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There were very few places that the Director would call hell on earth, but these Soviet orphanages certainly came close.
Boys and girls of all ages were crammed into dormitories like prisoners into cells. They all had identical shaved heads and vacant eyes. You could always pick the ones who had been there practically since birth, the ones that had been institutionalised. Many rocked back and forward rhythmically, echoing the rocking of their mother’s arms, long gone.
The stench of urine and fear was indescribable.
The Matron (and how ‘matronly’ she was) held a large cane in her gnarled hand as she strode through the halls, a perpetual scowl on her face. The Director wanted to remind her that she was paying good money for the tour, and for taking a few kids off her hands. She wanted to put the Matron in her place, but it would be futile. The Matron was the queen of this castle, such as it was, and she could treat her subjects as she pleased.
The Director had an eye for the children. She liked to think that they usually fell into one of three categories. There were the broken ones, not long for this world; the ones who had fought so hard that they had spent all their energy, except for the energy they would use to hate and destroy; and the ones that she could break herself, and remake in her own image.
Those were the ones she wanted. Too weak, and they were of no use. Too strong, and they would die rather than submit.
This time she saw three boys and one girl who could suit her needs. She pointed at each of them in turn, and the Matron wrote something on a little notepad.
She was on her way out when she saw a skinny little boy giving a slice of salted meat to a sickly girl with a hacking cough. She would die anyway; the Director knew it, the boy knew it, but he gave her enough to live another day in pain.
The boy saw that the Director had noticed. He looked at her levelly, and his eyes burned with untapped strength.
“And that one,” she added to the Matron.
The woman seemed relieved, which should have been the Director’s first warning. It was the first person who’d had a measure of the Belarusian boy’s character, and she was afraid of him. A boy of eight, without an ounce of meat on his bones.
The Director was not cowed. She was looking forward to breaking his will.
Her recruits lined up in the front hall, all malnourished and filthy. Physicality mattered less to the Director than the other recruiters. She knew that you could shape and twist the body to your desire, but fighting spirit was harder to teach.
She turned to the Matron. “No one to miss them?” she asked, knowing the answer. Some of them would be actual orphans, the rest were called ‘social orphans’. Surrendered or abandoned by their parents, but in no way part of a family.
The Matron shook her head. “All yours.”
The money exchanged hands, and the Matron's eyes glinted with greed. She didn’t spare a glance for the children as she returned to her office and slammed the door behind her.
With five lice-ridden children in tow, the Director and the Choreographer returned to their hired van.
The children climbed into the back without prompting. None of them looked back at their old ‘home’ of concrete and misery. Perhaps some of them still had parents, and a forlorn hope that the state would return them to their families. More likely their families were political collateral of the Soviet regime. One day they would appear in a snowdrift with a bullet through the skull, and no one would ask any questions. Hypothermia strikes again. They should have been more careful.
The van soon arrived at the local airstrip, where their small plane was already fuelling up. The Choreographer exchanged cigarettes and tokens with the controller while the Director got down to business.
She threw open the doors of the van. Five ghosts stared out, not directly at her, but slight off-centre. Sensible prey didn’t provoke the predator, if at all possible. To stand out was to be a target.
“Do any of you have a name?” she sneered.
They were silent until the girl piped up, “My mother called me Vanya.”
“That is the last time that word will come from your lips,” The Director spat. “You will be given appropriate names when you have earned them. You have been chosen to serve a greater cause. The Ruska Roma is your tribe now.”
No one responded, and no tears fell.
“Come,” she said. “We have a long journey, by air and by sea. We must use the opportunity to burn away your past.”
*
The container ship that arrived in New York two weeks later had no passengers listed on its manifest, but a car was waiting for them to disembark.
The children already looked taller, although perhaps they had just stopped slouching to avoid attention. Their institutional rags had been burned, and their hair was growing back in patches.
Four children remained after the gruelling journey. What happened to the fifth, after a short meeting with the Director, was not a matter for discussion. It was not even a matter to think about, if they wished to remain ignorant.
They pretended not to be astonished by the lights of the city stretching out before them as they walked down the gangplank. America, country of the rich capitalist, land of opportunity. The East River moved sluggishly beneath their feet.
The car had blacked out windows. The children were unable to get their bearings before they arrived at the Tarkovsky Theatre. At the loading dock, the teachers waited to assess their new students.
The Director left the children there without a word, and went to her office to listen to the ‘induction’ from afar. The Theatre had such wonderful acoustics.
The boy with the burning eyes took every beating without crying out.
His silence infuriated the man who called himself Coach Yuri. He went purple and spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed in Russian, “You are nothing! Less than nothing! You are reborn today as a worm! Here you will learn subjugation!”
The boy barely understood his dialect, so different from the one he had known in his town in Belarus.
The boy had been thrashed before, of course. His father had been the first of many to brutalise his pale skin; bosses, policemen, soldiers, caretakers. He was unsurprised that America also brought violence.
The worst beating he recalled had been by the police. They’d used their belts and rope, which left burns that lasted for weeks. He had been beaten for three days until he confessed to what they wanted: the killing of his own father.
He wished he had done it. In the end all he’d done was stand silently by as the stranger stabbed his father’s body, over and over again, long after he had stopped moving.
Once the boy was shipped off to the institution, he didn’t utter a word for many months. This was not unusual for the orphanage. Selective mutism was a common side effect of trauma, and there was plenty of that to go around. The nurses preferred the quiet ones, especially when they could have been screamers, so they were largely left alone.
When the severe-looking rich woman had stepped into their world, he didn’t know what she wanted. He didn’t pretend to himself that it would be better when she whisked him away. Just… different.
He was certainly right about that.
The Tarkovsky Theatre created and trained the next generation of violent offenders. Men were to become thugs and spies, women intended to become seductresses and mules.
Wrestling. Weaponry. Anatomy and weakness. Languages. Espionage and politics. The art of persuasion and seduction. They were honed and warped into the mercenaries of the underworld, with the promise of a half-decent life for their servitude.
The boy with the burning eyes soaked up every lesson like his life depended on it. Given the fate of some of his classmates, his life actually did. It was a common occurrence to wake up to his ‘brothers’ hanging from the rafters with their faces swollen and purple.
It was dangerous to perform badly, but also to excel. At the top of the class, one made many enemies. You could end up cornered in a bathroom covered in blood, or have your arm ‘accidentally’ snapped during a training bout.
The boy with the burning eyes did not let his guard down. He did not make allies. He was respectful but not grovelling to his tutors and the elder students.
They all hated him, because they all envied him. Every skill was picked up with ease. He never cried out in the night, as even the strongest of them did.
What was his weakness, everyone wondered? What would bring down the rising star?
When the boy was ten years old, he was gifted a name.
Coach Yuri gave him his name after coming across a scene one night. There were very few rules in the Theatre, allowing violence to spread and bad blood to fester. Nowhere was safe.
The defeated student lay on the floor, gasping from broken rib in his lung. Dmitri was four years older than the boy, which would usually mean they would never cross paths. However, Dmitri challenged him to a fight after he supposedly caught the boy alone with one of the dancers he’d had his eye on. Whether or not the allegation was true, the boy accepted the challenge and laid waste.
The arena was eerily quiet, despite all of the assembled students bearing witness to the violence.
The boy with the burning eyes carefully spat out his blood into a nearby bucket, knowing that spitting it on the floor would earn a beating and cleaning duty. He winced as he felt a tooth coming loose, but said nothing.
Coach Yuri looked down at his favoured student, a teenager of such rage and strength that he had snapped the neck of his own compatriot for stealing his shoes at the age of twelve. Then he looked at the wiry boy standing over him, quietly awaiting the judgement of the Coach.
“You remind me of the great Jardani Jovonavich. Do you know who that is, boy?”
He shook his head.
“The man who taught me all I know. They called him the full-metal man. Could take punches all day and never tire. A great fighter.”
The boy stood, hands clasped behind his back, and smiled. His teeth were coated in blood.
Coach Yuri sighed. “Dmitri, clean up this shit and go to the infirmary. Jardani, hit the showers.”
From that day forward, the boy with the burning eyes answered to Jardani.
Jardani had been secretly meeting with one of the dancers, but not in the way that Dmitri assumed. Men like him couldn’t imagine being friends with a woman without wanting something more.
The girl who was once called Vanya, but had been given the name Georgia, was probably Jardani’s only friend. They didn’t have to compete with each other like they did in their segregated groups. They could compare bruises and stories, and share contraband candy bars in the hidden high places of the theatre.
Jardani realised he was different, but Vanya tried to put a label to his character. Vanya called him hungry one, not because of his appetite, but because of how much he wanted to take from life. Never full, always looking towards the next challenge. He was like a shark: if he stopped moving, he would die.
“That’s not true,” Jardani murmured. “Our biology teacher said it wasn’t true.”
“About the shark, maybe. But I believe it is true of you.”
When Vanya smiled, Jardani would smile back on reflex. Sometimes he would even feel the emotions behind it.
Vanya once told him about her home life, the one they had been told to forget. It was dangerous to mention; if any of their tutors heard her, or if Jardani sold her out, it would bring a lot of pain.
Vanya trusted him with her truth, with her past. It sounded like a dream; two loving parents, a beautiful home, always enough to eat and many toys to play with. But they had chosen to tell the wrong story, crossed the wrong people, and it had all quickly been stripped away.
Jardani shrugged and replied that he didn’t remember much about his childhood. Vanya knew he was lying, but let him stay silent.
If Jardani was to tell the truth, he would say that his father was a cruel and vicious man. He was an army major in the pocket of the powerful and connected. He was the kind of man who would have locked up Vanya’s parents, if their paths had ever crossed. He had guns hidden behind paintings and alcohol laced with poison for any unwelcome visitors.
He had murdered his way to the top, only to have it all come to nothing in a single night. He was killed when Jardani was seven years old.
Jardani didn’t know if it was politically motivated, personal, or a random attack. His father had plenty of enemies both at work and in his personal life, as he was an unpleasant sort of person. The stranger hadn’t looked like a professional hitman; he had been dishevelled, deranged. He opportunistically used one of their own kitchen knives to kill Jardani’s father.
Initially Jardani had been woken up by the sound of his father cursing and moaning. He assumed that his father had brought home a woman, until he heard another man speaking.
He was frozen in fear for a long time before rising, making his way down the hallway, and standing in the halo of yellow light spilling out of his father’s room.
There was blood everywhere. If Jardani hadn’t known that the sheets had started off white, he would have assumed they were meant to be red.
A stranger was sitting astride his father, and Jardani noted that he hadn’t even taken his boots off. There was mud on the sheets where he had stood.
The man kept stabbing, like an automaton, muttering to himself as he carved into flesh.
He spun around when Jardani made a sound, just a little intake of breath.
He launched off the bed and grasped Jardani’s shirt in his fist, his face fixed in a feral grin.
“You want to die too, boy?”
Jardani shook his head, and carefully didn’t look at the man’s face, or the knife still in his hand.
“Did you see anything tonight?”
He shook his head again, and could hear his pulse beating frantically.
“You be good and shut your mouth, boy,” the man sneered. “Or I’ll send the bogeyman to come and steal you away.”
Jardani believed him. If there was anyone who knew the Bogeyman, it would be this wild man, already half monster.
The stranger looked at the knife as though considering whether to take it with him, shrugged, and lodged it in the dead man’s eye socket with one final lunge.
Jardani didn't flinch.
He turned and strode out of the room, and had the door to the apartment ajar before Jardani plucked up the courage to say something.
“Excuse me,” Jardani said quietly.
The man rounded on him, but saw that the boy was just holding out the fur hat he’d left on the kitchen table, still wet from the melting snow.
He barked out a laugh as he took the hat. “You’ll go far, you little monster.”
When Jardani’s father didn’t show up for work in the morning, his assistant came to their apartment to check on him. He found Jardani sitting at the kitchen table with dried blood on his shirt and a bowl of burnt porridge for breakfast.
Jardani truly tried his best to stay under the radar. Once he was a teenager, barely fourteen, he found himself taking bigger risks. Sometimes it paid off, but sometimes it cost him dearly.
On one such occasion, he decided to defend a younger kid against the bullies taking his rations. He lashed out and punched one of the teachers who came to ostensibly break it up, but was actually encouraging the 'lesson' of destroying weakness. He was brought into the Director's parlour, the first time he had been allowed into the inner sanctum. He knew then that he’d screwed up.
She looked at his steadily, her flint eyes drilling into him. “Why did you step in, malchik?”
“I don't like them,” he said. “They pick on people who are weaker than them. I wanted them to feel pain.”
“And do you feel better now?”
He nodded.
“What about your tutor?”
He paused.
The Director stood up. “Let me tell you what has happened, Jardani. You have made yourself vulnerable. You have made enemies amongst your class. You may have made one friend, but he will resent you for stepping in. He will become baggage. And your coach? He will make your life a living hell. And I will not stop him.”
The boy looked down at his bloodied hands.
“Justice will only serve you for so long. This thrill you feel, this thirst for revenge, it will blind you to the wider picture. You could have made a more valuable ally, but instead, you have taken the fall.”
The boy was silent.
“A week in the bunker, malchik. Some time to reflect upon what you did, and what I have said.”
His heart started thudding, and he opened his mouth to ask for a reduced punishment, but closed it without making a sound. Begging at this point would be undignified. Nevertheless, he was ashamed to see that he had started trembling.
The Director waved her hand at her guard, and he grabbed the boy by the upper arm, hard enough to leave a bruise in a ring around his bicep.
He dragged him through the warren of subterranean corridors, as curious onlookers followed behind in waves, murmuring about Jardani’s actions that had led to this. He kept his chin up, and tried not to stumble over his feet as they went down, down. Past the janitorial rooms, the generators, the vaults.
“You can scream all you like, boy. But we're not coming to get you until the Director says so.”
The guard swung open the only door that remained, a large metal door with rust stains dripping down like spilling blood.
A black gulf yawned behind it, and the boy was unceremoniously shoved inside.
The last thing he saw before the door slammed shut was the crowd of little faces behind the guard, all wide-eyed and unsympathetic, thankful that it wasn't them.
He lost time very quickly. All he could hear was his own panicked breath, echoed back in the small chamber. He carefully felt it out, aware that if there was a drop to the centre of the earth below, he wouldn't know until his foot met the air. The room was only a few feet across, and barely tall enough for him to stand straight. The walls and roof were rough, hewn directly from the rock, and the floor was poured concrete. It was incredibly cold.
He was occasionally scared out of his skin by the arrival of rations in a deep dish, cold and congealed from the long walk from the kitchens. A hatch in the door opened, the tray was shoved in, and he was left alone again. Once he'd eaten everything, trying to pace himself but also fighting off incredible hunger, he would use the bucket for waste.
After a while of this the ammonia stench brought him right back to the orphanage. He imagined he could hear the other children crying out, banging their heads against the bars of their beds, coughing with paper lungs and bloodied lips.
He shrunk in on himself, trying to conserve body heat as well as avoiding the grabbing claws of the monsters that surrounded him in his half-dreaming imaginations.
He was ashamed to admit that he cried. He screamed. He railed against the actions that had brought him to that place, the people who he hated. Most of all, he blamed himself. His own weakness, just as the Director had said. What good had it done?
When the week was over, the boy's eyes were burning a little less. He was more calculated, more careful about where he stepped, and who he crossed.
The Director saw the change in him, how his heart had hardened, and approved.
Only a few weeks later, the bullied boy was found hanged. It seemed improbable, that he would be able to secure his position alone and unaided, but it was not talked of.
The boy with the burning eyes turned away, just like the rest of them. It wasn't his business, and it had freed him from any obligation.
Graduation. It held a different place in the Theatre than it did in the schools and colleges across America.
You received your tattoo, your first allowance, and an assignment. Some gangs considered the tattoo a fading trend, given how easily it could be used to identify the members of the group; but the Theatre had no such fears. If they knew you were part of the Ruska Roma, it would be on their head to cross you. Besides, the police were all in the Director's pocket.
The real purpose of the tattoo was so you could not escape. You were branded, and anyone you came across would know who your soul belonged to. You could not defect. You could not run and hide. You were marked.
Most of the young blood at the Tarkovsky Theatre went out on protection detail as their first few missions. Standing around shipping containers, warehouses, nightclubs, casinos. A chance to prove that they had a presence, they could observe the world around them and react to threats.
By the time they were allowed to do this, none of them even thought about running away. They’d all heard about the ones who thought they’d gotten away once they’d seen Lady Liberty shining in the distance. She was a liar, a fickle bitch. Freedom was not meant for the men of the Ruska Roma.
The Director promised each and every one of them a living wage, accommodation, and enough alcohol to numb the pain (when off duty). All she wanted in return was absolute loyalty. From most of them, she received it.
Occasionally other factions in New York would request the services of her best and brightest. Those chosen few were the rock stars of the Theatre world. It took a long time for Jardani to be considered one of them. Excellence inside the Theatre’s walls didn’t necessarily mean you could survive outside of them, but he gradually proved that he could be the monster that everyone needed him to be.
Fifteen years after arriving in New York City, almost to the day, Jardani killed three men in a bar with a pencil.
It hadn't been part of the plan when he woke up that morning. He was on loan from the Ruska Roma to the Tarasov crime family to protect one of their bars, or more specifically, the illegal casino in the backroom. He was to sit at the bar, scope people out, and make sure no one was there looking for trouble.
The bartender poured him shots of water and smirked as the hired hand pretended to get drunk. He didn't have so much as a pocketknife to defend himself if something went wrong. If the bar was raided by the cops, he needed to be clean. The real arsenal was hidden away. The higher-ranking members of the guild were in the back, checking for weapons and those with bad intentions.
The bar was raucous, after a local team had won some kind of football match. Jardani blocked out the sound of the grainy television entirely so he could eavesdrop on the patrons. Most of them were blissfully unaware of the dealings in the backroom and adjoining buildings. Not only a casino, but a money laundering scheme. Not only a strip club, but a way station for human trafficking. Peddlers of misery rubbed elbows with the drunken patrons.
He ordered another shot of water.
Business closed for the day at around 4am. Abram Tarasov had gone home with some floozy and his brother Viggo was left in charge of the tally. He sat in the front room with four of his associates, sharing a bottle of gin and griping about being left with the menial task. The actual menial task of counting the winnings was being performed by his own men in the back room, but having to stay and supervise was humiliating enough for a man like Viggo.
Viggo and Abram had a fractious relationship, but both of them knew better than to stand against each other. Their father, Igor Tarasov, would never allow infighting. Both of the brothers could have a role in his empire, if they played their cards right.
Jardani hadn't moved from his post, despite the other guild members telling him to take it easy. Until the money was moved, and the bar was empty, they were meant to be on duty.
He was glad he'd stayed at his post when three men in motorcycle helmets and heavy tactical armour burst through the front door, demanding the till and money from the safe.
Jardani was instantly curious about the robbers. They probably had no idea who they were stealing from, and they held their guns like they were water pistols. There was a slight problem that he had no weaponry to use against them, but he'd faced worse odds.
Viggo and his men were on their feet, hands raised, hatred coursing through them. How dare these men come into our house, and demand money from our people?
But then one of them shouted orders in a thick Polish accent, and Viggo's eyes narrowed. The local gang had been making lots of noise, and now it seemed like they were trying to take things to the next level. Taking on the Russian mafia... very bold.
The intruders didn't pay attention to the drunk slumped at the bar until it was too late. He slowly reached across the counter and took a pencil from the bookie's station. It would do. His orders were to be non-lethal until otherwise informed.
In a blur, Jardani attacked. They fought back, savage and desperate, but Jardani was familiar with their desperation, and far better trained at combat. He jammed the pencil behind the trigger of the seemingly most competent robber, before taking out his kneecap with a well-placed kick. He fell screaming to the ground, and Jardani held onto the man's weapon. The other man grabbed him from behind, around the neck, and Jardani retrieved the pencil to stab through the hand. He let go with a bellow of agony, and Jardani was already turning to stab the man in the flesh of his neck where the armour did not cover him. It was a superficial wound, but enough to send him off balance. The last one tried in vain to fight Jardani hand-to-hand, but didn't have the speed or the strength to match him. He slammed his head on the bar and slid to the ground, dazed.
The one with the broken knee struggled to rise, and Jardani knocked the wind out of him with an elbow drop before prising off his helmet. He ripped off the balaclava underneath with a chunk of his hair. The murmurs on the other side of the room told him that Viggo and his men recognised the intruder.
He looked to Viggo for the kill order, and received a short nod.
He plunged the pencil into the man's eye socket, and waited for him to stop jerking convulsively before moving on to dispatch the other two. The one with the neck puncture was easy enough to take care of, simply ensuring that the next stab went through his artery and his spinal cord. The third one was sobbing for mercy, so he made it quick with a swift neck break.
He wiped his hands on the third man's jacket, and remembered distantly how his father had been stabbed through the eye with a knife. He'd been left bloodied that day too. But this time, he had wielded the weapon.
By now the other operatives in the back room had come forward to see what all the commotion was about, but found themselves on clean-up duty as Jardani sat back down at the bar.
The bartender looked at the young assassin, and poured him a large bourbon from the top shelf with a trembling hand.
*
Abram Tarasov was swift to take his revenge on the Polish group, but only after hearing about the attempted robbery from his brother. He'd never seen his little brother so shaken by violence. They’d both seen a lot of it, but there was something different about this mercenary and his tactics.
“That new kid from the Ruska Roma, Jardani. He killed three men with a fucking pencil, right in front of my eyes,” Viggo said to Abram. “I want him either dead or on the payroll.”
“The Director won't let the little fish go. You know that, Viggo. She wants to control them for as long as possible. Take one of the others.”
“With a pencil, brother!”
“I heard you,” Abram snapped. “Let it go, Viggo. We will watch him.”
*
Jardani received a cash bonus and a note of thanks from Igor Tarasov, along with a bottle of very expensive vodka. Jardani didn't particularly drink, so he traded it with the guard at the front of the house to let him walk the streets that night after curfew. The breeze was warm, and he spent a very peaceful evening walking the cracked pavement of the city. He watched the ordinary people passing by, and let himself dream of a different path.
Jardani slipped into the theatre's rafters to watch the ballet from above, behind the incredibly hot lights that shone down on the stage. From here he could see the precision of the choreography, the way that the lines of women rippled and intertwined. He kept an eye on Vanya, who he knew had been suffering a torn tendon, but was determined to perform. The crystals on her dress sparkled as she spun, faster and faster, and she never missed a step.
Jardani was glad. Those who could no longer dance and sell tickets for the Theatre found themselves being sold for other things.
The audience gave a standing ovation, especially to the female soloist, who seemed to dance and walk a foot above the ground. Petra, she was called. The favourite of the Director. She might even be a candidate for the New York Ballet Company. If she made it there, the Director would make it very clear who had given her this chance. She would ask Petra to parade on the arms of the rich and powerful, listen for secrets, be open to opportunities.
If she refused, her dancing days would be swiftly over. Probably her walking days, too.
Mood darkening, Jardani climbed down from the rigging and landed silently on some prop crates.
One of Dmitri's crew was waiting for him in the inky darkness of the backstage, never one to let go of a grudge. Dmitri had also been vying for a position with the Tarasov’s, and Jardani had plucked the opportunity out from under him with his stunt. Elimination would be the best option.
Two bullets penetrated his abdomen before Jardani could roll out of the line of fire, the slow plink of the silenced pistol barely making a noise in the bustle of back-stage.
He charged the shooter and the rest of the shots went wide. The commotion made by their hand-to-hand combat soon attracted enough attention that the staff broke it up, and Jardani limped his way to the infirmary holding his guts in and cursing up a storm.
*
The next day, Dmitri's triggerman and his associate entered into the infirmary alongside him. The Director had new rules for her valuable graduates: no in-fighting. If you damage the merchandise, we will take it out in equal measure.
The sullen silence from his would-be assassins across the room was almost worth eating out of a straw for three weeks.
*
He didn't know that Vanya had been shot until he was discharged.
It had seemed odd that she didn't visit, but he also understood the politics of not choosing sides.
He had to overhear it from one of the students that “Georgia” had been shot through the chest by one of the stray bullets, and bled out alone behind the curtain. It had been her best, and last, performance on that stage.
Vanya, Jardani wanted to say. Her name was Vanya.
There was no funeral. Jardani used a precious afternoon away from his duties to walk down to the waterfront, and pray to gods he didn't believe in for Vanya to be well received. She had died from a bullet intended for him, so he thought she at least deserved his prayers.
He knew now why the Director was so dismissive of love. It wasn't useful to the likes of Jardani. It hurt more than the bullet wounds still healing on his stomach.
He returned to the room he shared with three other graduates, where two of the guys paused in their workout to stare at Jardani. He went to his bed, laid down on top of the rough sheets, and tried not to wince at the phantom pain in his chest. Show no weakness. Shed no tears.
Once he was healed, the missions came in thick and fast. Protect this person, eliminate this person, scare this person into silence. Jardani became used to using his cover identities, so much so that he started speaking in a more American manner. He tried to recall the dialect of his childhood, and it slipped through his mind like water through a sieve. It hadn’t been useful to remember his accent, so he had discarded it like anything else from before his time in New York.
One mission in particular heralded a new future for Jardani Jovonovich.
There were reports of an Irish faction taking children for ransom, before absconding with the money and the child. The key was to target criminals, so they wouldn't be tempted to go to the police. It had already netted them millions, but then they got greedy. This time, the kidnapping ring took the daughter of one of Tarasov's men.
It largely did not concern the denizens of the Theatre; they were forbidden from having children, after all. But they were quickly hired by the Tarasov’s as a retrieval force. The Director sent her militia onto the streets to find her, and any other child who may be in the hands of the gang. A blanket kill order was in effect. Witnesses put the car heading west, so west they went. Some boroughs were ruled out because of who controlled the territory, others for being impractical.
Jardani wandered the streets and followed his instincts, and could almost feel the human misery emanating from a nearby chop shop. Not a bad place to keep and transport kids; you could bolt them into the skeleton of the car on one end and take them out on the other without any border patrols noticing. Only the main stations at the Canadian and Mexican borders had sniffer dogs.
The chop shop was a sprawling place, noisy with the sounds of mechanics doing their work, but it didn't hide the tension in every man's demeanour. The security system was also extremely high-tech for this neighbourhood, which often indicated something lurking behind the scenes. He went in under the pretext of getting some modifications done to his car, and when the customer service man turned to look at his stock list, Jardani knocked him out and hid him under a tarpaulin.
He had already gotten a visual on the layout of the warehouse, and the most likely location for a hidden chamber. He followed his whispering intuition to the back office, through a hidden door, and into a dingy windowless cell. He recognised it from the ransom demand videos they’d been shown to prepare for the mission.
Two girls huddled in the corner. He put a finger to his lips, but one of the girls started screaming.
Shit.
The door slammed open. “If you don't shut up, you little bitch--”
The threat was cut off when the woman realised there was someone lying in wait for her.
“Hey!”
Jardani didn't waste time. He saw the fear in the girls' eyes, the cruelty in the woman's face. She was at least partially responsible for what happened here.
He subdued her quickly, closed the door behind her, and decided to use his knife. No point wasting ammunition.
“Don't look,” he told the two children calmly. He held the knife to her throat, and started asking questions.
With a little prompting, she gave him all the information he would need to bust the operation wide open. She had been hoping for mercy. He told her that he could not let her go, and she became hysterical.
“Who are you?” the woman screamed. “Why are you doing this?”
Jardani looked at the children in the corner, sobbing and cowering, and smiled without mirth.
Jardani's eyes looked pure black. “I’m Baba Yaga,” he hissed, and slit her throat.
He walked the kids out around the spreading pool of blood, and they were soon back with their parents, scared shitless but alive.
It didn't take long for word of the Bogeyman's exploits to spread all the way to the High Table. Igor Tarasov took keen interest in this shadow that had again served their clan with distinction, and conferred with Viggo about his past assignments with them. But he wasn't the only one to notice the emergence of this talented monster.
The Director called Jardani into her office not too long after that. There was a stranger sitting by the fireplace, with a heavily lined face and a halo of dark hair. He introduced himself as Winston.
Jardani had heard of the Continental, of course. The hub of all the things New York's underbelly had to offer. He was interested in why the Manager was here, but pretended ignorance.
“You have not been discreet with your deeds, Jardani. You have grown so much. The High Table has requested that you take a more... freelance role within the organisation.”
Jardani raised an eyebrow.
“Always so reserved,” The Director told the Manager like Jardani wasn't there. “Our Jardani is the last to call himself a prodigy.”
Winston leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “So far all I've heard are stories of his prodigious nature. I'm yet to see it for myself.”
The Director scoffed at his scepticism, but let it slide.
Winston continued, his narrowed eyes glinting in the low light of the room. “Jardani is so... provincial. Do you mind if I call you John? Jonathan?”
“Either is fine.”
“I'm guessing that Jardani is not your real name, any more than baba yaga.”
He looked away. He now regretted using that term, as it had spread beyond his control.
“Of course you may call him whatever suits the High Table,” the Director said dismissively. “If you were looking for an American native, Jardani... John... could certainly play the part.”
Winston grunted. “Let's draw up the membership and see what happens, shall we?”
They settled upon one of his American identities, Jonathan Wick. Derived from Jardani, he became John. Derived from Jovonovich, -vich became Wick.
John Wick. He liked it. The part of the candle that keeps the flame burning.
He sealed his membership contract with a bloody thumbprint. He repeated after Winston: I will serve, I will be of service.
He didn’t even consider rejecting the offer. He didn’t realise that he’d had a choice. But in that room, on that day, he signed his life over to the High Table.
He was to meet with a new contact tomorrow to discuss his new role. Marcus Rudd, someone Jardani hadn’t heard anything about. He supposed that was either a mark of success or failure in this line of work. There wasn’t much use in being a famous assassin.
Winston left with the contract, informing John that the services of the Continental were at his disposal. He left three gold coins as the initial wage.
When the Director was alone with Jardani, she gave him the last piece of advice she gave to so many of her recruits.
“It is not a long or glamorous life you have ahead. But it is a busy one. It is for a higher purpose. And who knows, maybe one day, there will be no one left to kill.”
She opened a cupboard behind her and reverently retrieved a silver and gold crucifix.
“The Ruska Roma have raised you, honed you into the man you are today. You have fulfilled your obligations to the tribe, and now, you may ask something in return. Present this ticket to me, only once, and I will grant a favour. Anything you desire. However, you may not like what happens next.”
Jardani looked at the heavy metal cross in his palm. A favour, granted through blood and sweat, through loss and emptiness. A single favour, for a life. He'd heard of the branding that would follow, and wondered what he could possibly need from the Director to be so desperate. He hoped he would never need to get his ticket torn.
“You are now on your own, Jardani. The Theatre is no place for you. Pack up your things.”
He nodded in silent thanks as she dismissed him. He didn't have many 'things' to pack up, just clothing and toiletries. A book or two. The fewer things you had to lose, the fewer things could be taken from you. He packed a rucksack in his room, and hesitated with his hand over an ivory hair slide, one of Vanya's. He gave it to one of the newer ballerinas on the way out. Where he was going, there was no room for sentimentality.
*
Coach Yuri and the other ‘teachers’ of the Theatre didn’t live on-site, largely to protect them from any vengeful students. One of the front-of-house staff gave Jardani a tip on nearby apartment complex that didn’t ask for references, as long as you paid up front and didn’t ask about fire codes.
He went to the landlord with a deposit in cash, and was wordlessly shown up a rickety staircase to a bare room.
He hadn’t slept alone for many years. Perhaps since he was a child, before his father’s murder. He had a low tolerance for changes in noise and airflow. It usually meant someone was going out to use the bathroom, but on occasion, it was someone creeping in.
Lying on a coat on the dusty wooden floor of his new apartment, he didn’t sleep a wink.
In the morning, he met with Marcus Rudd on a park bench in a nearby reserve.
Marcus barely looked at him as he approached, but John guessed he wasn’t going to be catching the man by surprise.
“So you must be John Wick. Take a seat.”
“Nice view.” Jardani—now John— said. It overlooked the Bridge and the paddle boats going past.
Marcus grunted. “Yeah, not bad. You ever been to Cali?”
John looked at him. California? It might as well be on the moon.
Marcus snorted. “Lighten up, will ya? I know all you Eastern Bloc kids haven’t been more than ten miles out of your zone.”
John said nothing.
“I hear you’re tough as nails, kid,” he said. “You’ll need to be.”
Marcus stood up and stretched. John caught the outline of a pistol under his coat.
“Let me show you the ropes.”
*
John's head was spinning as Marcus took him around the city. He was told where to go for doctors, tailors, weapons, information, poisons, vehicles, even body modification.
“A tracking chip in your target's neck might come in handy, if they're the jet-setting type,” Marcus explained. “Even if you're on protective detail. Always know where they are.”
“Do operatives get them done as well?” John asked.
Marcus looked at his oddly. “Who would come for you, John? Better get used to the idea that you're on your own. If you get yourself kidnapped, no one's going to care, except the people you owe debts.”
They had greasy hot dogs from a cart near Central Park. John had never indulged in one before, and he didn't really see the appeal, but he finished it.
“Finally, the jewel in the crown,” Marcus said. “The Continental. You ever been?”
John shook his head.
“Well, we won't be going inside today. You want to give a bit more of an impression the first time.” He looked at John's cheap suit critically. “Use the tailor, then go introduce yourself to Charon at the front desk. He's new, but promising to be a thousand times better than the old concierge. Used to charge an arm and a leg for getting blood on the upholstery. Who does she think her clientele are, for fuck's sake? If you're not always bleeding from somewhere, you're on vacation.”
John almost smiled. Marcus was the kind of guy who could joke about anything.
“One more thing. The Continental's rules are more than just 'rules'. It's not about etiquette or preferences. They're divine laws. If they're broken, you will be executed. Do you understand? Don't play games with them. There is no leniency.”
John nodded.
“Alright, kid. See you on Thursday, same time and same place.”
“Thanks, Marcus.”
He grunted. “Don't thank me. It might be my job to orient you, but it's your job to make sure you survive.”
The gruff man stalked away.
John spent the rest of the afternoon ordering furniture to be delivered to his first apartment and stocking up on first aid supplies. Priorities.
Between jobs, John Wick started to get a better sense of the city he’d lived in for most of his life. He’d never been to the Empire State, or the World Trade Centre, or Times Square. He wasn’t trying to be a tourist, but he wanted to be familiar with every street and back alley. It would surely come in use if he had to make a quick entry or exit.
He found himself drawn to the parks most of all. Central Park was great, but he also frequented the smaller ones near his new living quarters. He hesitated to call it his ‘home’. In the parks he practiced his people-watching. He noted those who were packing heat, dealing drugs, or otherwise planning nefarious things. It was surprising just how many people were here for those reasons. If someone yelled ‘you’re under arrest’ in the middle of the crowd, they would abruptly be killed and left alone on the ground.
Apart from the usual suspects, John started noticing the same woman coming to the park on New Dock Street, around the same time as him. Mid-twenties, slender, classic features. She usually wore jeans and a leather jacket, but when it got colder, she started wearing a puffy jacket with a green woollen scarf. She had a massive camera and tripod set up, directed at the setting sun through the struts of the Brooklyn Bridge.
She stayed for about half an hour, constantly moving and resetting the camera, taking notes on a piece of paper, and going back to her rucksack for different lenses. Her wavy hair would be whipped up by the wind, until she caved and put it in a messy bun.
After all that she would pause, hold her breath, and take one volley of photos.
She'd then quietly pack up all her equipment, get a cup of coffee from the vendor over the way, and sit on the embankment to watch the dying of the light.
John didn't mean to stare at her. He was constantly aware of everyone in the park, any possible dangers. But there was something about her simple routine that he was drawn to. Why take a photo of the same place every day? It couldn't be for a time-lapse, as she often moved the tripod and the angle of the shot. What kind of sunset was she looking for? The butter yellow of the summer, the soothing blues and greens of the cloudy day? When would she stop?
Through her eyes, John started looking at the sunsets. After a while he became annoyed if a job took him away from this spot at sunset, worried that he'd be missing something spectacular. Something that only the woman could tell him about.
*
There was a week where she didn't show up at all. John tried to tell himself that he wasn't worried, but in his line of work, people who broke patterns tended to end up at the bottom of the bay.
Sitting on his bench every evening until his legs were numb, it started feeling like he was waiting for her to appear, instead of being a place of peace and solitude. He kicked himself for making an attachment, no matter how small, that could send him off-kilter. His tutors had warned him of this. It was the fastest way to make a mistake and get killed.
He considered not coming the next night, but after stewing alone in his apartment, he relented and practically ran to the foreshore. He didn't expect the rush of relief he felt when he turned up late, and she was packing up her equipment, looking entirely normal.
He ordered a coffee from the cart, and when she started walking over, impulsively made it two coffees. The vendor raised an eyebrow, but poured out a second cup.
John paid in cash and waited for the woman to draw near. She noticed him with a polite nod, which turned into slight confusion as he held out the steaming paper cup.
“It's on me.”
“Thanks,” she said automatically. She took the cup and her fingers brushed against the thick leather gloves he'd taken to wearing.
“I thought you'd given up,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Getting the perfect sunset.” He waved vaguely at the sky.
She laughed. “There is no perfect sunset.”
“So why keep coming back?”
She smiled, and from this close he could see that her eyes crinkled in the corners. “To get them all.”
The answer was so unexpected that he was struck silent.
“Helen,” she said, holding out her free hand.
“John,” he replied. He shook her hand firmly, now wishing he didn't have his gloves on at all.
“So what's your excuse? You're here just as often as I am,” she said.
He felt a slight thrill that he'd been noticed, but didn't show any outward sign. “You see the docklands over there?” He pointed.
She nodded.
He took a deep breath, unsure why he was telling this stranger even a grain of truth. “I arrived in America on that pier with nothing but the clothes on my back. Actually, even those were on loan. I need to remind myself of... how far I've come.”
“When was that? You don't have an accent,” she said.
“Twenty years ago, now. I was eight.”
“Where from?”
“The USSR.”
“A long way to come. And your parents?”
His hesitation was enough of an answer.
“I'm sorry, that was incredibly rude. I don't mean to pry,” she said hurriedly.
He looked across the bay again. “No, not at all. It's just... I don't even think about what life would have been like, if I'd had them for longer than I did.”
“Not looking back. That's a good philosophy,” she said. “Want to go for a walk?”
To his surprise, they walked and talked for over two hours. Their coffee went cold, but neither of them noticed, as they were so focused on their conversation. John told her that he worked in private security. Helen was an event photographer for a local conference and event space, but she was hoping to go freelance soon. Her favourite subjects to capture were children and nature. The first because you never knew what you were going to get, the second because she never knew how it was going to make her feel.
She asked John if he'd ever seen Annie Leibovitz's exhibition at the gallery. He admitted that he'd never been to any exhibition, although he'd lived in New York for most of his life.
“That's a travesty,” she said teasingly. “Tell you what, rather than coming here tomorrow night, why not try the gallery? It's open late, so you can probably go after work.”
It took a moment for John to realise what she was proposing, and to respond to it without seeming overly eager. “I would need a guide. I know nothing about art.”
“You don't need to be told about art to experience it. But if you insist,” she laughed, “I can introduce you to the great masters. We go way back.”
They came to the main entrance to the park, and Helen pointed left. “That's my heading.”
John pointed right. “Here we part ways.”
“Good night, John,” she said. “It was lovely meeting you.”
“Likewise,” he said, and she gave a little wave as she walked away, soon getting lost in the crowd.
He walked back to his apartment and chastised himself for hours. What the fuck was he thinking? Talking to her, opening up to her, agreeing to another meeting? He was a dangerous man, and besides, she was surely just being polite.
He took a long shower, and avoided looking at his back tattoo in the mirror's reflection. He didn't need to be reminded of who owned his life.
He took out his frustration on the dartboard (throwing his knives, of course) until the neighbour banged on their wall to get him to stop.
Despite every fibre of his being telling him that he shouldn't go to the art gallery, his feet led him there just after seven PM. He had a Beretta holstered on his hip and a double pass to the opera in his breast pocket, courtesy of a very grateful client.
Fuck, this was a bad idea.
He stood on the forecourt for a while, building up the courage to go inside. How strange it was, that he could take on a dozen armed men with his bare fists, but he was afraid of what might be a date.
Helen soon appeared, radiant as ever, in a long red coat. Her waved hair bounced as she walked, almost defying the rules of gravity. His mouth went dry just looking at her, like a teenager greeting his date on prom. Stupid, stupid.
“John, so glad you could make it!” Helen exclaimed.
“I wouldn't miss it,” he murmured. “Thank you for inviting me.”
He held out his arm, and she took it with a warm smile. She had a darker shade of lipstick on today, he noted vaguely.
They walked inside and checked their coats. Helen flashed a membership card at the counter. She insisted on paying for John as well, as payment for the coffee.
“Also you might hate the exhibition, so in the end you won't be out of pocket,” she said cheekily.
“I couldn't hate something you obviously enjoy so much,” he said smoothly. All those years of etiquette and seduction training was starting to come back, except this time, he meant it.
Her cheeks were tinged pink, either from the warmth of the room or from his comment. She took his arm again. John tried to avert his eyes from the very fetching knee-length dress she was wearing, which was by no means plunging, but showed the light freckling on the skin across her collarbones.
He could feel Marcus’ eye-roll from here.
They slowly circled around the large airy spaces, and Helen's voice was hushed with reverence as she explained some of the context around the pieces. They were in their own little bubble, the other visitors just out of reach, as they absorbed the bright palettes of the Impressionists and the grainy quality of the realists.
John pointed to one of the photographs, with the credit 'Helen Levitt'. “That's not yours, is it?”
She laughed, and the sound soared in the space. “I wish. Give me ten years, a whole lotta luck, and maybe three wishes from a genie.”
“You don’t need a genie,” he countered. “You'll be there, one day.”
She stopped and looked at him, suddenly solemn. “You really believe that,” she said softly. “Thank you.”
He didn't know what to say, as her hazel eyes met his, and he fell deep into them like a trance.
It was broken by the loudspeaker announcing that the gallery would close in ten minutes.
“Would you like to have a drink with me?” John asked, his voice low.
Helen nodded, and they made their way back out to the cloakroom. The concierge smirked at the couple on a date.
“Know any good places?” Helen asked.
John named a few upmarket bars nearby, but she shook her head. “Too much. Too yuppie.”
He was secretly relieved. He suggested Antoni's, an old-school Italian bistro with a beer garden, and she accepted. The place was half-empty, especially given the cold outside, but they drew close to the woodfired pizza oven and pretended not to stare at each other in the flickering orange glow.
Once they had selected a wine to share, John had the courage to take out the tickets.
“What's that?” Helen asked lightly.
“My hope that this evening is going well,” he said. “I came across these seats to La Traviata. I've never been, and I'm sure liking art is not a prerequisite for liking opera, but...”
“Shush, John. I'm sold. Look, box seats! How on earth...”
“A thankful client,” he said. “Are you free?”
“I'd cancel my own mother's funeral to go!” she exclaimed. Her face fell. “Shit. I'm sorry, it's... just an expression. A bad one.”
John leaned forward and stopped her with a hand gently laid on her delicate wrist. “I'm not offended, you didn't mean anything by it.”
She turned her hand over, and her fingers ghosted over his palm before interlocking with his. His heart stopped.
“Is there a dress code?” she asked softly.
He couldn't look away from their hands as he replied, “I'm sure whatever you have is perfect.”
John had been patched up by the Doc, but still barely made it home without collapsing. Blood loss was a bitch. At least he'd ended up better than the Triad guys. Their team was probably still scraping them off the pavement.
It was half an hour to curtain up when John dragged himself into the shower, washing away the blood and sweat as best he could. He wrapped his torso in bandages. He managed to twist himself into his best suit, complete with bowtie, and run a comb through his hair. It was almost past his ears, now. He'd have to get it cut soon, otherwise it could be a handhold in a fight.
Rapidly running out of time, he collapsed in a taxi and breathed deeply until they pulled up in front of the theatre (thankfully, not The Tarkovsky Theatre or one of its affiliates).
Helen was standing in the foyer, an absolute dream in navy silk and gold heels. He almost couldn’t believe she was there for him. He apologised for being late, citing work.
“John, I was afraid you wouldn't make it,” she greeted. “Nice suit.”
“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself,” he said breathlessly. The bells rang for final entry, and they made their way to the box, where another couple politely nodded from their side.
Showing Helen to her plush chair first with an exaggerated flourish, John managed to exchange a small smile with her before the lights dimmed.
John wished he could be taken away by the spectacle before him, and if Helen's gasps were any indication, she was immersed. It was beautiful, and tragic. The music soared like nothing he’d ever heard before. It resonated through his bones, communicating all of the yearning and passion that he’d been unable to express.
Her hand reached out to grasp his, and she whispered, “Your hands are cold.”
Blood loss, he wanted to say. My body is going into shock.
“They're warmer now,” he murmured instead, squeezing her hand slightly.
“Charmer,” she murmured.
As the first act closed to thunderous applause, John joined in with slightly less enthusiasm. He could feel blood seeping through the back of his white dress shirt, and prayed that it wasn't obvious on the jacket. The cut had been long and shallow, but he hadn't been able to get it seen to immediately, hence the blood loss. It wasn't deep enough for stitches, so combat glue was the go. Stung like a bitch, and apparently didn’t hold up very well. Maybe the shower hadn’t been a great idea.
When the lights came up, Helen frowned at him. “Are you well, John? You look a bit pale.”
He wanted to lie. He wanted to stay here, watch La Traviata, hear more about Helen's life, have a perfect date.
“Injury at work. Might have hit me harder than I realised,” he admitted through clenched teeth.
“Should we call a doctor?” she asked, immediately alarmed.
“No, no. Just... I'll go home. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have...”
“Don't be ridiculous, you look like you could keel over. You can't go home alone in this state.”
Through the haze, he felt anxiety at the thought of having her with him. “No need, really. Enjoy the show, I'll just get some rest.”
“I won't be able to enjoy it, with you gone,” she said seriously. “Come on, John. Let’s get you standing.”
He groaned as he got to his feet, swaying slightly. Helen took his arm as more of a support than a courtesy.
“So, what kind of injury? Working in private security, I don't even want to speculate,” she asked as they slowly descended the carpeted stairs.
“Do you want the official answer or the real answer?”
“Let's try official first.”
“Officially, I was on detail for a banker about to turn state witness on some corruption allegations. Some of his colleagues didn't want that to happen, so they sent someone to... persuade him otherwise. Punches were thrown, guns were drawn…”
“Okay, and... real answer?”
“Once we're outside.”
He asked the valet to flag down a cab, and kept in the back of his mind that he might be getting in alone. It depended on what Helen did after this announcement.
“Real answer, this banker was also up to his neck in debt to the Triad, who didn't take his betrayal very kindly on top of that. Ninjas.”
She blinked in surprise. “Ninjas?”
“With katanas. Very sharp katanas.”
The cab pulled up, and John folded himself into the back with a hiss.
Helen hesitated for only a moment before going in after him. He breathed a little easier.
He gave his address to the driver, and asked, “Should we drop you off first?”
She sent him a withering glare. “If you think all this talk of ninjas scares me, John, you're sorely mistaken.”
“Worth a shot,” he sighed. The cab pulled out into traffic, and he was lulled by the warm blast of the heater and the soft Indian music playing on the driver’s radio.
“Stay with me, John,” Helen said. “I can't exactly carry you.”
He forced himself back to full alertness. “Not how you expected this evening to go, huh?”
“Well, I am going home with a handsome man. It's not entirely hopeless just yet.”
He tried to chuckle, but the movement turned into a strangled groan.
They pulled up outside his building, an ugly brick monstrosity near to the subway. Thankfully the elevator was working, so he didn't have to struggle up the stairs to his fifth-floor apartment.
“It's not much,” he warned. He was suddenly keenly aware of how glamorous she looked, and felt entirely inadequate.
“I'm a starving artist, John. It has four walls and a roof, I presume? It's already better than a lot of places I've lived.”
He struggled with his keys until she took pity on his trembling hands to open it for him.
He collapsed on the couch, breathing deeply.
“Make yourself at home. There are drinks in the fridge, glasses above the sink.”
Helen smiled and took off her shoes to walk around the lounge room of the apartment bare foot. “Not bad, considering. You're certainly a bachelor, but at least you're neat.”
“Hard to be messy when you don't have much.”
“You’d be surprised.”
He acknowledged that as he took off his tux jacket, wincing as it pulled on the wound.
“Do you always carry a gun?”
His pulse quickened. “Why do you ask?”
“You're wearing one tonight, I noticed. I was wondering if you expected trouble or if that's normal.”
“For me, it's normal.”
“Good. I hoped we wouldn't see another Abraham Lincoln situation.”
“I wasn’t planning on it. If it makes you feel better, I can lock it in the safe.” Along with the rest of his guns, knives, and explosives.
She considered his offer seriously before shaking her head. “I trust you.”
She padded into the kitchen to get a drink. John was left stunned. Why on earth would anyone trust him?
There was a single photo on the wall that he'd put up since their trip to the art gallery. It wasn't in a frame, just stuck to the panel next to the front door. Helen went in closer to inspect it.
“This is a lovely shot,” she said.
John turned to look, although it was etched on his mind. A single ballerina, bowing to someone off-camera, her tutu flounced out, her powerful muscles laid bare by the shadows on her calves and shoulders. The caption said Ballerina at Tarkovsky.
“Vanya. She was a friend of mine growing up. Died not too long ago. Didn't even know that a photo had been taken, until I came across it in an old magazine.”
“I'm sorry,” Helen said softly. “She has a very beautiful form, and that's only in a still image.”
“She loved it. The ballet,” John said. And she genuinely had. It wasn't just an occupation forced upon her. When she danced, she transcended. She escaped, for an hour at a time.
“How did you know her?”
John considered telling Helen everything: from their concrete hell in Belarus to her violent death only feet away from him. He settled for a lesser truth.
“My martial arts studio shared a space with her dance troupe,” he replied. “We were both outcasts, of a sort.”
“I'm glad you found each other,” she murmured, still staring at the picture. She shook herself.
“What about we get the heating on, and take a look at you?”
John told Helen how to work the thermostat, and it groaned into life. He asked her to get the first aid kit from his bathroom and reluctantly unbuttoned his dress shirt. He had to crane his neck to see the wound.
“You're not squeamish, are you?” He asked dryly when she returned.
“I guess we'll see,” she replied, taking a seat next to him. “We'll have two people fainting if I am.”
He pulled back the fabric of the bandage, and hissed as the glue stuck a little bit.
“You weren't kidding,” Helen breathed shakily. “Katana, indeed.”
“I had a doctor patch me up,” he said defensively.
“And then you went out to a night at the opera. I'm guessing that wasn't in his discharge orders.”
John snorted. As if the Doctor would try to give him orders. “I'll need some antiseptic, just in case.”
As he tended to it and padded his wound back up, Helen started looking more and more serious.
“What's on your mind?” he asked finally.
“It's just... don't take this personally.”
“Oh boy,” he muttered.
“The fight, along with your job, and your life, and your past... not to mention the tattoo I think I just glimpsed up there.”
He sat completely still and impassive.
“Something tells me that 'private security' is a bit of a euphemism.”
He let that sit between them for a moment. “You should have gone home,” he said in a low voice. “It’s not safe. I shouldn't have been... weak.”
He could see the exact moment that she made her decision. He saw the trust shatter in her beautiful eyes.
“John. I know that whatever you do, it doesn't define you. I've really enjoyed our time together. But whatever you're a part of... I don't think I can comprehend.”
She grasped his hand in hers, and he let her feel the callouses. The evidence of his many, many crimes.
“I think it's best that you go,” he replied, every word being drawn out of him like it was torture. “I've also enjoyed being with you, Helen. I'll never...”
He couldn't finish his thought, not without something entirely inappropriate coming out.
Helen leaned in to hug him close, and he let his head drop on her shoulder. He breathed in the cool, calming scent of her.
“Goodbye, John,” she whispered into his ear. “You have not been weak. If you ever need me…”
Their foreheads touched, just for a moment, and John closed his eyes against the temptation to cave in and kiss her.
She caressed his cheek, and he pressed into her hand, touch starved and desperate in ways he couldn't vocalise.
She pulled away and stood up, leaving him colder than before. She slipped her shoes on and pulled her coat close.
“Helen.”
“Yes, John?”
“Stay safe, please. I want to see your work, one day.”
She smiled through the outbreak of tears. “I will.”
She slipped out of the apartment like a ghost, and John was alone.
He threw himself into his work with all of his pent-up grief and frustration. He was colder, harder, more focused. The body count skyrocketed, and the nickname he'd given himself off-hand so long ago now brought fear into the hearts of the men who opposed the High Table.
Baba Yaga.
Sometimes he wanted to laugh at the irony. The man who murdered his father had said the Bogeyman would come for him if he was bad. That was certainly true. The boy that day had been killed by the man he became.
His gold coins piled up. He developed a system of caches and safe houses around the city. He forged working relationships with the high-quality suppliers he visited, more notably the insane physician who insisted on being called, simply, ‘Doc’.
Sometimes he'd work closely with Marcus or one of the other operatives, to combine their skills into an elite team. He never went along to any post-job parties or visits to clubs, and eventually people stopped asking.
He knew what they started to say about him. He's a cold man, that Baba Yaga. He would slit a man's throat for stiffing a tip. He shoots first and never asks questions later.
He didn’t mind the reputation. It made things easier.
He didn't go back to the Brooklyn Bridge, or any vantage point over the East River. He didn't want to run into Helen, knowing that he wasn't strong enough to stay away if he saw her again. Maybe she was with another man. He wasn't sure if that would make his pain worse because it wasn't him, or better because she had found happiness.
Who was she kidding, anyway? Collecting sunsets. Childish.
John collected coins, scalps, skills, and scars.
There was one moment of weakness, almost two years after that painful goodbye. He saw a coffee table book in the window of a bookstore, and although he hadn't learned Helen's last name, he immediately recognised her work made manifest on the cover.
He held out for three agonising weeks before buying it. The tiny portrait of the artist on the back of the dust jacket was almost grainy, indistinct, compared to the rest of the high-resolution photos in the book. As if she wasn't the most beautiful thing of all. As if people shouldn’t buy a book just to see her radiance on every page.
He rationed out the pictures, letting the emotions of each one sit bitterly on the back of his tongue, letting it influence how he saw his world of violence and terror. A picture of a weatherboard townhouse, haunting and gnarled, compared to the run-down crack house he went to for information. The glossy green leaves of a sun-drenched fern at the botanic gardens, compared to the grow house crop. The laughing face of an old man at the beach, compared to the frozen death mask of an elderly mafioso under his smoking gun.
It stung, but it was better than letting the wound heal. He needed to be reminded.
His first overseas assignments came soon, as he proved himself capable. Firstly with Marcus or a new associate like Cassius, and then solo. He brushed up on his languages and locations of Continental service providers on the plane. His first stop was always to the weapons merchant. In Rome, he was also known as the Sommelier. In Casablanca, the Spice Merchant. In Sydney, the Butcher.
The name Baba Yaga followed him, or at least, it was whispered in his wake. Very few people could now claim to have had The Bogeyman’s gun trained on them, and lived to tell the tale.
He had his first proper vacation after a particularly tiring job in Indonesia, stopping off on some remote island to sit back and do nothing. It turned out that he wasn't really any good at that, and besides, the local tourists kept raving about the world-renowned sunsets.
John told them he'd seen it before.
His next call from the High Table sent him to Morocco. He’d been there a few times, but never for long.
“You are to work with our local contact, a Sofia Al-Azwár. She has been tracking this group for some time.”
John agreed, as he knew better than to argue over the mission parameters. He hated working with others, but sometimes it was necessary. He hadn't heard of Sofia Al-Azwár, and his information only dug up that she was ex-military.
When his plane touched down, an operative took him to the Moroccan Continental in an armoured SUV. The courtyard was in full swing as per usual, and the operative seemed keen to show him all of the rare delights they had to entertain their guests, but he asked for somewhere more discreet to recover from the journey.
“Certainly, Mr Wick. The Baraka Lounge is yours, Mr Wick.”
He was shown into a more subdued bar and lounge area, where only a few other guests were lounging and smoking some hookahs. John sat in the corner and ordered the minty 'atai' tea he enjoyed.
“You need to get out of New York more often, Mr Wick. You stick out like a dove in a cockfight.”
“You must be Sofia,” he replied, his tone as dry as the desert. The woman who had taken a seat opposite him was strikingly beautiful, in a dangerous sort of way. She knew that she drew the attention of men and women alike, and had weaponised it. She was also glaring at him with so much vitriol that he wondered if she wanted to do business on company grounds, let the rules be damned.
“Pleasure,” she spat.
He looked at her steadily. “I'm sensing that you resent the support that has been provided to you.”
“Very perceptive. Maybe you are more than a trigger-happy city boy.”
“I also work best alone. Perhaps we can come to some sort of arrangement.”
“You want to get back on the plane? You just got here, but maybe it's not your kind of town.”
“I meant, we could divide and conquer. So to speak.”
Sofia rolled her eyes. “Sure, John. You wouldn't survive a day out here. This is my home ground.”
“And yet the smugglers are getting away with your city's gold and treasures. Are you just incompetent, or are you turning a blind eye for a kickback?”
She stared at John for a moment before she burst out laughing. “A cup so I may join my compatriot and his atai,” she called, and a waiter complied quickly.
“Alright, John. What about I give you the benefit of the doubt, and we see what we can do? It's not every day the Bogeyman walks into your territory. Might as well make the most of it.”
He toasted in her direction before finishing the dregs of his cup.
“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” John quipped.
“I can and will use my knives on you if you quote that fucking movie ever again.”
*
Surprisingly, it was the beginning of a friendship (of sorts), but John wouldn't call it beautiful. There was a lot of bloodshed, screaming and fighting, but after a while it was like working with a beloved but entirely infuriating sibling.
Sofia could really be an asshole when it suited her. She enjoyed leaving John stranded in the sprawling slums of Casablanca with a squad of angry mercenaries on his tail, and waiting for him to shake them loose. She was also partial to poisoning his food (outside of the Continental, of course) and seeing if he would notice. Usually it was only with ghost chillies, but sometimes she'd slip something else in there just to see if he could remember the bitter taste and the matching antidote. She would then stand back and watch him haggle with the drug merchant while he sweated pints.
John gave as good as he got. Sofia would reach for a coin only to find her pockets empty except for a pissed off desert scorpion. He was always first to the transport, and made her run for the passenger seat cursing up a storm. Her knives, after spending an entire night sharpening and honing them to perfection, would miraculously become blunt and dirtied after a moment alone with John. Never enough to put the mission in any danger, of course. But it was aggravating.
Sofia's local knowledge came in handy more than once, as much as John wouldn't admit it out loud. She had an innate sense of when people were loyal or double crossing them, and exactly what bribe to offer when the going got tough. She was a demon with any weapon, and would fight with every ounce of her strength. Anyone who underestimated her, for her gender or her size, was soon too dead to regret it.
Sofia also appreciated his meticulous approach to planning operations, nothing ever left up to chance. She knew that he'd earned his moniker, and every ounce of respect that came with it. He wasn't afraid to fight dirty, or crawl through sewers, or torture people for information. She'd been afraid that this American cowboy would be all bark and no bite. Americans tended to have an ego bigger than their brain. She was glad to be proven wrong.
As tempting as it was to mix business with pleasure, John had no particular desire to take Sofia to bed. He was relieved when she laid down that ground rule, even though she'd phrased it... differently... after she invited him to her suite for a nightcap.
“Anything you use to touch me will be detached from your body before you can say 'mute crippled eunuch'.”
“Thank you for clarifying. I'm spoken for, in case you were wondering,” John responded without thinking.
It was almost terrifying how quickly she became the overexcited gossip. “John, you've been holding out on me! Tell me everything.”
Some fairly embarrassing begging ensued, and only when Sofia offered to take the midnight shift on their next stake-out did he relent.
“Her name is Helen,” he began, and their story spilled out before he could reconsider the wisdom of trusting Sofia. This wasn't only his life on the line, it was Helen's.
Sofia stood by the billowing curtains of the balcony, silhouetted against the moonlight, as she was gripped by an unfamiliar feeling: envy.
“You have something special there, John,” she said when he had finished speaking. “It's not meant for people like you and me.”
“I know.”
She returned to her seat, and looked at the hardened assassin, who had tears standing in his eyes as he thought of his distant Helen.
“Well, in for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered. “I have a daughter.”
John stared at her. “How?”
“The usual way,” she responded deadpan.
“I mean...”
“I know what you mean. But not everyone was raised in a Russian dojo, John. Some of us stumbled into this life with baggage. Mine was a long military career and a fling with a colonel who had me discharged as soon as he discovered my condition.”
“Where is she now?”
“With her grandmother. I try to see her every other month, even for a weekend. It's... difficult. But there's no way I'm putting her in danger.”
“What's her name?”
Sofia hadn't allowed herself to speak her daughter's name in a long time, but there it was, ready to be breathed out into the world. “Aifa.”
John smiled. “Gift from Allah, huh?”
“She changed my life. And I want to be there for her, come what may.”
They slept that night on the divan, barely touching each other, but close enough to reassure each other through the darkest hours that they were not alone.
*
When he left Casablanca and returned to New York, he thought that the pain of losing Helen was a little less sharp. Talking it over with a friend had actually helped. Who knew?
His next task left him feeling uneasy. A lot of opportunities had opened up in the former Soviet states after the fall of the Berlin Wall, but so far, he'd managed to stay well away from the carnage.
This assignment put him in the middle of it.
John Wick was a man without a past. Jardani was a boy without a past. But before that, he was a boy from Belarus who saluted the portrait of their President in school and believed in the power of Communism to unite the world.
He had a clean Canadian passport made in Paris before taking the final flight to Minsk. He landed on his native soil and got directions to the hotel that the concierge in Paris had recommended, in the centre of town and right near the target's work sites. It was not a Continental, of course, but it was similarly discreet.
His target was a construction magnate who refused to pay kickbacks like he did in the old days, someone who thought that the influx of capitalism meant he was suddenly above everyone else who stamped his papers and approved his works. His death was to serve as an example: you toe the line, or you suffer the consequences. They would usually hire locally, but all the Belarussian assassins were afraid of the repercussions. John was there to make an example: if the High Table wanted you dead, no matter how big or small, you would meet your end.
John had only been to Minsk twice: once when his father was receiving a medal of valour, and once on a compulsory school trip to see the centre of local government. The buildings were as imposing as they'd seemed when he was a seven-year-old boy, tugging at the stiff collar of his best suit as the military vehicle drove them through the city.
After checking into the hotel, he went to the Bolshoi Opera to make himself known to the local Ruska Roma. A murmured request to the old woman at the box office was enough to have him shown into the bowels of the theatre, where marble and velvet gave way to dingy corridors and plywood sets.
The smell of vinyl sheeting, talcum powder and sweat in the backstage areas was enough to flash him back to his own youth. The contact at the Bolshoi gave him an odd look as he lapsed into his old Belarusian dialect, mirroring the locals, but he said nothing.
He made it very clear that he was to be left undisturbed while he carried out his task. Dropping the Director's name once or twice was usually enough to have any man quaking in his boots; add to that the reputation of the Baba Yaga, and no one would dare touch him.
The contact asked if he'd like to stay for the rehearsal, and he accepted. He was curious as to how they compared to the ballets of his childhood. He sat several rows behind the choreographer, who was cursing and taking notes at a furious pace.
The opening refrain began, and John wanted to burst out laughing. La Traviata, indeed. The ballet dancers did a wonderful job expressing the pain and euphoria of the opera, even with the stops and starts of interruptions from the crew and directors.
He left at intermission, just like he had last time. He didn't need to see the second act to know it would end in tragedy.
*
He lined up the shot from the scaffolding high above the target’s position, wiping away the fog of his breath from the scope of the sniper rifle.
The pattern of the task calmed him as he loaded, aimed, adjusted, looked at wind and distance, checked the target for body armour or guards with a death wish.
The man was gesturing wildly as he argued with the on-site manager over some blueprints. John would need to be sure before taking the shot.
He was always sure, and he always got his man. He may not be as renowned as Marcus at the long-distance shots, but he could hold his own.
He held his breath, waited for the opportunity to present itself, and fired smoothly, prepared for the kickback on his shoulder.
One through the chest, a chaser through the head (no hard hat, quite a hazard on a building site for more reasons than the obvious). He dropped, and John tracked his crumpled body carefully. The surrounding men scattered like a frightened school of fish.
The wounds were definitely fatal. It was time for extraction.
He packed up the rifle neatly, taking extra care that the hot barrel wouldn’t burn him. He didn’t bother to remove the evidence of his sniper’s nest; they would know where he shot, but nothing more. He vanished into the derelict building, keeping to the shadows, always vigilant for potential dangers.
In the end, it was a job well done. He had overestimated how long it would take to get certain intel, so there were two more days scheduled in Minsk. He was tempted to move his flights to that evening, and perhaps allow himself a few days of freedom in New York before anyone expected him home.
But there was something else he wanted to do here. Something that had been on his mind ever since he’d been given the assignment. An opportunity.
He returned to the hotel and gave the sniper rifle back to the armourer, with his compliments. He acquired a car, a mid-range sedan that hopefully would go largely unnoticed. He had to buy some paper roadmaps before setting off, and the highways quickly turned to single lane ribbons of tarmac as he drove away from the city.
Miles and miles of empty cropland stretched around him before the occasional street sign pointed to his destination.
Baranovichi.
Nothing about it was familiar as he drove through the outskirts. He wound his way aimlessly through the cityscape, noting the western influences already taking root amongst the populace. He heard blasts of rock music as he went past groups of kids, and glimpsed the occasional poster advertising a Hollywood movie.
When he found the old orphanage, an involuntary shiver went up his spine.
It was unchanged from the outside, but John could see that it was no longer the institution of his youth. The dumping ground beside it had been turned into a car park for the apartments that had been installed inside the concrete shell.
Baran Heights Apartments, the sign read. The bold red Cyrillic script almost mocked him.
He pulled up outside and sat idling for a while. What was he hoping to gain here? There was nothing left. He was meant to be a man without a past; here, even the rooms he’d moved through as a child had been erased.
But he was driven on, the curiosity having brought him this far. The car door slammed loudly in the silence of the pale afternoon.
He walked past where The Director’s van had swallowed them, and through the front doors of the old orphanage.
The foyer was the same size, but entirely refurbished. Where the Matron has retreated of an evening was now the building manager’s office, judging by the plaque on the frosted glass door.
A family came out of the stairwell, a woman dragging along two young children. She looked at him apprehensively, and he became aware that he was too well dressed for this place. He stood out.
He nodded to her politely and started looking through his pockets for his phone, as though he’d forgotten the number of the apartment he was looking for.
They eventually passed by, and once he was alone, he knocked on the building manager’s door.
When there was no answer, he picked the lock and let himself in. Inside was a mess of cabinets and papers, rental contracts and remittances, nothing of particular interest.
He kept digging in the furthest cabinets, and as the typed records gave way to hand-written ones, he found a mention.
Baranovichi Institution for the Care and Restitution of Orphaned Children.
He smirked at the misnomer before continuing. It looked like a deed of transferral of ownership, from the board of the institution to the private company buying the building. There was a witness signature that stopped him dead.
Matron J. Novikova of 80 Warsaw Rd.
Had hadn’t known the Matron’s name, but he was familiar with her violence.
He carefully replaced everything as he’d found it, took one more look at the dismal space, and returned to his car.
The local map square was sparse, but did have the street mentioned. Only a few blocks away.
He pulled up outside a traditional squat wooden house, almost indistinguishable from the dozens of identical houses lining the street. The flowerbeds had some struggling vegetable vines and looked fairly untended to, but there was a light on inside the front room.
He parked across the street and watched for a while, but didn’t see any movement inside.
He considered going for a secretive approach, but decided that the threat level was pretty low. He might as well just knock.
The front door was old, and the varnish was peeling where he tapped his knuckles.
“Yes, yes, coming,” a woman answered, her voice high and frail.
John had hoped she hadn’t moved, and sure enough, Matron Novikova answered the door. She had barely changed, except that her black hair was now shot with grey, and the cane she had was for balance, not hitting children. Her ramrod straight posture was unchanged, as was the coldness in her eyes.
“Mrs. Novikova, I was wondering if I might have a word,” he asked politely.
“About?”
“It may take a while to explain.”
She looked at him critically. “You must be another one, then. Just so you know, I kept no records. They were burned. I know not what happened to your family. I can’t help you.”
He frowned. “You get a lot of lost children returning to your door, then?”
“Oh, on occasion. I rarely remember who they were—if I ever knew. You can come in, if you think you have something to offer.”
She turned and made her way into the front sitting room. Her furniture was threadbare and smelled of mildew, and it was obvious that she only used the one chair next to the radio on a regular basis. She didn’t offer him any refreshments, against the local custom.
“So which one are you, then?” she asked as she lowered herself into the armchair.
He didn’t sit. “The Director of the New York Ruska Roma took five children in the spring of 1988. Four boys, one girl.”
For the first time, he saw her unsettled. “If that did happen, it would be highly illegal. We were charged with the care of our children, which we provided as well as we could with the government’s resources.”
“I’m not interested in legal or illegal. I’m not here to extract my revenge.”
Matron Novikova’s eyes narrowed. “I think I know who you are. The boy who confessed to the murder of his father. You caused quite a stir, especially when someone else came under suspicion for the crime. By the time your case was to be re-examined, you’d been rehomed.” She tutted without any real feeling. “What a pity.”
John clenched his jaw. He hadn’t known that the case was reopened, and he wondered if the actual murderer was ever caught. It was something to examine when he returned to Minsk. “What a pity, indeed. You sold me off to the Ruska Roma for a kickback, like you did with so many children. How much did we fetch?”
“What’s done is done, and any donations to the Institution were grateful received,” Matron Novikova said blandly. “So what answers do you seek?”
“Not for myself, but for Vanya. She had a family that loved her. They deserve to know what happened.”
Matron Novikova snorted inelegantly. “Probably traitors. Probably dead.”
“Nevertheless, I need to know.”
She thumped her cane on the floor. “As I said before, I cannot give you the answers you need. You should leave.”
“But is there someone else who can?”
“You should leave,” she repeated.
“At least a surname, or something.”
She hissed. “We had thousands of children come through our doors. I’m old, my memory is failing.”
He could recognise avoidance when he saw it. His eyes burned like they had not in many years as he took a step towards the frail woman. “You will tell me what you know, or I will make sure all of the suffering you inflicted upon those children is revisited upon you ten-fold.”
“And you said you’re not here for revenge,” she sneered. “You’re all the same. Poor little boys, all grown up, looking to blame me for their pain and their rage. It is life that makes you angry, not any action of mine.”
“Life is cruel, on that we can agree. Life has made me into the kind of man who would inflict violence to get what he wants. Consider that carefully before you dismiss me again.”
She shook her head. “You will find nothing. The past is buried and burned. But if it makes you leave, her name was Vanya Popovich. Her family was from Lida, half-Polish bastards.”
John stepped away, his rage turning to ice. “You’re a real piece of work. May Satan welcome you.”
She spat on the carpet as he left.
*
He returned to Minsk, still fuming at the Matron’s behaviour. He hadn’t expected repentance, that was true, but perhaps he had expected some small measure of sympathy. She was a certified sociopath, he was certain. He wondered if she always had been, or whether the regime had made her so. It was hard to tell in Eastern Europe whether hardness was born or made.
A coin at the national archives went a long way, but given the shambolic state of record keeping in the fall of the Soviet Union, he didn’t expect to find much. Burning records kept many men out of prison, not to mention keeping the stoves going when the fuel ran low.
There were scraps, not much else. But he was stubborn, and made leaps of intuition bred of experience. There were mentions of court appearances, which had their full names and dates of birth. For another coin he was able to get into the modern database to find the Popovich’s current address.
Serge and Ulia Popovich were still alive. That in itself was rare enough.
They also lived in Minsk.
John hadn’t even hoped he would get this far, and considered now whether he should approach them at all. Would he be inflicting further pain? Is this for his closure, instead of theirs?
In the end he decided that Vanya would have wanted him to at least try.
The Popovich’s lived in a towering tenement, the balconies all festooned with drying washing and proudly displayed but faded football flags.
It was a hive of activity, and no one spared him a second glance as he snaked his way through the complex.
A woman answered the door after he knocked, leaving it on the chain and peeking through the gap. She was a wisp of a woman, thin and timid, and her blue eyes were clear and piercing.
“Yes?”
“My name is Jardani Jovonovich,” he said. “I have some news for you regarding your daughter.”
“We have no daughter.”
“Am I speaking with Ulia Popovich?”
The woman paused. “Yes, but you must be mistaken…”
“I’m here about Vanya.”
She hesitated for only a moment before taking the door off the chain. It was like he had uttered a password.
“Come in, please.”
He was welcomed with much more hospitality than Matron Novikova had offered. Ulia took his coat, poured him some tea, and set out some piroshky if he felt peckish.
“Is your husband home, Mrs Popovich?”
“I’m afraid he’s out of town on business. My son will be home in an hour.”
“I’ll be long gone by then,” John said regretfully.
Her desperate and nervous energy left her legs trembling. “Please, Jardani. My Vanya…”
He was sombre enough that she knew in an instant what had happened.
“Oh,” she breathed, looking away. “When? How?”
John took a bracing sip of the tea, holding the delicate china between his hands. “Vanya and I were in the Baranovichi Institution together. Do you know it?”
She nodded. “When the Union separated, my husband and I were released—he was a journalist, and an honest one—we managed to track her that far. But we were told she was rehomed, and did not want any contact. This we did not believe, but no messages ever came. Our efforts ended there.”
It was obvious that their quest had ended, but their yearning for answers had not. John resolved to be gentle.
“Vanya very much wanted to reach out. We were taken to America, by the Ruska Roma. They did not give us many privileges.”
Ulia held onto the arm of the chair so tightly that her knuckles went white. “Ruska Roma,” she whispered. The fear in her voice betrayed her knowledge of their less than legal activities.
“She became a ballet dancer. A very beautiful and accomplished dancer,” he continued gently. “She was about eighteen when… there was an accident. She was shot.”
Ulia started crying, but her words were even and bold. “Did she suffer?”
John paused. “Not for long.”
That was as much as Ulia could expect. “Good, good. Our Vanya… she always had such a kind spirit.”
“She was my only friend,” he continued solemnly. “I will never forgive myself for not foreseeing the danger she was in.”
“Hush, Jardani. Recrimination is useless,” Ulia scolded. “We have seen many unjust things happen in our lives. Losing Vanya hurt like a thorn in my belly. But we prayed, and we stayed hopeful. We even had two more children, to bring more joy to our lives, and to remember their sister.”
She knelt down and held John’s hands between her own delicate hands. “You have brought us a great gift, Jardani. Our Vanya is at peace, and so must we be.”
John wanted to pull away, more used to bringing a curse than a gift, but her grip was like steel.
After a while she pulled away to collect herself.
“I have a picture,” John said suddenly. “If you…”
She nodded, clenching a handkerchief in her fist.
He pulled out his phone. He’d taken a photo of the picture on the wall, so Vanya could go with him. He hadn’t quite understood his compulsion at the time, but now he knew.
He showed her the tiny phone screen, and she smiled. “So much like my own mother. Look at her, my little Vanya.”
He asked for a phone number so he could send it to her; she gave her son’s cell number, asking that he wait as long as possible before sending it, so she could explain to him what it meant.
After sitting in the vacuum of words unsaid for a while, John took his leave. Ulia insisted on giving him some pastries for the road.
“I hope you found some peace, Jardani,” she said in farewell.
“I hope I do as well,” he replied. “At least for Vanya, I can say I’ve tried.”
He heard her sobbing as soon as the door closed between them.
*
His flight to New York seemed incredibly long, as he was so emotionally drained. He had taken one more look at the archives to see if his father’s murder had ever been solved, but there wasn’t even a record of an investigation. The lack of record actually inferred that the murder was a state-sanctioned hit, but John would never know for sure.
To be honest, he didn’t particularly care. If he knew who the man was, what would he say? Thank you for killing my father? Or thank you for making me just like you?
With these missions completed, he had amassed quite a bit of cash as well as coins.
He requested some down time, which was reluctantly granted. He decided to move to a new apartment complex closer to the Continental and its services. It didn’t come cheaply, but that was expected of New York. Besides, he was sick of the terrible water pressure and the neighbours fighting. He’d also had his eye on some vintage cars for some time, so he was careful to select a building with a locked garage space in the basement.
This apartment had more space than he knew how to fill, and a cool palate of sea green and grey. The floor to ceiling windows overlooked the park below. He was careful to not have a view of the Brooklyn Bridge.
The attractive real estate agent was entirely taken in by his sharp suit and matte black credit card when they met to hand over the contract and the keys. He knew that if he asked, she would stay for something a bit more intimate.
But the first night in a new apartment had a ritual to it. A new appreciation of the space, and the silence that filled it. This is mine, John could say to the walls. This is where I make my bed.
He tacked up the picture of Vanya dancing, and lay on the floor on his coat once more.
*
Once the apartment was partially furnished, he turned his attention to the empty parking space.
He went to three car shows before falling head over heels in love with a 1969 Mustang, in some desperate need of an overhaul.
He paid in cash and had it towed to Aurelio’s garage. There were few people on the High Table’s books who John could truly say he considered a friend, and Aurelio came pretty close. They shared a love of fast cars and purring engines, and were both respectful and took the paths least likely to end in cruelty. The apprentices of Aurelio’s garage were never beaten or humiliated like John had been, and they worked all the harder for their good treatment. The Director was yet to realise that kindness could be productive.
It also helped that they both enjoyed a good bourbon at the end of a long working week.
In exchange for a handful of coins, Aurelio gave him an empty bay to work on the Mustang and all of the parts and labour he’d need to perfect his vision. John was by no means a novice, but cars were Aurelio’s entire life, so he was constantly asking for his expertise. They would often be on their backs under the car arguing about the best soldering method, or whether certain parts from other models would be compatible. It became the best way for John to unwind after a hard day, and he became intimately acquainted with every inch of the beautiful machine.
By the time it was ready for a test drive, John gravely invited Aurelio along, and they spent a glorious afternoon burning rubber and testing the limits of physics on a nearby airfield.
It was the closest to happiness that John had felt in a long time.
There were aspects of John Wick's job that he didn't like to think about.
Flying was one of them. He always felt trapped on a plane, and the bland sameness of airport terminals made him lethargic and short tempered.
Dust was another thing. Travelling to the far-flung places of the world, he became uniquely acquainted with how dust got into everything: his lungs, his hair, his clothes, his weaponry. Wash it off in the shower one morning, and you were caked in it again by the time you returned in the evening.
Some things he took without question. Early mornings, late nights, a different bed every night, the occasional injury, setbacks, and speed bumps.
Most of all, and in his private moments, he hated the other assassins. Cocky, boastful, the jocks of the underworld. They were just like the other students of the Theatre, but far more dangerous. He was glad that there was no fighting on Continental grounds, or he would have caved in long ago and made them shut up permanently. Sofia and Marcus were exceptions to the rule, as was Cassius to a lesser extent.
He had to find meaning in the simplest of things during an assignment. Enjoying a wonderful dinner on the banks of the Seine. Listening to an accomplished busker on the street in Tokyo. Eating a fresh mandarin on the side of the road in Mumbai.
The feeling of coming back to New York, a place he'd wanted to escape for so long, and realising that it was the closest thing to a 'home' he'd ever had. He yearned for something more.
Helen had her first solo exhibition a few years later. Heart sore and body bruised, he went to see it. Not on opening night, when there was any chance of seeing her. But afterwards, just before the gallery closed for the day.
He asked about purchasing one of them, a six-foot-long black and white landscape of the lobby in Grand Central Station, surprisingly devoid of people. He wondered if it had been taken before opening, and how she had managed to make it look so much like a cathedral. He wanted to ask her, but knew he couldn’t.
The gallery owner came over, took the measure of his expensive suit and shoes, and asked if he was interested in purchasing.
Before she even quoted the price, he said yes.
She also asked for his name, so the artist could trace its provenance in future. “John Wick,” he said. “But only if she asks.”
The picture earned a little red sticker in the corner, indicating that it had been sold. Many of the other pictures in the gallery were already sold, and he felt a surge of pride for Helen’s success.
He was given a time to come pick it up or have it delivered for a fee. He chose the delivery, thinking that she wouldn't possibly deliver it personally. Even if she realised who had bought it, she had made it clear that she wanted to keep her distance from him.
But once he opened the door to his apartment, she was there. As radiant as ever, hair free and wind-blown, her cheeks red from the stiff wind outside. The artwork was resting against her knees, wrapped in brown paper and bubble wrap.
“Hello, John. Would you like to sign for it?” she asked nervously, a small smile gracing her lips.
He swallowed hard, and gestured for her to come in. He took the photo from her, gently resting it against the wall.
“I hope this wasn't a pity buy,” she continued lightly. “I think my sister has twelve of my photos in her front hall.”
He made sure to look at her directly, feeling his heart fluttering at the eye contact. “It wasn’t a pity buy,” he said firmly. “It made me feel... like I could escape someplace else.”
She smiled tentatively. “That's what I saw, too.”
“Want something to drink?”
She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. “Whatever you have is fine.”
He pulled out some glasses for a mellow red wine, acquired on his most recent trip to Spain. She made an appreciative hum when she took a sip.
“So… how've you been, John?”
“Well, thank you. Work has taken me all around the world recently.”
He gestured to the lounge room, which had been furnished with more care than his previous apartments. They sat opposite each other, the low coffee table a gulf between them.
“The same work?”
He pursed his lips. “Same work, different company.”
She looked disappointed by his answer. “And are you happy?”
He flinched.
“I only ask, because the last time we spoke, the job didn’t seem to be sitting well with you. So why have you continued?”
He took a shuddering breath. “It's not the kind of job you just quit. I wish I could. I've thought about nothing else.”
“That's not all,” Helen said perceptively.
“No.” He took a bracing sip of the wine, but didn't taste it. “I'm good at it, Helen. I'm the best there is. And it's all I know. What would I be, without it?”
Helen sighed. “You can be what you want to be. Find the real John Wick. The only way to do that is to try.”
He chuckled, and she stopped. “What?”
“That's not even my name,” he said bitterly. “Jonathan Wick. It’s something we made up so I could appear more American. He's no more real than Jardani Jovonovich, the name bestowed upon me by the Ruska Roma. It's no more real than my birth name, which was only ever shouted at me in anger by my father. It's no more real than the names on my passports.”
“Find your true self,” Helen begged. “Not for me, but for you. So that you can be... if not happy, content.”
John was silent for a long time. “Why did you come, Helen?”
She swished the wine in her glass, looking down into the vortex. “I was curious. Whether you’d be the same. Whether I’d feel the same.”
“Your conclusions?”
She studied him. “Something has changed, and I think for the better. What happened, that has made you wiser?”
“Are you sure you’re not psychic?” John asked evasively.
“John, please.”
He relented. “I returned to Belarus. I found some… I guess you could call it closure. Something I didn’t realise I needed until I had completed it.”
“I’m happy for you,” Helen said seriously.
“And what about you? Have you found inspiration enough to keep you going?”
She sighed. “Inspiration comes easily. Capturing the essence of my dreams into a singular image is much more difficult.”
John gestured to the Grand Central Station photograph. “What inspired this?”
“Transience. The places we visit but don’t stay. The people we cross paths with but will never see again.”
“There are no people in the photograph.”
“And that was the first thing you thought of when you looked at it, wasn’t it? How empty it was. How unlike Grand Central it looked. A space without its people, devoid of its meaning.”
He acknowledged that with a toast from his glass.
“Are you lonely, John?”
“You know I am.”
“I know that you’re alone. Whether you’re lonely is entirely up to you.”
“I think I saw that on a sympathy card once.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not true.”
John’s jaw clenched. “If you’re here to taunt me with your absence, congratulations. Nothing has yet filled the hole you left.”
Her eyes filled with tears, and he immediately regretted his harsh words.
“Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s just…”
“I know that it hurt, John. Of course I do. It hurt me as well. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t wished that I would turn around and see you at the Bridge. What was I supposed to do?”
“You did the right thing. That doesn’t mean we can’t regret it.”
She nodded. “Every day.”
“Are you going to leave again?” he asked.
She carefully set down her glass and walked slowly around the coffee table, so she was standing before him.
“Ask me to stay,” she whispered.
He rose, his heart thudding with the possibility that time might reverse, that they may be able to make something of this, that she was willing to take the chance. All of the reservations of before still hung between them: he was dangerous, emotionally unstable, entirely unsuitable. But she stood here now, apology in every word, and he allowed himself to hope.
“Helen, will you stay with me?”
She kissed him.
*
He hung the Grand Central Station panorama over his dining room table. The cathedral-like space was still empty, but now it felt like there were people waiting in the wings, just about to step onto the stage, rather than a place that had been abandoned long ago. It was on the verge of coming to life once more.
*
John wouldn’t be the first to say that it was easy. He and Helen had their own lives, routines that couldn’t simply be thrown away at the first blush of romance. But he could honestly say that he tried. He wasn’t going to let himself push her away again, and she was stubborn enough to see through any half-hearted attempts to alienate her.
Their first outing (technically their fourth date) was back at the first: under the Brooklyn Bridge. It was the day after their reunion. Helen hadn’t asked him to come, and he hadn’t considered missing it.
He listened intently as she walked him through the process of selecting a shot, feeding off her enthusiasm more than his own appreciation for the photography. Once the photo was taken, he carried her equipment and they sauntered along the riverside, stopping on occasion to steal a kiss or just enjoy each other’s presence.
For now, it was enough. Between missions, when he’d washed the blood and gunpowder off his skin, Helen would be there. His ears still ringing from the concussion of grenades in Baghdad, he’d step off the plane and into her arms.
Antoni’s Italian, where their second date had ended, had become something of a staple for them. The owners knew they by name, and gave them beautifully prepared dishes off the menu. No tasteless carbonara for the beautiful couple, no frozen seafood in the marinara: they were practically family, and were treated as such. In return they tipped generously with money and praise, and Helen even took the photographs at his niece’s wedding.
On this occasion, they had dressed to the nines for their anniversary celebrations. John wasn’t sure why Helen chose their first meeting as their official anniversary date, rather than the more recent understanding. She told him it was because she preferred having an anniversary in May rather than December, when they had more options for outdoor pursuits. John didn’t complain. He knew that he’d fallen in love with her before either of those dates, so the official anniversary was a moot point.
Helen wore her hair up with little wisps of her curls cascading from the bun. John yearned to caress them, and often did, as she admonished him for ruining her hairstyle with his touches.
John would have cut his own hair long ago, back to the regular crew cut of his youth, but Helen was firmly insistent that he keep it to his shoulders. She loved to run her fingers through it when they were alone, and tug at it when she was in ecstasy. Needless to say, he didn’t complain that much.
They’d just moved to the main course when Helen stopped mid-sentence, looking at John oddly with her hand halfway to her wine glass.
“Helen?”
She gaped like a fish, and went incredibly pale.
John's first thought was that she'd been poisoned.
“Helen!”
She started to slump over, and he leapt up to slowly lower her to the ground. His momentary panic was quashed by his lifelong training, and he shouted at the maître d’ to call an ambulance.
The next hour passed in a blur. Feeling for her pulse, laying his jacket under her head as she convulsed, leaping in to sit by her stretcher in the ambulance, chasing her bed through the ED, waving off the protests of doctors and nurses.
“What's happening?” he demanded of one of the nurses as she went past.
“We don't know yet, sir. You should wait in the relative’s room.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, his patented murderous glare, but she was undeterred.
“You're only in the way of the guys doing their job,” she said bluntly. “Go. Sit. We will call you as soon as we know something.”
He'd never felt so useless in his life. He paced around the room, painted in calming pastels, and tried not to fear the worst. It was Helen, she was going to be okay, she had to be. This wasn’t the end of their story.
“You can see her now,” the doctor called into his waiting room, and he was halfway out the door before he'd finished speaking.
He stood beside Helen's bed, hating the way she was so washed out under the lights, how many wires and tubes were snaking around her. The machines beeped softly as he leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Hey,” he whispered. “You're missing the sunset.”
She didn’t react, and he felt sickened.
He looked up at the doctor. “What's wrong?”
“We've eliminated the usual suspects. No sign of a heart attack of stroke. Does she have any underlying conditions?”
“Like I told the paramedics, her dad has Alzheimer's. She hasn't mentioned anything else.”
He nodded and looked at the chart again. “She's stable, but something's putting a real strain on her system. We're still running blood tests, ordering some more scans. We have here that she hasn't travelled recently, which eliminates a lot as well. Are you her partner?”
The non-sequitur threw him off for a moment. “We're not living together, but we are seeing each other.”
“Do you know any relatives we should contact?”
The dismissal hit a little too close to home. To this doctor, he didn't count as a relative, someone she would count on when everything went sideways. He was a boyfriend who would scarper at the first sign of responsibility. He longed to set him right, but swallowed his pride with difficulty.
“Her sister lives upstate, I can give her a call.”
The doctor nodded, and hesitated by the end of the bed. “If you want to stay here until she arrives, it will be good for her to have someone here when she wakes up.”
John pulled up a flimsy plastic chair to sit closer to her side, hand wrapped around hers. He wasn’t going anywhere.
*
John used Helen's phone (he had surreptitiously seen her put in the four-digit pass code more than once—a force of habit) to call Monica. She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Helen, what a surprise.”
“Monica, right?”
There was a pause. “Who's speaking?”
“My name is John. I'm a friend of Helen's. She's okay, but we're in Metro General. She fainted when we were out for lunch. It might be something serious.”
“Jesus. Okay. Jesus. I'm at work, but... of course, of course I'll be there. Give me an hour. Do I have your number?”
“No, but I'll be with Helen until you get here. You can call her phone if you need directions.”
“That's so good of you. Do they know what happened?”
“Not a heart attack or a stroke, still waiting on the rest of the answers.”
“That's good, I guess. Okay, see you soon.”
The line went dead. Monica had a brash way of speaking that was so unlike Helen. You could tell who the older sister was.
One of the nurses bustled around him to check Helen's vitals, and he told John that they didn't have the tests back yet. Just wait, and be patient.
John could sit completely motionless on a frigid rooftop for hours on end. He could take a stab to the shoulder and not even flinch. He could torture information out of someone over three agonising days. Patience was second nature.
He couldn't find it here.
*
After what seemed like a lifetime, he called one of the only people he could trust with a task of this importance.
“Marcus. How are you?”
“John. What do you need?”
“Must I always be calling about work?”
“Fine. I'm good, how are you, friend?”
“As well as can be expected. Could you do me a favour?”
Marcus grunted. “Knew it. Go ahead.”
“Are you in the city?”
“Where else would I be?”
“Excellent. Could you go down to New Dock Street Park near Brooklyn Bridge and take a photo of the sunset? Send it to my phone.”
“Are you nuts?”
“It's important, I wouldn't ask otherwise.”
“Fine. Is that it?”
“For now. Thanks, Marcus.”
“Weirdo.”
He hung up.
*
Marcus came through in fine fashion. He didn't quite have an eye for photography, and it was slightly blurred, but the colours spoke for themselves. Another pink and orange one, plenty of clouds to bounce the light and shadows around in the sky.
Marcus wasn’t impressed by his task. Here's your sunset, darling. Meet you for a drink at the usual for an explanation?
Yes. Might be late.
I'm sure it's a good story. I'll wait.
John smiled at his phone. He was fortunate that Winston had chosen Marcus as his guide, that fateful day so many years ago.
Helen stirred, and he was immediately on alert. “Helen? Can you hear me?”
“John?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Dizzy.”
“You fainted at the restaurant; do you remember?”
“Kind of.”
One of the doctors poked his head in, and called in a team to start doing some tests on memory, coordination, and other responses. John watched over them with a careful eye.
“At the moment, we're working on the theory that it's something neurological,” one of them said. “We've ordered an MRI, so you'll have to hold tight until we can get you there.”
Helen nodded. “Thanks,” she said faintly.
“Monica's coming in,” John said. “I hope that's okay.”
She winced. “I suppose. What about you?”
He caressed a strand of hair away from her face absently. “You know I'll be here as long as you want.”
“No jobs?”
“No jobs for now,” he amended. “I can usually turn some down without anyone asking questions. There are some it's not advised to reject, but they're not common. And Marcus wants to meet, but I can tell him I’m not available…”
“If you need to go, I understand.”
“I’ll wait for your sister to get here,” he said firmly. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
“Hmm.” she started blinking slowly.
“Before you fall asleep, I have a gift for you,” he said, pulling out his phone.
She smiled as he held up the colourful picture, angling it so she'd see it best from the pillow. “Beautiful. Is this tonight?”
“Mm-hmm. Didn't want you to miss it.”
“Kiss me, John,” she whispered, and he leaned in to gently press his lips to hers. “Thank you for the sunset.”
“Sleep now,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against hers. “I'll be here.”
He stroked her soft hair until her breathing evened out, hiding his concern under his need to provide comfort.
*
About an hour later Monica strode in, pushing aside the curtain without a thought. She was much shorter than Helen, with sharper features and a severely cut bob. She was still wearing her work clothes, a tailored business suit with the name of her bank embroidered on the breast.
“Oh, Helen. What have you done?” she sighed, going to the other side of the bed from John.
John reluctantly let go of Helen's hand, pretending to smooth down the sheets instead.
“And you must be John,” she said, looking him up and down critically. “Well. Thanks for the call, anyway.”
“Of course,” he said politely. “I was about to go get a water, want anything?”
“Black coffee with three sugars, if you like.”
John took his time strolling down to the coffee machine in the waiting room, giving Monica ample time alone with her sister. He wasn't very familiar with hospital bedside politics, but knew he should allow her that much.
When he came back in, Helen was awake and having her blood pressure taken again.
“John, I was afraid you'd left,” she said in relief.
“She was positively frantic,” Monica tutted. “Just a friend, indeed.”
Helen rolled her eyes. “Don't get on your high horse now, Mon. I had to wait until you were engaged before I got to meet your fiancée properly.”
“And if you hadn't fallen ill, I expect that's what you would have done too.”
John winced and handed the coffee to Monica.
“Thanks,” she said absently. “What's the diagnosis?”
Helen shrugged. “Possibly neurological, not sure beyond that. I've been feeling a bit dizzy for a few days, but I thought it was just a seasonal flu.”
“Well, I'm sure they'll get to the bottom of it,” Monica said.
John stood up. “I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said reluctantly. “Helen, please do call me if you need anything. Thank you for coming, Monica.”
Monica waved his thanks away. “It’s family.”
Helen waited for Monica to look away before winking and blowing a kiss at John. He smiled faintly.
Walking away felt like losing her all over again.
He met Marcus at a bar around the corner from Marcus’ townhouse. It wasn’t on the High Table’s radar, and on fairly neutral ground in terms of local gangs. There they spent many nights getting unbelievably pissed and swapping horror stories before stumbling back to Marcus’ place for a nightcap.
It was as close to therapy as any assassin could expect, John supposed.
Marcus had ordered a bottle ahead of time. Not bourbon, but gin. John could deal with that; the swill they had here could barely be called bourbon, but the gin was marginally better.
“You promised me a good story,” Marcus grunted as John settled into his spot in the booth. He pushed a glass already full of alcohol towards him. “Spill.”
John held up his glass in a toast before he took a large gulp.
“You told me not to make attachments.”
“Oh, boy,” Marcus muttered.
“Shut up and listen, will you?”
Marcus rolled his eyes and acquiesced.
John started talking about Brooklyn Bridge, at first hesitantly, but eventually with words spilling from his lips, full of praise and wonder, full of Helen.
When he got around to telling Marcus about Helen’s collapse, Marcus was already looking quite grave.
John fell silent as he contemplated what the future could hold. Not only for himself, but for Helen.
“So let me get this straight,” Marcus said, his voice low and tight. “Not only do you go and fall in love with a beautiful woman, you continue to see this woman against your better judgement as well as my excellent advice, and you start thinking about building a normal life with her. Are you fucking insane?”
“That bad, huh?”
Marcus thumped the table, startling John. “Worse. So much worse. Why the fuck did you tell me this? Do you know what it means that the Bogeyman has a weakness to exploit? Do you know what this world will do to her? Do you have a fucking suicide wish? Because there’s no way forward for you, John. All things being equal, love wasn’t meant for men like us. You need to accept that, dump the woman, and move on.”
“I can’t do that,” John hissed. He felt his anger bubbling below the surface.
“Sure you can. You should get her out of your system. Fuck her, lie to her, and leave her.”
John lunged over the table, but Marcus was quicker. He had John flat on his stomach on the ground in an instant, John’s shoulder ready to pop out of its socket from his iron grip.
“Weakness, John. It’s already running through you like cracks in a pane of glass. Just one push, and you would break.”
“Let. Me. Go.”
“Why should I? You’ve just told me you plan to betray the High Table. I have served, I will be of service. If I run to Winston with this, Helen’s illness won’t be what kills her.”
“Stop it.” John growled, but it came out choked with emotion.
“The High Table needs you too badly to let you go now, Baba Yaga. It’s a foolish hope you carry. Didn’t the Ruska Roma teach you that?”
With a strong shove, Marcus let John collapse entirely to the ground. He placed his foot firmly on John’s back and studied the younger man.
“Don’t think you’re the first to fancy himself in love. But I hope you’ll be the first to realise you cannot act upon it.”
“I tried,” John panted. “I tried to forget her. I tried to let her go.”
Marcus stepped away. “Bullshit. Her absence made the heart grow dumber.”
“Fine. Do you want to hear the truth?” John snapped, rising to loom above Marcus. “I’m selfish. I’d rather die than let her go. I’d kill more people than I have in my lifetime to have her near me. I would forsake every vow I’ve ever made, I’d sell you out for a dollar, I’d cross the High Table ten times over if it meant she was safe and by my side. What the fuck do you want from me?”
Marcus stared into his furious eyes before flumping down on the seat. “We’re all doomed,” he whispered. “I believe that you would do all that. If you think that the cost will not be everything you just listed and more, you’re a fool.”
John sat down heavily opposite him, the rage draining out as quickly as it had risen. He realised that Marcus had been testing his resolve, and he had emerged unsettled and unsure.
“Fuck, Marcus. What do I do?”
Marcus shook his head. “If I knew that, kid, I’d run the city. Just… don’t do anything stupid, alright?”
Someone had the worst timing in all of human existence to pull John away from New York that night. Apparently uprisings in Africa waited for no man, and executing the ringleaders was a job that no one wanted to carry out personally. He was assigned the task, and it was heavily implied that to reject it would not be an option.
He didn’t even have time to say goodbye to Helen. He had to leave a voicemail on her mobile, a stilted little message, saying that business had called him away and he’d check in soon. It felt like a cop-out. He was soon on the plane.
*
Once the bloody job was finally done, he called into his overseas mailbox system, and listened to the only voicemail with every iota of his attention.
“John, it’s Helen. The tests came back. It’s… not good. It’s a degenerative disease, strikes without warning. They say… John, please pick up, I don’t want to… Just call me, okay?”
John called immediately, fuck the time difference, and it was answered in moments.
“Helen, I got your message, I was flying… are you okay?”
Her voice sounded thin, even through the static of the bad reception. “As well as can be expected. It’s serious, John. They say… it’s hard to give estimates, but it’s no more than ten years. Probably less.”
It took a moment for the revelation to hit his gut, and when it did, it was more painful than a bullet. “Helen, I’m so sorry. Is there anything they can do?”
“Medication, therapies, all to manage the symptoms. No cure.”
He breathed deeply and closed his eyes against the harsh Kinshasa sun.
“Are you out of the hospital?”
“Still in a ward, just until they get out of hospital care sorted. It’s like a prison. There’s no colour.”
“Is there a window?”
“Yes, John. Not much of a view, but it’s enough.”
“Good,” he murmured. “I’ll take more pictures where I am. I can’t say where, but it’s truly beautiful.”
She sighed, and he felt the weight of his unspoken lifestyle sitting between them.
“I wish I could be there, Helen. I promise I’ll do what I can.”
“I know you will. This might sound like the bad diagnosis talking, but… I can’t imagine living through this without you. It might sound selfish, but I couldn’t care less what you’ve done, or what my family might think, I just… I just need you here.”
She started crying properly now, and John could barely hold on to his own stoicism.
“It’s not selfish at all. I need you too, Helen. When I get back in New York, we can talk about what that looks like. I promise.”
“I love you, John,” she whispered. “I always have.”
John looked out over the sprawling slums of the city, where only an hour before he had killed a dozen militiamen and probably a few innocents in the crossfire.
“I love you too, Helen. I’ll be home soon.”
He hung up, dissembled the phone, and crushed the phone SIM under his heel with more power than was strictly necessary.
He wanted to rush through the clean-up, but knew that taking risks would only get him killed. And he’d be damned if he let this job stop him from keeping his promise to Helen.
Back in New York, John sat calmly before one of the High Table’s most powerful members, waiting for his judgement to be handed down. He was strangely calm, considering what he’d just done. Marcus had told him not to do anything stupid for Helen. He wondered if this counted.
Viggo’s jaw was halfway to the floor before he regained his composure. “You want out of the High Table’s service.”
“Yes.”
Viggo opened his top drawer and pulled out a cigarette. He needed three goes with the lighter before it caught, his hands were trembling so much. It wasn’t every day that the most dangerous assassin in living memory requested a parlay.
“Do you want to work under the Table? Because we do not take kindly to that sort of thing.”
“No, Viggo. I want to stop working.”
“The Baba Yaga, retiring at your age? Impossible. No one would allow it.”
“The High Table can give any order it likes. I have served, I will be of service. But it would be in everyone's best interest if I were to get my way. Have I asked for anything in the past? Have I not done my duty?”
Viggo snorted. “There isn’t a level you reach when you earn our respect. It's a lifelong job. Look at Marcus, for Christ's sake. Have you ever heard him complain?”
“What do I have to do?” John asked through gritted teeth. “Ask the High Table. Any price, I will pay. To get out.”
The Russian took a long drag of his cigarette. “I still don’t understand why you’re asking me this. Are you terminally ill? Are you growing a conscience, losing sleep as the souls of those you kill haunt you with their screams? Or is there another reason?”
John kept his mouth shut, but apparently that was enough of a clue.
Viggo looked pityingly at him. “If I didn't know better, John Wick, I would say you've fallen in love.”
“Will you ask the High Table to name their price?”
Viggo blew out a noxious cloud of smoke. “I will ask, but I do not have high hopes. To let you leave this world would be akin to burning the Mona Lisa.”
John stalked out of the room, letting his rage carry him past the scores of men and out onto the street.
His first stop had been Viggo’s office. His second stop was at an antiques dealer in Manhattan. His third stop was to Helen’s apartment.
He hated that it had to be in that order, but he needed to be prepared.
The ring box felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket.
He knocked lightly, and it seemed to take an age before Helen answered. There were dark rings under her eyes, speaking of sleepless nights in the hospital.
“John,” she breathed, and he was pulled forward into a deep kiss.
She tasted the same, all sweetness and light, and he let himself become lost in her movements and light caresses.
She started to sway, and alarm bells rang in his head. “You need to be resting,” he admonished, but it sounded pretty breathless to his ears.
She nodded, and pulled him over to the couch, where a mug of tea was still steaming. “Sorry, it was just so hard to sleep through the night in the ward. Always prodding and poking, the machines beeping, the other patients snoring…”
John sat and pulled Helen into his side, spooned against him perfectly. She laid her head on his chest and breathed deeply. “You smell of spices,” she murmured. “And smoke.”
He kissed her hair. “The spices are from Mombasa. The smoke is from New York.”
“Are you allowed to tell me that?” she asked hesitantly.
“The job is done, and quite frankly I don’t care about their secrecy. I’ve asked to leave.”
“Leave?”
He touched her chin so that she raised her head to look him in the eyes. “Before I say anything else, I think there’s a more pressing question.”
He lowered his lips to her once more, and they lost a few precious minutes getting lost in each other again, relearning how to be together.
She pulled away first, catching her breath. “I can’t imagine what the question might be,” she teased. “In fact, it’s hard to think at all after that.”
“I will not apologise,” he said firmly, and she grinned.
“Helen, I know that nothing about this has been… conventional. I never thought I would find love, or be lucky enough to be loved in return. You have been everything to me, everything good in my life. I know that there are so many reasons why we didn’t make a commitment to each other, but I’m done making excuses. After what you said on the phone, and knowing my own feelings, I have to ask… will you marry me?”
Her eyes were already filled with tears of joy when she responded, “Yes, John. Of course.”
He pulled out the ring box and she admired the diamonds for only a moment before trapping him in a long embrace.
“I love you so much. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, walking away from you. And now we might have so little time together…”
“Don’t think about that,” John murmured. “We have all the time in the world.”
He slipped the ring onto her finger. It was an art nouveau piece, wide and slightly tarnished but understated.
“Where’s yours?” she asked.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he admitted. “I was a bit… preoccupied.”
She twisted her arms around his waist and put her feet up on the couch. “Are you ready to tell me?”
He nodded, although he was terrified that she would reject him, after all the things they’d just said.
“I just came from the home of a very powerful man. I’ve asked him to petition the leaders of the underworld to release me from service.”
“The leaders?”
He took a breath. “Maybe I should start from the beginning.”
“I promise not to interrupt with any other pesky questions,” she said. She was trying to be light, but John could see that she yearned to know, to understand what John really was to the rest of the world. In front of the curtain, where she was behind.
“For centuries the High Table has administrated the global dealings of the underworld. There had been too much bloodshed and mistrust between rival clans, too many deaths that could have been avoided. They made a compact: every clan would have a seat at the High Table where they could make rules, air grievances, share information to mutual benefit. One such organisation is the Russian Mafia, whose leader controls much of New York’s criminal underbelly. Under his guidance, many clans can operate their businesses without fear of attack, as long as they follow the High Table’s rules.”
She nodded for him to continue.
“Part of this network are those who do the dirty work. Assassins, blackmailers, suppliers of weapons and intelligence. Men and women with special skills for hire.”
He looked away, unable to watch her as he revealed the Bogeyman. It felt wrong.
“I was recruited from Belarus by the Ruska Roma, a tribe who serves the High Table. They train these specialists from a young age. This is how I came to be in New York as a boy.”
“The pier,” she murmured, remembering his surveillance of the East River.
“Precisely. After a while it became clear that I had… talents and a mindset that they could use. The High Table members can ask any task of me, and I will be of service.”
“And those tasks…”
“Assassinations, for the most part.”
She shuddered.
She’s revolted by me, he thought. She can’t stand to be close to me.
“We were presented with no choice. Do this training, complete these tasks. This is your entire life, your reason for breathing. I rose through the ranks, earning more than my fair share of money and reputation, but then… I met you. And you met me. The real me, that I’d forgotten could exist. You brought me back to life.”
He felt her tears soaking through his shirt, but had to plough through, because he knew he couldn’t start again if he stopped talking.
“You didn’t see the blood on my hands. You didn’t see the emotionless spirit of the Baba Yaga… that’s Russian for Bogeyman, my given moniker. Without you, I may have been content to do evil deeds all my life.”
He drew in some air, feeling faint. “So after all this, I have asked the High Table to release me. It’s never been done. We serve until we die. But for you, Helen…”
“I don’t want you to go back,” she whispered. “I know you, John. You made the best of your talents, but it eats at you. You have a choice now.”
“I hope so. It depends somewhat on you.”
She drew back, and he could see the inelegant splotches of red on her cheeks from the tears. “If you’re implying that I’ve changed my mind, John Wick, then you’ve taken too many blows to the head. I’ll be here, with you, no matter what happens next.”
“We have selected your task, John Wick.”
He leaned forward. “Is it to lift a mountain? Kill a hydra?”
“Don't be glib,” Viggo admonished. “You will be in far worse humour when you hear what we have in store.”
“Say it.”
Viggo's eyes hardened. “As I'm sure you are aware, there are many people who would stand against the High Table. Chief among them is the military strategist and anarchist, Eoin Foley. He has been in hiding these ten years. Neither hide nor hair has been seen of him or his men. But still he corrupts, he infiltrates, he costs our organisation billions of dollars and countless opportunities. He fancies himself a Robin Hood of the modern world, if Robin Hood also used bombs and viruses against his enemies.”
Viggo paused for effect. “His entire operation must be eliminated.”
John had expected the worst, and here it was. “That could take years,” he said. “Many lives.”
“You are to have no additional personnel provided to you. The usual services are, of course, available to be utilised. Complete this task for the High Table, and they will grant you the amnesty you desire. No one would dare approach you. You will become a ghost to this world.”
John nodded and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“If I'm going to complete this while I'm still young, I'd better get started,” he said gruffly.
Viggo's mocking laughter followed him out of the bar.
*
Helen couldn't quite hide her anxiety that John was leaving for such a dangerous task. He'd told her only the bare-bones truth, but it was enough.
“Are you sure this is not a death sentence?” she whispered in the darkness of pre-dawn. Neither of them had been able to sleep, and so they lay there, face to face, no artifice between them. “Did they give you this task, knowing that it could not be done?”
He pressed himself closer, curving around her smaller frame. “If they think this is the end of me, they are mistaken. I promised to marry you, and I will keep that promise.”
“You can't know that,” she sighed. “Death comes to us all.”
He pressed his lips into the dip of her collarbone. “Not today. I will do all I can to return to you.”
He convinced himself that it was not a goodbye.
*
A seemingly impossible task. He'd heard of Eoin Foley and his people, of course. He'd even come across some of their operatives from time to time, trying to get intel on the Elder, the High Table, and the men who sat around it. They fancied themselves freedom fighters, starting with Northern Ireland before championing causes all around the world. But as the issues grew bigger, their organisation grew sinister. Now it was a matter of fighting the powers that be with equal firepower, equally heinous tactics. They'd lost the moral high ground so long ago that John doubted they knew what it looked like anymore.
What he did not tell Viggo was that he did have a way in, a way that terrified him to the very core.
Santino D'Antonio.
The son of the current Mafioso on the High Table, he fancied himself a man of many talents. While he'd never be an agent, he was ruthless and cunning as a snake. He collected information as much as he collected art from all across the globe.
He had wanted so badly to impress the great Baba Yaga that he had let something slip at the Rome Continental. John didn't know if he'd even remember.
“You have the luck of the Irish, John,” he slurred. “I should know. I'm well acquainted with their luck. One month in Belfast and they fancied me a fucking Sheriff of Nottingham. I barely escaped with my life, but not with my ill-gotten gains. That sour sack of shit even managed to look magnanimous.”
John said nothing, just as he had all evening, and sipped his bourbon. He filed this piece of information away, a scrap that may come in useful one day.
Santino had stood face to face with Eoin, or one of his top men, and walked away under a detente.
Any further information that Santino could provide him would certainly come with a heavy price. He liked people owing him favours. He traded in them like precious diamonds.
Now, with the fate of his future with Helen on doubt, he steeled himself to meet with d'Antonio and do exactly as he asked. The plane trip to Rome seemed to go by in a flash.
It didn't take long for the slippery Italian to find him in the Continental bar.
He was almost purring like a cat when John told him that he needed help.
John looked at the faint impression of the spike on his thumb and felt faintly nauseated. He had paid the price, but now he had the information. Santino had provided.
John disembarked the plane in Dublin and made himself known to the Continental. It was too dangerous, too obvious, to fly straight into Belfast. He would have to be careful to remain under the radar.
The Hotel overlooked the Liffey, which had seen better days. A recent storm had sent debris floating down the brown ribbon of water. People leaned over the side of the Ha'penny Bridge and pointed at the bits swirling past. They pressed up against the love locks that scores of innocent lovers had placed there, pledging undying loyalty.
A nearby shop had a pair of boltcutters displayed for rent, ten dollars per use. Maybe some love wasn't forever. Trust the Irish to make a dark lesson out of the ritual.
*
After stopping in at a techie's workshop to pick up a new kind of search-and-destro piece of viral software, John hired a car and made his way slowly north. He didn't have any lethal hardware on him, as it was possible the car would be searched on the border. He felt vulnerable.
A contact met him in a little village close to Derry with all of the hardware he'd requested. The Northern Irishman was gruff, and the equipment provided was not up to John's usual standard, but it would have to do. John handed over three coins for his efforts, and for his silence.
*
In retrospect, he would hardly remember this mission as he slaughtered every man, woman, and attack dog in the compound. But here and now, standing in the headquarters of Foley's operation, he felt sickened by his rampage.
He came face to face with Eoin Foley in his garage, surrounded by parts and hands covered in engine grease. The smell of burning flesh followed him into the space, barely strong enough to be noticed above the smell of gasoline.
Foley was unaffected by John's entrance. He carefully wiped his hands on a rag and stepped away from the workbench.
“The Bogeyman has finally graced us with his presence,” he said. “The attack dog of the High Table.”
His voice was melodic but strong, and his gaze was direct and piercing. John could see why so many had elected to follow him.
“Foley,” he replied. “The self-titled Robin Hood.”
“Let's sit and talk like men,” Foley suggested. “Put away your guns for now.”
John did so, but kept his eyes and ears open for the back-up that was surely coming.
Foley led him to the open garage door, where a few folding chairs were set up for the employees to smoke and chat. Foley claimed one and asked, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
John shook his head. Foley pulled out some tobacco and a white paper to roll his own, carefully assembling the little cigarette with deft fingers.
“You've done a lot of damage here today.”
A lot of damage. As though the men he had killed were inventory to replace.
“But I believe that no one is without redemption.”
“Is that so?”
“Aye. Even those forged by the Table can step away from its flame. No corruption is so deep as to taint the soul.”
“Are you trying to convert me, Foley?”
He finished rolling the cigarette and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. He took his first drag and blew the smoke into the sky. “Is it working?”
John scoffed. “Your pitch relies upon a desire to seek redemption for my crimes. I have no such need. All the blood on my hands is there to stay.”
“Does that make you a realist or a sociopath?”
“It makes me uniquely qualified to tell you that your venture was doomed to fail. The High Table is eternal. To oppose it is to paint a target on your back. None can escape its reach.”
Foley shook his head. “Nothing is eternal. The High Table was created by men, and it can be dismantled by men. I would liken it to a hydra, a savage beast of many heads. It takes a hero to slay it.”
“And that hero is you?”
“Hardly. One of my successors would take up the sword. It was never a war that would be contained to one lifetime. I knew that from the first.”
John shifted in his chair, wincing as one of his wounds stung anew. Foley certainly knew that the war would last much longer than either of them would see. Especially given the setback that John had dealt them that day. Perhaps, to the High Table, this was never intended to be an eradication: it was pest control. Cull the herd, and the Table can worry about something else for a while, until they come back to full strength. Getting rid of Foley would set back the organisation quite a bit, as would dismantling their digital networks, but they would regrow. They would seek revenge for their martyred brother in arms. The High Table would not remain unopposed for long.
“I am interested in your motives, John. The High Table has not been so audacious as to move against me directly. What changed?”
“I have served. I will be of service,” John replied wryly.
Foley looked put out by the rote answer.
“And has your service brought value and meaning to your life?”
“You seem to be under the delusion that life has a meaning.”
“Don't be evasive with me, John. Consider it a final request: tell me why you have accepted this fool's mission. Did they grow concerned that you were too powerful to let you live? Did you fuck one of their wives, so they sent you to die? Tell me. I promise to take it to my grave.”
“Are you so assured of my intent in murdering you?” John asked. “Perhaps the High Table wanted you alive.”
Foley took one last drag of his cigarette and stamped it out under his boot. “I'm certain that there is no amnesty for men like me.”
“And you're certain that your men will not save you?”
Foley sighed. “If they are not dead already, I know you will plan on making them so. I knew as soon as the alarm sounded that this was the end.”
John nodded, reassured that his request wasn't some play for time. “In answer to your question, the High Table has graciously allowed me to retire after this task is complete.”
Foley was visibly taken aback. “Retire.”
“Yes. Free from the interference of the Table. With my fiancée, soon to be wife.”
Foley considered that for a moment. “Congratulations, Mr Wick. It's never been done. But then again, you are known for doing impossible things.”
John stood awkwardly, his leg muscles stiff and sore from his previous exertions. He hadn't been able to warm down, after all. “Are you ready?”
Foley shook his head. “Let me have a moment to pray. I doubt you're willing to give me my last rites.”
John stood above him, checking the ammo in the chamber, and waited for Foley to finish praying to a god who likely didn't exist. After a few minutes, Foley said, “I'm ready. But you should know that my death is for nought. They'll never-”
John shot him in the chest twice in quick succession.
Foley collapsed onto his back and laughed until the blood filled his lungs, and he gurgled his last words: “...never let you go.”
He tapped a final shot in the skull, and Foley was silent.
John took a photo of the corpse, fingerprints, and a swab of blood, standard procedure for a targeted hit such as this. He went back through the facility to clean up the last few operatives, and hot-wired one of their cars to get out of there as quickly as possible.
He stopped after an hour to vomit into the brush by the side of the highway. It was more blood than bile, but he pushed on. It wasn't over until he had his golden ticket in hand.
*
His physician in Dublin wasn't nearly as good as Doc in New York, but he earned himself three coins that night by patching up John's many wounds. Some of them would undoubtedly scar. Helen would notice the new additions, but John hoped that she would understand. They had been the price of freedom.
He received an encrypted message from Sofia. He thought it was a farewell, as it wouldn't surprise him if she had been keeping tabs on his journey, but it was a call for assistance. He reluctantly diverted his travel plans from New York to Casablanca.
He hadn't given Helen any indication of how long he'd be away. He did say that if she didn't hear from him within six months, he was likely dead or close enough. She said in response that she would wait until she knew for sure, rather than write him off that easily.
Sometimes he wondered how he deserved such devotion. Perhaps it wasn't a matter of deserving it, just a matter of keeping it.
*
With the Impossible Task completed, and limping back to his car, he called Santino.
“You are retiring, John? I will respect your retreat from the High Table. For as long as you are not intruding in our world, I will not consider calling in your marker.”
“Thank you, Santino,” John said, even though the thanks sat bitter on his tongue.
“Enjoy your boring peace, Baba Yaga,” Santino sneered, and John was already halfway to hanging up before he finished.
He managed to catch a few hours of rest before getting on the flight to Morocco. When he met with her, she had dark circles under her eyes, and her nervous energy was expended in paranoia he hadn't seen before.
“What's going on, Sofia? Are you in danger?”
“Always, John. But that's not why I called.”
She struck her fists on the table. “I'm backed into a corner, and I don't like it here. It's only a matter of time before...”
“Start from the beginning,” John said slowly.
Sofia took a deep breath. “It's about Aifa. Her grandmother, my mother, died last year.”
“I'm sorry,” John murmured.
“Aifa's only sixteen. She doesn't know why I can't stay, why it's too dangerous for her to be with me. It takes everything within me to keep her at a distance.”
“So what's the real problem here?”
“Berrada has asked me to take over the Continental now that Sharouf is retiring. Can you imagine? Me, as Management, serving the Table.”
John whistled.
“It's better than finally getting a bullet I can't cough up, I know. But it's a commitment that comes with restrictions.”
“You wouldn't be able to see your daughter,” John realised. “Even if you somehow got her into the business, she would be a liability you couldn't afford.”
“I would rather die than see her joining the Table,” Sofia said vehemently.
John churned it over in his mind for a long time.
“How can I help?”
Her head shot up. “Aren't you retiring?”
“That's the idea. As soon as I'm back in New York, I hand over my badge. So to speak.”
“How about one last job?”
He knew what she was asking from the desperation in her eyes. “For you, Sofia... I will. But it'll take a lot of doing.”
It was Sofia who suggested the marker. She wanted to impress upon him that her blood was sealing this pact, and nothing else could possibly matter.
He was reluctant to use it, to bind her to it, but figured that he'd never need to use it. What favour could he possibly ask of Sofia, when he was retired and living in America?
It hurt to extend his trip in Casablanca, knowing that his freedom with Helen was so close, but he needed to make the arrangements. It only took two days, but it seemed like a month.
John hadn't been there when Sofia had explained to Aifa that she was to be sent away. He was sure it was an explosive conversation. Perhaps Aifa would never forgive her mother for this.
But Aifa and Sofia would be alive. Aifa could grow up and make a family far from the underbelly of her mother's world. Sofia could serve, and be of service.
Under the cover of darkness, John arrived at Sofia's safehouse to take Aifa away. She had a backpack and nothing else. He took the bag to the car to give Sofia one last chance to say goodbye.
Aifa reluctantly got in the car, eyes glued to her mother's face as she stepped up to John with fire in her eyes.
“Take care of her,” Sofia said. Her voice didn't waver, even a little, and he admired her quiet strength. “You take my heart with you.”
When he got on the plane to Toronto, he was officially a father to a sixteen-year-old daughter, returning from vacation. Aifa was a sharp one, and knew much more about Sofia's activities than she'd ever let on.
John had done his due diligence in selecting a foster situation for Aifa. He couldn't forgive himself if she ended up having a childhood even a fraction as terrible as his own. But he had found a couple, distantly connected through Helen, who were regular foster carers of older kids. They had retired, so didn't have anyone else at the moment. He had to pull a few strings, but eventually they accepted the responsibility. The questions they asked about Aifa's life and interests was encouraging. She played the piano, and they were hopeful that she'd be able to continue with a local teacher.
John left them a significant fund from which to draw for Aifa. What he didn't tell them was that he could track every transaction, every movement, that Aifa and her new family were making. He'd promised to keep her safe, and there was no one better to watch over Aifa than the Bogeyman himself.
He was with Aifa all the way from Casablanca to the front door of her new home in Toronto. He left only a single anonymous business card, so she could get in touch if she needed anything at all.
“What if I want to talk to my mother?” Aifa asked bitterly. They both knew what the answer would be.
“Make the most of this life,” he responded instead, and turned away.
On the plane from Toronto to New York, he took out the marker and looked at Sofia's bloody fingerprint. He thought about his own, sitting with Santino d'Antonio, and hoped that they hadn't both paid too high a price to get what they wanted.
John called ahead and discovered that Viggo Tarasov was currently at Aurelio's viewing some new acquisitions. He was pleased by the coincidence. Two goodbyes at once.
He forced himself to stop limping on his approach and made sure that he wasn't bleeding through any of his bandages. Never show them your weaknesses.
Aurelio spotted him first as he walked calmly between the half-dissembled cars. “John, what a surprise.”
“Aurelio,” he greeted gravely.
“Have time for a drink?”
“Maybe not. I'm just here to see Viggo.”
“He'll be out in a minute, just sorting some stuff out with the accounts.” He jerked his thumb at the office, where John could see a few figures moving through the frosted glass.
“I might just have that drink,” he said finally. “If you don't mind.”
“Not at all,” Aurelio grinned. “Pull up a seat. How's the Mustang?”
John toasted Aurelio. He would be sad not to see this man anymore. He may run an illegal workshop, and have done terrible things in his time, but he genuinely cared about people (and cars).
“Doing just fine since that last fix. I'll have some spare time to test it out, might take her up to Portland for a bit.”
“Great roads around Green Mountain if you get the chance. You can really throw her around.”
“Thanks, I'll take a look.”
Aurelio studied him. “Something seems different, John, if you don't mind me saying.”
“Because I'm going on a vacation?”
He shook his head. “Not just that. You seem lighter.”
“You're very astute, Aurelio. I'm actually here to tell Viggo that I'm quitting the business.”
Aurelio's laughter echoed through the shop. “I’d pay to see that.”
“No, really.”
His smile fell immediately. “Shit, for real?”
“The High Table has granted my request for retirement. The only one left to sign off on it is Viggo.”
Aurelio whistled. “That's incredible. How...”
The office door swung open, revealing Viggo and his hired muscle. He stopped dead when he saw John calmly sipping a drink with Aurelio on the partially disassembled engine block of a Jaguar.
“John Wick,” he said, recovering quickly. “I didn't expect you back... so soon.”
Or at all.
“How goes the hunt?” he asked.
John set his glass down. “Done, as promised. I don't have Foley's scalp in my pocket, if that's what you're asking for.”
“But he is dead?”
“Yes.”
Viggo strode forward. The workshop was dead silent, everyone listening in while pretending to be working. “You're not lying to me, are you John? I know how badly you wanted this. If any of Foley's leadership escaped unharmed, your job is not complete.”
John stood up, towering over the Russian. His musclemen stepped forward, but he didn't flinch.
“We go back a long way, Viggo. Have you ever known me to lie? Foley's operation is done.”
Viggo's eyes narrowed. “Impossible.”
“Ask your men in Europe if you like. That's why you asked me to do it. I can make the impossible, possible. You made a pact, Viggo. Are you going to honour your part of the deal, or will I have to get angry?”
The tension was so thick that John could have cut it with a knife. He stared into Viggo's eyes, never blinking, drilling into them with every fibre of his being: honour the deal. Let me go.
Viggo blinked first. “Oh, John. Baba Yaga. You have fought so hard for this. I will grant you your reprieve, for whatever good you think it will do.”
“Thank you,” he gritted out.
“You'll be back within a year, John. You're too good at killing to stay away.”
John nodded in farewell to Aurelio, who was looking sombre, but nodded back.
As he walked out of the garage, a silent honour guard of mechanics around him, Viggo shouted, “Don't kid yourself, Jardani! I'll see you soon enough!”
*
He collapsed back into his car, shaking with exhaustion and the last burst of adrenalin.
Free, his heart whispered. You're finally free.
He couldn't drive fast enough to get to Helen's apartment. He leapt up the stairs, not a care for his injuries. He'd barely touched the door before it swung open.
Helen's expression was one of such hope and joy that John couldn't help but let himself smile back.
She hadn't dared to hope, but here he was. Pale and haunted, but very much alive.
“John?”
He buried his hands in her hair, looking into her eyes. “I'm free, Helen.”
She sobbed in relief and joy, and he pulled her close for a crushing embrace. Free. This man who had carried the heaviest of burdens, who had inflicted so much violence in the name of others. This man who she had loved for so long she couldn't remember her heart beating without him. Free to make the most of this life, free to make love to her, free to see the world as the beautiful and fragile sphere it was.
“You can stay with me?” she said, once she'd regained her composure somewhat.
“I wouldn't be anywhere else, I promise.”
She sniffed and withdrew, guiding him over to the couch where he'd proposed. “You must be tired.”
“A little,” he admitted. “A lot of flights.”
“And some fights,” she said shrewdly, looking at the bruise still tinged with purple on his jaw.
“Comes with the territory.”
“But you got patched up, right?”
He rolled his eyes. “I did. And I behaved myself for the doctor this time.”
“I doubt it.”
He sat back into the cushions with a deep sigh. “I guess we should start planning the wedding.”
Helen looked at him with an eyebrow arched. “If you think I haven't been planning this the whole time you were away, you're out of your mind. It's the only thing that's kept me sane.”
He grinned in a way that she hadn't seen very often: genuinely, openly. She hoped to see it more often. “Well, then. Is it Vegas?”
She hit him playfully, and he groaned like it was a mighty blow.
“No Vegas or courthouse wedding for you, John Wick. The amount of panic you've caused me, I think it's only fair I treat you to an extravagant and deeply personal wedding.”
“On one condition.”
“Oh?”
“No gimmicks. If we end up saying our vows from the bottom of an aquarium tank, I'll be very disappointed in you.”
“Disappointed? But you'd still marry me?” she teased.
“I might draw the line at a skydiving wedding. But yes, even if you choose a bowling alley and a dog as the ring-bearer, I'd still marry you.”
Even through the light tone, his raw honesty took her breath away. She kissed him deeply, and they didn't talk for quite some time.
The next month passed in a blur. They made plans for the wedding, which they held in the garden of an art gallery Helen had worked at before. They saw medical specialists, who all told them the same thing.
John found himself at a loose end without his job. It was certainly a tough transition. He took up boxing with a local men's health group, and soon became a coach and confidant for many of the emotionally closeted men who came along. If anyone understood a toxic home life, it was John. He'd consciously repressed everything he'd been through, just like these men; but now he had time to reflect, to process, to take stock on the choices he'd made.
He was proud of only three achievements: Helen, Vanya, and Aifa. Protecting and avenging the innocent. The Director wouldn't approve, and for the first time, that felt like a good thing.
When he wasn't helping Helen with logistics or boxing, he went for long runs in the neighbourhood. He was sure he wasn't imagining some of the High Table's operatives watching him, perhaps to ensure that he was truly staying off the radar. If this was some kind of long play, they would want to know about it.
He never touched a gun, coin, or bulletproof suit. Once it was all packed away in a trunk he'd bought several apartments ago, he didn't open it again. He avoided all the old places and people he knew.
He would have been lonely, if it wasn't for Helen.
They get married in a garden upstate. The only people from John's side are Marcus and Winston. John hadn't told him about the wedding, but he turned up anyway. Some kind of power play, John figured. He was gone before the reception started.
The ceremony was short and fairly informal, as far as weddings went. John hadn't been to a wedding before (in a personal capacity, at least) but he trusted Helen's judgement. She wore a beautiful champagne dress, form fitting and shimmering, while John wore his traditional black suit with a light blue silk tie. Helen carried a bouquet of tiny daisies and meadow flowers, some of which John put in her hair while the celebrant spoke. She shot him a warning look at his antics, but was still smiling indulgently.
There was a single bridesmaid, Helen's sister Monica, and a bridegroom, Helen's long-time artistic collaborator Abdul. If anyone found it odd that John didn't have anyone from 'his side' in the bridal party, no one commented on it in John's hearing. Helen had been telling people that John was ex-military, which was close enough. Black ops, if anyone asked further. Very few people asked for more after that, seeing his grave countenance and the laser-focus of his concentration.
When it came time to say the vows, John almost choked up and his carefully selected words of praise fell to pieces. So he looked into her eyes and said what he knew to be true.
“Helen. From the first moment I saw you, my life was never the same. You are the sunrise that chases away the darkness. With every word and gesture, you teach me the true meaning of partnership and love. I promise to spend the rest of my life with you by my side: as my wife, as my best friend, as my anchor.”
Her eyes welled up with tears, and Monica helpfully passed a tissue, to the laughter of a few guests.
“It's not a competition, but you win,” Helen said, to another bout of laughter. “John. You know that it's not easy to get to know you. But every glimpse I had inside of your shell was a glimpse of something special. You have inspired me with your strength and perseverance. We wouldn't be standing here, right now, if you had turned away from what we could become. I vow to never give up on you, just as you never gave up on me. Until the end of my days.”
They were pronounced man and wife, they kissed, and John led his wife down the aisle to the backdrop of the sunset.
*
Marcus was having a great time flirting with all of Helen's elderly aunts, and never lacked an enthusiastic dance partner. You couldn't tell by looking at him that he had a kill count higher than most death row executioners.
They found an oasis of calm near the back wall, watching Helen circulate amongst her family and offer wide smiles to everyone she passed. She was truly beautiful in the low light of the lanterns, her dress shimmering like a mirage. John's heart ached.
“You know that I can't see you again, right?” Marcus said softly.
John looked away from Helen's transfixing figure. “I figured you'd say that,” he said. Coming to the wedding was a way of saying goodbye.
“Seriously. For your welfare and mine. You need to be completely out, and that includes forgetting that I exist.”
John swallowed hard, trying to come up with all the words that could encapsulate just how important Marcus' guidance and friendship had been to him.
“Don't get all sappy on me now, kid,” Marcus warned him. “Hopefully I'll see you never.”
John pulled him into a crushing hug, which Marcus accepted with good grace.
“Don't get yourself killed,” he said. “But if you do, take the bastards out with you.”
Marcus grinned. “You know I will.”
John watched him leave the crowded reception, and felt more alone than he had in a long time. When Helen beckoned him over, he played the dutiful new husband, but he could tell from Helen's comforting squeeze of his arm that she knew something was up.
“Too much?” she murmured to him between greeting old work colleagues.
“Marcus left. For good.”
She immediately understood. “Let's dance for a bit.”
They didn't dance so much as hold each other close and sway, but it was enough for John to regain his composure.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
“For marrying you? You're welcome.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Monica cut in to let them know that the cake was ready to be cut, and the party was back in full swing.
They found a listing for a beautiful home in Jersey, a recently built architectural project that made Helen as giddy as a child.
Her face fell when the price was raised, but John reassured her it wouldn't be a problem.
“Should we be using your ill-gotten gains for this?” she asked, somewhat reluctantly. She wanted the house more than she’d wanted anything material in her life, but didn’t want to compromise her morality for it.
“It would infuriate the High Table that I've elected to spend it on domestic bliss,” he teased. “And who are we to deny ourselves something so beautiful?”
They moved in within weeks. John watched on in bemusement as Helen appointed all of the decorators and furniture movers, who swarmed over the house minutely changing things to her exact directions.
Helen changed the orientation of the couches three times before she was happy. She asked John for his input only once, rolled her eyes at his stammered response, and took charge entirely.
He hated to be that cliché, but he reserved the basement and the garage entirely for his own. Helen was more than willing to leave it to him.
When she was at her sister's place for the weekend, he went to the hardware store and picked up a bag of cement. He took the trunk full of his past out of his car and hauled it down to the basement, followed by all the tools he would need to make it safe.
When the trunk was covered by the slab, he felt like he could breathe for the first time in many years.
Now they had nothing but time. As John told Aurelio, they took a trip up to Portland via a winding and illogical route through the back roads of Maine. They stopped regularly, admiring the views and absorbing the clean air. It was like a belated honeymoon.
Helen was still working, of course. As an artist, inspiration and projects could strike at any time, and she always had her camera ready. She scaled back on huge gallery showings and extensive travel, so she could spend more time with John. Monica (the eternal pessimist) said that it surely wasn’t healthy to still be so completely in love with your spouse after the honeymoon period was over, but Helen couldn’t imagine pulling away from John. Every kiss was like the first.
One year after moving into their home, they went out to celebrate. John gifted Helen a golden bracelet of daisies, her favourite flower. She said that her gift was waiting for them at home, as it wasn’t easier portable.
John was immediately intrigued, but she refused to give him any clues until they had returned, kicked off their shoes, and John loosened his tie.
She was strangely hesitant to show him the gift, so John had to reassure her. “I'm sure whatever you've chosen will be thoughtful and beautiful.”
She smiled back tentatively, and handed over the flat package.
John unwrapped it, and his breath hitched when the gift was revealed.
Inside was a beautifully framed and glossy photograph of Vanya, the same one he'd saved all these years. Not a cut-out from the magazine, not yellowed and curling around the edges. Fresh and practically leaping off the page.
“How...”
“It was challenging, that's for sure. I tracked down the photographer, and he still had the negatives,” Helen said, studying John's face for a reaction.
He felt a tear on his cheek. “Thank you, Helen,” he said softly. “I'm the only person left here to remember her. The last one who knows her name. And this... almost feels like she's here.”
Helen sat with her arm slung around his broad shoulders.
He took a shuddering breath. “I was watching her last performance from above the stage. She was so effortless, so pure in her joy and her movement. I thought, if I'm ever in love, that's what it would look like. As easy and as quiet as breathing.”
He closed his eyes, and felt her hand squeeze his upper arm, asking him to continue.
“When she came off-stage, I was ambushed by a rival. I didn't even think, I didn't check... she died a few metres away, and I didn't even know until a week later. A bullet, intended for me.”
“Oh, John,” Helen breathed.
“It hadn't even been because she was my friend. It could have hit anyone. But it hit her. And I never got to tell her how much she meant to me.”
“You were close?”
“As close as we could be, two damaged kids,” John huffed. “But yeah. She was my only friend, until Marcus.”
“Spy ballerinas and sniper assassins... with friends like these, I suppose.”
John nodded. “Where should we hang it? I’m sure you have an idea.”
“I have just the right spot for her in the hallway. Plenty of morning light.”
“Perfect.” He kissed her, long and deep, trying to communicate to her his gratitude that she accepted every part of him.
He parked the car close to the shore, already catching the sound of crashing waves once he turned off the engine.
“Rug up,” she suggested.
He rolled his eyes and left in only a leather jacket. She went to the trunk for her long camel coat.
John had his phone out, taking shots of the beautiful vista just as carefully as Helen had taught him. She stood over his shoulder teasing him about his poor use of light and the rule of thirds. She even scolded him about the occasional blurry photo, even though she was to blame when she doggedly tried to trip him up mid-shot.
He got his revenge by switching to video and doing panoramas, making sure to include her in every one. Being on the lens-end of a camera was her kryptonite, and she skipped about trying to stay out of the frame.
She struck a quick pose and looked at him indulgently. “What are you doing, John?”
“Filming you,” he replied, failing to hide the massive grin spreading across his face. He pulled her in for a kiss, trying to keep the camera on them, thinking that there was nothing else he'd rather capture.
Helen pulled away as she realised he was still filming, a twinkle in her eye. It promised retribution of the best kind.
“Let's go home.”
John saved the video and didn't think about it again for a long time.
She held his hand all the way back up the beach, and he couldn't pull out his phone to film again.
That was their last trip out of New York.
*
John knew that there was an expiry date on their shared happiness. Helen could appear normal for weeks, and collapse in spasms of pain out of the blue. Each one meant spending longer in hospital, getting graver looks from doctors and specialists. The recovery would be slower, Helen's attitude a little darker.
He never knew when it was the last day. No one ever does, he supposed.
They often walked down by the East River, remembering how they were so young and naive. Remembering the coffee they got from the cart, which had been replaced by a taco truck with bad health ratings. Remembering the way that they'd parted after seeing only the first act of La Traviata, so much in pain but so much in love.
When Helen slipped to the ground, an attack gripping her entire body in its fist, John sensed it. There was so much fear in her eyes, a silent sign that she hadn't been ready just yet. She wanted more time. Hadn't they earned it?
“It's okay,” he whispered to her, stroking her hair in the ambulance as she blinked slowly into unconsciousness. “I'm right here. I love you.”
*
The night he came home from the hospital, he was glad the house had neighbours at a distance. He barely parked his car before he started to scream, raging against his grief, and no one heard a thing.
*
The next week was a slow sleepwalk through the motions. Helen had planned for everything, of course. She'd left her will and all the details of the arrangements in a little book in their safe, just as she'd told John. He'd never touched it before now, as though it would be a bad luck charm. But now he kept it by his side all the time, studying the creamy white pages of the journal, running his fingertips over the words she had penned for him.
She had requested that most of her belongings be donated or given to Monica. He hadn't been able to face it just yet, although it was still physically painful to see her toiletries laid out. It was like she was going to walk in at any moment and start brushing her teeth. He would try to steal a kiss while she still had toothpaste foam around her lips, and she would try not to make a mess as she laughed over the sink.
The day of the funeral came. He hadn't been able to see Helen's body, and he didn't want to. He'd seen enough death to know that she wouldn't look like herself anymore. He only wanted to remember her as incredibly alive.
People talked to him in their hushed tones, calculating exactly how to say things without causing more pain, as though he wasn't already openly bleeding to death. The vague acquaintances and strangers flocked to the cemetery and afterwards to his home. He barely recognised anyone, except those who had attended the wedding only five years before. One of them was even wearing the same suit, he noted in a kind of out-of-body way. Different tie, same suit.
The mourners were joined by a discreet catering team that Helen had pre-selected in her instructions. After what seemed like an age, only when it seemed socially appropriate, everyone left the wake within ten minutes of the first person leaving. The caterers left the kitchen spotless and the leftovers under plastic wrap in his fridge.
The front door clicked shut behind them, and John was left standing in his numbness.
Alone, alone. There was only one person he wanted to talk to about how he was feeling, but she was gone.
The doorbell chimed.
John,
I'm sorry that I can't be there for you. But you still need something, someone, to love. So start with this. Because the car doesn't count. I love you, John. This illness has loomed over us for a long time, and now that I have found my peace, find yours. Until that day, your best friend,
Helen.