheardatthecontinental · 3 years

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Talk Chapter 10

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Winston didn’t even need to give John a name. The moment he mentioned the bookie, John was off.

John tended to avoid socializing with anyone, let alone other assassins, but he was familiar with Dex’s. Everyone was. The bar was a few blocks away from the Continental and while it was part of the Underworld as much as the hotel, it was not a safe haven. Business could, and often was, conducted at the bar.

John slips in through the back, avoiding the bar floor entirely. Although he doubts its particularly crowded during the midday hours, John is well-aware of the prevalence of alcoholic assassins. He wonders what Helen would have to say about that.

A culture of widely accepted substance abuse. Lack of appropriate and effective coping skills.

He wonders if her voice will always live on in his head, even if he survives the week and successfully disentangles his life from hers. If he’ll grow old, alone, but hearing her in his mind. It might drive him mad but he is far more afraid of the day he stops hearing her.

John cuts through the kitchen to the back office where Oliver, the youngest of the Dexter brothers, collected intelligence and ran odds.

Usually, John stayed out of this part of the Underworld. Gambling had never been one of his vices. Even when his name was involved in the betting pools, he tended to just ignore it and just go about his business.

But this was different.

He doesn’t knock as he walks in through the open door.

Ollie Dexter has never been a true player in the game. His father had been fairly prominent assassin in New York, his mother a pusher for the Walkers crime firm in England. Both had retired when the boys were born but, since there was no getting out of the Underworld, they had chosen, instead, to settle within it.

Thus, Dexter’s was born.

The older boy, William, was decent in a brawl. He dealt more with the front end of the bar, often separating fights between drunk and aggressive assassins before things got out of hand. Ollie, on the other hand, rarely left the back. John was fairly certain the man didn’t have the physical strength to squeeze the life out of anybody, nor the knowledge of how to properly hold a gun.

He was a portly man with a large beer gut that was a direct result of being based inside a bar. He had receding blond hair that he kept oiled back.

While he usually dressed in a track suit, he was stripped down to a white tank top with grease stains when John walks in.

“Betting don’t open ‘til noon.” Ollie says, not looking up from the desk.

John doesn’t move.

“I said, the betting don’t open ‘til—” He looks up and his round face turns stark white. “Ah, fuck,” Ollie swears, jumping to his feet at the sight of the Boogeyman standing in his doorway, “Listen, John, it’s just business. You understand—”

“Give me the spreads.”

“Really didn’t mean anything by it…”

John shakes his head in exasperation. As if he doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than the lowly worm making bets on other’s misfortunes.

“The spreads.” John repeats expectantly.

“Yeah, yeah of course.”

Ollie pushes the papers across his desk, quickly trying to flip through the various sheets. He finds it after nearly a minute of frantic scrambling and tugs it out with shaking hands, passing it over to John.

He scans it, memorizing the names, the odds. Making mental note of organizations that might back them or strong alliances to be wary of.

Many of the names, he doesn’t actually recognize. New comers looking for an easy path to fame and fortune.

It won’t matter, he thinks. John had contacts in nearly every faction under the Table. He had sources who could get information on the highest members of the Underworld and others who could sink into the tiniest, ugliest cracks and listen for whispers.

John thrusts the paper back to Ollie. “You want to keep this pool going? I want daily updates on who’s being favored and who’s pulling ahead.”

Ollie’s eyes go wide, “Uh, yeah. Sure thing, Mister Wick.”

John leaves the office, taking out his phone. The odds were currently favoring an independent contractor called Verdugo.

John was familiar with the assassin even though they ran in different circles. Verdugo tended to migrate between several different cities with Los Zetas connections. Though he was not a member, he worked with the organization more often than not.

It seems that only chance had the assassin in New York when Helen’s contract went wide. Just another stroke of bad luck.

As he walks back down the hall, John types out a quick message to one of his Zetas contacts, asking for the location of Verdugo.

He slips out of the bar without notice but, it appears, he hadn’t been as careful going in. Three assassins are waiting for him in the alley when he steps outside.

John lets out a small sigh as he walks down the two steps.

They’re all young. He can picture Helen in his head calling them just babies. But they were all armed. Two hang back, each with a gun raised in his direction while another stands closer, holding a knife.

“Don’t suppose you want to make this easy for us, old man.” The one in front, their chosen leader, says expectantly.

He feels a twinge of compassion for them that he blames on Helen. They might be killers, he thinks, but they’re still young. He’d never been a good judge of age, but he’d put them all in their twenties. While he didn’t give warnings, as a rule, it prompts him to ask, “You sure this is your best idea?”

“There’s three of us.” The leader says, like it’s obvious.

“I can see that. It won’t make a difference.”

There’s a flash of anger in the leader’s eyes. Already, he’s taking the smack talk personally. He wouldn’t last long in the Underworld, John thinks. Whether by his hand or another’s, the kid doesn’t have what it takes. Not yet, at least. And with impulses like that, likely not every.

“Just tell us where your girlfriend is, and we’ll let you live.”

Bartering was never a good sign. It implied lack of training, which tells John this isn’t a kid from one of the schools. He hasn’t been trained. He’s likely just a street kid, trying to make a name for himself. Maybe a low-level drug pusher, trying to rise up in the ranks of his gang.

John takes a step forward and the kid holds up the knife in front of him. His eyes are wide, like he’s surprised that John isn’t bending to his will just because he has a knife, “Stop moving!”

“You’re holding that wrong.” John tells him.

The kid’s eyes flash towards the knife in his hand and John uses the moment of distraction to throw his palm into the open throat. The kid drops the knife and John catches it, spinning the kid around as he chokes. He grabs the leader by the hair and pulls up, exposing the neck further, and guiding him to stand directly in front of John as a shield.

He gags and John spins the knife, holding the blade just above the neck.

The back-up kid had brought stand in stunned disbelief at the speed that John had managed to disarm and counterattack their leader.

“Guns down.” John says, watching as the boy and the girl look to each other, before lowering the guns. “Kick them over.”

There’s a pause and then they listen. Metal skids loudly across the concrete, echoing in the alley. When the guns pass John, he pushes the leader forward. The kid stumbles towards his friends.

He looks back to John with a glare, rubbing his throat as he turns back around. Before John can offer a warning, the kid charges him, striking forward.

John steps to the side and lets the momentum carry the kid before he kicks out a leg. The leader flies, hitting the ground face-first, landing hard.

John has had road rash before. It stings like a bitch.

The girl screams as she rushes an attack, her movements slightly more controlled but too clinical. She knew the theories but didn’t have the experience. John blocks the first strike, and the second. She brings a leg up to kick him and John catches the ankle in the air, pulling it up and dropping her quick before she can gain any sort of control back.

From the ground, she tries to kick him as her counterpart attempts to dive for the gun nearest to John’s feet. John steps on the outstretched hand, narrowly avoiding the girl’s vicious kicks. She pushes up on the ground and flips to her feet.

John uses the moment to kick the face of kid reaching for the gun, noting the crack and the gush of blood pouring from the nose.

The girl tries to kick again, this time keeping her aim lower, more grounded towards his center of gravity.

From the corner of his eye, he notes that the leader is getting back to his feet, bleeding all on down his cheek.

He turns his attention back towards the girl. Her kick is well-executed, but she forgot the knife in his hand. He uses it to block and she cries out as the dagger embeds itself into the bottom of her foot. John holds onto it as she rips her foot away and turns to throw it at their approaching leader.

It strikes him in the eye-socket. For a moment he stands, in utter shock, pain etched on his face, before he falls to the ground.

The girl, now strongly favoring her good foot holds her ground. While clearly in pain, she doesn’t make a sound.

The male henchman clutches at his nose.

John looks between them, “You want to finish this or would the two of you like to get yourselves to a doctor?”

The girl growls out, “Fuck you—”

“Sasha! Stop.” The boy on the ground spits out blood, “Yu ne moxhet vernut’sya iz smerti!”

You cannot come back from death.

John looks to the girl, easily switching to Russian, “Slushay svoyego druga. Srazis’ v drugoy den.”

Listen to your friend. Fight another day.

She glares at him for a moment, the anger so clear in her gaze. And then it softens as she lets herself stumble back into the wall.

“Blyad!” She curses.

John picks up the gun at his feet, because he is likely going to need it sooner or later.

He leaves them in the alley, along with the body of their dead friend. He hopes that the small act of mercy isn’t in vain.

John wonders, idly, if Helen would be proud of him.

He checks his phone as he leaves the alley, having idly felt it vibrate during the scramble.

The message is from his Los Zetas contact, revealing Verdugo is @ Continental.

Disappointing, John thinks, considering he can’t do shit about that.

He texts back if he leaves, for any reason, let me know.

The second name on the spreadsheet from Ollie listed Kate O’Connell. John knew Kate about as well as anybody. She’d been a hell of a munitions expert in the IRA back in the day. Until she’d been kicked out for being a drunk.

Another assassin fallen victim to substances.

Drunk or not, John thought, she was still brilliant. But she was better at war time ops, blowing up bridges to stop shipments or helping to fake someone’s death with a car bomb.

Unfortunately for Kate, most hits called for a certain level of stealth or concealment. John was fairly certain that Kate was shit at hand-to-hand and lacked the interest to put much time into weapons trainings. She just didn’t care much for anything below an grenade.

But that meant contracts were limited to either very specific requests for explosions, which were rare, or open contracts with no requirements, which were highly sought after.

John had read Helen’s contract. There was no stipulation that her body had to be in one piece.

He feels a wave of nausea at the thought and pushes it down, burying it deep until he can afford to let himself think of such things.

He knew where to find Kate without having to reach out to any of his contacts. She spent her days working at an Irish pub in Hell’s Kitchen. John makes his way back to the Continental by foot, calling for his car as he does so that it’s ready when he arrives.

He drives the rest of the way to the pub, parking far enough away that he won’t have to worry about Kate trying to set his car on fire. Again.

What was it she had said the last time? “Nothing personal, Johnny-boy. Just like to see shiny things go boom.”

The bell dings as he walks into the pub. Kate stands at the bar, chopping up garnishes. She looks up at the soft ding and calls out, “Heya, Johnny.”

He withholds a wince at the nickname as he makes his way to the bar. “Kate.”

Her reddish-brown hair is shaved to about half an inch. She had tried, for years, to grow it out but complained about the smell each and every time it caught on fire. It had only been in the past few years that she had given up and shaved it all.

“What can I get for you?” She asks, as he sits down, setting down the paring knife. John keeps an eye on the tiny blade even as she moves towards the shelves of alcohol.

“You got Blanton’s?”

Kate snorts, “This ain’t the Continental. I got Jamie, Bushmills, and Teeling.”

“Teeling, then.”

Kate grabs the bottle and a glass and pours a out a few fingers. “Don’t suppose you’re here to catch up.” She says, sliding him the drink.

John shakes his head, “Afraid not. I’m here to ask you to drop the Helen Kingston contract.”

Kate leans forward on the counter, “Now why would I do that? Four million is a pretty penny.”

“Self-preservation. You’ll never get close enough to hurt her.”

She regards him thoughtfully, “What’s she to you, then? I don’t buy the girlfriend thing everybody’s been talking ‘bout.”

“Why not?” He asks, genuinely curious.

Kate huffs, “Please. Aside from the fact that you know better, we both know you’re far too broken to ever invite another into your miserable existence. So, who is she?”

Fair enough, John thinks as he sips the subpar whiskey.

He answers with a truth, “She’s my best friend.”

“Hmm.” Kate hums and John can tell that she doesn’t quite believe him, “I don’t know, Johnny. You don’t seem the type to have anything more than casual friends.”

“For a long time, I would have agreed with you,” he admits, “Until I met her.”

The assassin inclines her head and John is now certain that she doesn’t believe, “Uh huh. Where’d you meet, then?”

“A café.”

“Spend a lot of times in café’s, do you, John?”

“On occasion.” He sets the whiskey to the side, “Drop the contract, Kate.”

Now the Irish woman rolls her eyes dramatically, “You—John Wick—are asking me to give up a substantial hit on someone because she’s your best friend?”

“I’m asking you to spare her, so I don’t have to kill you.” John corrects.

“And here I thought we were friends, too.”

“A friend wouldn’t target the woman I love.”

“Ah,” Kate seems to bounce a bit on her feet, “Now we’re getting somewhere. Your best friend or the woman you love?”

John inclines his head, “She’s both.”

“But not your girlfriend.” Kate confirms, “This unrequited, then? Because I imagine it might make it easier to move on from her if she were dead.”

John ignores the remarks, “Are you willing to drop the contract?”

Kate sighs, almost seeming disappointed in his one-track mind, and shakes her head, “No, John. I’m not.”

He nods in understanding, true regret in his voice as he says, “That’s a shame.”

For a moment, neither of them move.

Kate jumps forward, reaching for the knife from earlier. She grabs it just as John snatches his whiskey. John throws the drink up and into her face. Kate releases the knife and it sails past John in her momentary blindness.

John slips from his stool as Kate grabs the bottle of Teeling and angrily smashes it against the counter. Whiskey jumps in all directions as she jumps and slides over the counter with her makeshift weapon. She strikes through the air, slashing with the bottle.

John leans, avoiding it on his right, then again with the left as she attempts to cut him again.

With her free hand, she throws a punch. John blocks it with his forearm, kicking out. He strikes her side with his foot and she stumbles, quickly righting herself.

John rushes forward, slamming his hand into the base of the bottle. It flies from her grip, shattering across the floor.

Kate growls, jumping up and latching an arm around John’s neck in an attempt to choke him.

John grabs her arm before quickly spinning and bending forward before he loses breath, sending her falling to the floor.

She manages to roll back to her feet, prepared to strike out but John catches her head between his hands. With a quick turn, the assassin’s neck snaps.

He releases his grip and she falls to the ground, dead.

John feels a momentary twinge of sadness. He never wanted it to come to this, but that sadness is quickly overtaken with relief.

Kate would never be able to hurt Helen.

Although there were still hundreds of others willing to try. Others he could send a message too.

In the hours before John made his way to the Gilded Rose, he manages to wipe out nearly half the people on Ollie Dexter’s spreads, along with a few others who got in his way. It didn't feel like enough. His skin still itched from the knowledge that all his work hadn't put a dent into the people looking to do her harm.

But he does what he can in the time he has.

When he arrives at the Gilded Rose, there is blood marring the white of his shirt, having soaked through his suit jacket. He makes it a point not to change, even though he has a clean suit in his car.

Although he likely already knew, John wanted DeLuca to be very aware of how he had spent his day.

The host at the establishment looks at John with wide eyes as he comes through the door.

“Mist-mister Wick, sir. Mister DeLuca is expecting you.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“This-this-this way, si-sir.”

John follows the host across the main floor, avoiding stares from other patrons, as he is brought to a private room in the back.

A guard stands on either side of the door. One of them stops him, scanning him with a metal detector and giving a quick pat down for weapons.

When the guard is satisfied, he pushes open the door into the back room.

DeLuca sits alone, a glass of red wine in one hand and a phone in the other. He’s scrolling through some kind of feed that he closes as John walks in, setting the phone face down on the table.

“Mister Wick. Thank you for joining me.”

John doesn’t reply as he takes a seat.

“You are truly a man of few words.”

John gives him a pointed look. He isn’t here to waste time.

“Believe me when I say, I did not want it to come to this. I had hoped to have already resolved the issue by now.” DeLuca sets down his wine and leans forward, “Alas, you had to make things more complicated.”

“You took the woman I love from her bed and held her hostage.” John says, aware of the anger that line his words, “Did you think I would not retaliate?”

“I had hoped you would see fit to fulfill the bargain that we struck.”

“Bargain?” John questions, “You threatened her safety.”

DeLuca waves a hand, “You make it sound like it was personal. None of this is personal, Mister Wick. It’s just business.”

“And you’ll need to remember that it was just business when I tear you limb from limb.”

DeLuca’s nostrils flare and John notes a wave of fear breaking over the mafiaso. “I don’t think I need to remind you that if you kill me, the hit on Miss Kingston remains. And while your attempt to kill anyone taking the contract is admirable, it won’t make a difference. You can’t be everywhere at once.”

John knows this. He knows he can’t keep her safe forever, from everyone. It makes the hate inside of him well all the more with the knowledge that he can’t do anything about it. Not while DeLuca holds the contract that is keeping him in line.

“So, what do you want?” John asks.

“Italy.”

“I can’t give you Italy.” He snarls, stating the obvious.

“But you can give me the Camorra. There are still three days until Lorenzo D’Antonio and his daughter return to Rome. Three days for you to kill the family and dismantle the Camorra.”

There it is. John had expected as much.

John will kill the D’Antonio’s.

After killing a member of the High Table, John will be targeted both by what is left of the Camorra and the Table, itself. And there is no hiding from the High Table, not for long. Not forever.

He’ll be killed for this but Helen… she’ll be safe.

Without his name attached to hers, there would be no reason for her to ever be targeted again. She can go back to her practice and her house and find another person to take that Friday 4pm slot. Someone with less problems, who won’t follow her home like a stray.

Or she could move. Start over someplace new, where she might feel safer after everything that had happened over the week.

He’d set it up with the Executer months ago that Helen would be his beneficiary. She would get his money, his properties. She joked about stealing his books, but they would be hers.

Hell, she could retire if she wanted.

And Marcus, he was certain, would do him the final favor of looking out for her. Checking in every once in a while, to make sure she was safe and happy.

Maybe it was for the best.

Maybe this was how it was supposed to be all along.

“And you’ll drop the contract?”

“I’ll consider it.”

“That’s not good enough!”

“I’m afraid we’re in a precarious situation, Mister Wick. If I drop the contract, you’ll kill me.”

John wanted nothing more than to watch the life drain from DeLuca’s eyes. But he would forgo revenge if it meant keeping Helen alive and safe.

“I’ll give you my word that I won’t.”

“Schematics, in our world. You won’t kill me yourself, but you’ll hire someone else to do the job.”

John knew that would be too easy. And while he hated to go a step further, he wasn’t sure he had another option.

Besides, if the High Table went after him, which they surely would, the marker wouldn’t mean shit anyway. At John’s death, it would be returned to the Continental, written off as an expired marker and melted down to be recycled.

And, if by some miracle John lived, DeLuca would be unable to use the marker. The moment John fulfilled it; he would no longer be bound by the rules and he could kill the bastard.

“I’ll give you a marker. An oath, to you, that I won’t kill or conspire to kill you.”

DeLuca considers it, “A marker from John Wick is worth quite a lot.”

It was true, but John took a bit of pleasure in knowing that DeLuca would never get to use it.

“I’ll accept your offer.”

“I want the contract removed now.” John says quickly.

“The contract will be removed when the D’Antonio’s are dead.” DeLuca argues, shaking his head. “Although I admire your tenacity, you have nothing to barter with save a marker that, we both know, might never be used.”

The Syndicate heir seems to delight in the power he holds and John almost wishes Helen were here to break him down again.

DeLuca hands John a piece of paper. “This is Senor D’Antonio’s itinerary for the next few days. He is staying with his mistress in Manhattan. Gianna, at the Continental. Santino, of course, already lives in New York. I’ll be in touch when all three are dead.”

John folds and pockets the list as he stands, no longer being able to stand being in DeLuca’s presence.

“Oh, and Mister Wick?” John glances back, “Give my regards to Miss Kingston.”

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