Arthur Wick

Eames groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, dislodging his glasses. Numbers danced before his eyes—was that a six or a zero?

With a sigh, he pushed the paperwork aside and checked his watch.

It was nearly eight in the evening. He glanced up, unsurprised to find that he was the last in the office. The American branch of Interpol valued their nine-to-five working hours highly.

Eames swept his glasses off his face, chucking them onto his desk. He gathered his phone and keys and shrugged into his leather jacket. He'd been looked at in askance when he'd turned up wearing it that morning, but Eames was beginning to care very little for what his American counterparts thought of him.

Fuck Kitty for sending him over here. Fuck the Americans for their shit food. And fuck the godforsaken Italian Mafia for having a prolific international drugs trade based out of New York City.

Eames stalked out the building and marched along the street, paying little heed to where he was going. He was burly enough that most people stepped out of his path; the mood he was in, he almost was willing to barrel down anyone that didn't.

The air was fresh, his breath misting like smoke before him, making Eames crave a cigarette. He was out, trying to quit, but it was days like this that made him regret chucking his last packet. He tucked his chin against his chest and glared down at the pavement. The streets were quiet, although never empty, as he'd expect for a typical Tuesday night.

The soft refrains of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody made Eames pause outside a pub. Even with his hands jammed into his pockets, his fingers were getting cold. He'd ended up in the dodgy part of Manhattan, so he unclipped his badge, tucking it into his wallet, and scanned the front of the building.

The Penrose Steps was on the bottom floor of a brick industrial warehouse. The name made Eames grin, despite himself, as someone had painted that pattern onto bricks above the door. The windows glowed a warm gold and alley next to it smelt of beer and piss. In truth, it smelt like home, and that was what made Eames push open the door.

Inside, it looked like any old pub, with wooden tables and drunk patrons and a bar that was probably as sticky as the floor. On the walls, there were various nods to architectural curiosities around the world, photographs that looked like they'd been taken by a tourist, not a photographer.

The bartender caught Eames's attention immediately. He was tall and slim, dressed in slacks, a white shirt, and a waistcoat, of all things. His dark hair was slicked back, and for a heartbeat, Eames thought he'd somehow wandered into the mob's territory. Then his senses returned; he was in Manhattan, not the Bronx.

The bartender nodded, raising a hand in acknowledgement. His forearms were bare, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing sinewy muscle and tanned skin.

"Evening," he said, his voice low and gruff.

It was possibly the first time someone had greeted him politely since Eames had stepped a foot in New York. He shivered, nodding back.

"Bloody chilly outside."

The bartender paused, glancing up with his eyebrows raised.

"Couldn't have come across more British if you tried," he said. "You'll be wanting something hot, then?"

Eames stomped forward, glad he'd been enticed inside by the warmth of the pub. He perched on a stool, considering the range of drinks.

"The name's Eames. And an Irish Whiskey would just be spiffing, old chap." He winked.

"Coming right up." The bartender did not appear to be amused with Eames's Britishisms, nor his feeble attempt at flirting.

"Don't look so distraught. Arthur's always like that."

Two seats down, a grizzled wolfhound of a man was nursing a whiskey. His cheek was grazed and there was blood on his knuckles. He looked ex-military; dangerous.

"You've had a bit of a rough night, then," Eames remarked.

For a moment, the man didn't respond, then a wry, bitter smile flickered across his face.

"You should see the other guys."

Eames suspected they were sprawled in a dumpster somewhere, severely injured, if not dead. He met the man's gaze, considered trying to bring him in for a moment, then decided he'd rather not risk life and limb pissing off someone with a look in their eye that suggested they were simply waiting for death and happy to take anyone else along for the ride. It wasn't as if he had any evidence, and Eames preferred not to get stabbed in dingy pubs he'd only walked into looking for some warmth.

"Enjoy."

Eames jumped, returning his attention to Arthur, who presented him with his drink. It was steaming lightly, with a liberal application of whipped cream. Delicious.

"Thanks, darling," Eames said.

"Not my name," Arthur responded. "That'll be eleven dollars."

Eames paid, unsure if Arthur or the mystery stranger two seats down was more interesting. A find like this had certainly cheered him up, at least.

When Arthur didn't walk away as Eames had expected him to, Eames fixed him with an inquisitive look. Arthur sighed, leaning forward.

"My brother's had a shit couple of weeks. His wife died, then his dog. Don't mind him, okay?"

"Ouch."

"Yeah." Arthur's brown eyes were earnest. "He's taken it badly. Just don't piss him off."

"Scouts honour."

"I'm not deaf, Arthur," his brother said, not looking up.

"Fuck off and drink up," Arthur replied.

Eames took the opportunity to sip at his coffee, enjoying the smoky undertones. He licked his lips free from cream, hoping to provoke a reaction. Arthur merely arched a brow and turned on one foot, striding away to serve another customer swaying at the bar.

Arthur's brother snorted.

"Not often turned down, are you?"

Eames shrugged like he couldn't care less.

"You win some, you lose some." He took another sip. "Go on then, what's your story?"

The man grunted. "No story."

"A name, at least," Eames said. "I can't keep calling you 'Arthur's brother' in my mind."

The man considered him, his gaze momentarily turning sharp before dulling once more.

"John."

"Arthur and John, a couple of average Joes," Eames murmured. "No story, my arse."

John gulped down the rest of his drink, then reached over the bar, topping himself up. He tilted the bottle toward Eames.

"Don't mind if I do," Eames replied, offering the mug. The whiskey mixed in with the dregs of the coffee, but he'd drunk worse things in his life.

"So, what about you? What's your story?"

Eames sighed, trying not to think about the badge burning a hole in his pocket. He was pretty certain that even if the pub wasn't being run illegally, John was mixed up in trouble of some sort.

"New job, shitty coworkers. Same old, same old."

Just then, his phone began to ring. Eames finished his drink, tucking a ten dollar note under the saucer and fished the mobile out of his pocket.

"Eames."

"We need you to come in."

It was Agent Staines, Eames's direct supervisor. He was short, stubby man puffed up on his own importance, with the voice of a chain smoker and the heart of a shark.

"What's the deal?" Eames said, biting back his frustration. "I clocked out less than an hour ago."

There was a pause on the other end.

"Really? Fuck, it doesn't matter. Shit's gone down with Tarasovs."

"What kind of shit?"

"They're all dead."

"They're all dead?" Eames echoed. A twitch of movement caught his eye and he realised John had stiffened. Eames shouldn't have spoken aloud, more fool him.

"The count's at fifty and rising."

Eames felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. That kind of number indicated a massive turf war. More deaths would likely follow. This was not going to end well, not at all.

"Fuck."

"Yeah."

He grabbed his jacket, covering the speaker on the phone.

"Give Arthur my thanks," Eames said.

John jerked his head into a nod.

Eames rushed out of the pub, jogging down the street.

"I'm on my way," he said.

"Hurry," Staines replied, and hung up.

The office was in chaos, agents milling around looking weary and confused. Staines was holding court in the conference room, and when he caught sight of Eames through the glass windows, he beckoned him in. Parker, Jameson, and Salvetti were already there. Salvetti was scrolling through news feeds on his iPad with one hand, while rapidly typing on his laptop with the other. Parker was yawning, paging through a paper report, ignoring the glare that Staines shot her. Jameson, the prick, was leaning back in his chair with a bored expression upon his face. He was a tall guy, blonde haired and blue eyed, far too pretty for his vile personality.

Eames opened the report that was slid his way, scanning the relevant details. New York had become a bloodbath in less than twenty-four hours. Not pretty.

"I don't get it," Jameson said. "The Tarasov's are a big deal, but that's not our case. We're after the Italians, not the Russian fucking mob."

"It soon will be your problem," Staines growled. "Eames, care to explain why?"

"Demand and supply," Eames said. "Sure, the Italians supply coke and opiates, but the Russians had the market cornered on weed, MDMA, meth. Not any more, obviously." He tapped the file he was holding. "Giovanni D'Antonio is going to swoop in and clean up after them, making a killing in the process. He's been trying to get a proper foothold in New York for years."

"If the Albanians don't get there first," Parker added.

"Or the Columbians," concluded Eames. "It's going to be messy."

"So that's why it's our fucking business," Staines said, shooting Jameson a pointed look. Jameson rolled his eyes in return. "We need to find out who the fuck took out the Russians and why the fuck we didn't know anything about it. Was it one of the big three, looking for a bigger profit? Was it a smaller gang, hoping for an opportunity? We need to know. Parker, I want-"

"Uh, I've got a lead," Salvetti interrupted. He looked up from his screen, pushing his glasses further up his nose. He was a scrawny, olive-skinned man with a pathetic goatee and little use for interpersonal relations. Still, he'd been the only one on the team not to give a shit that Eames was pushing in on their operation when he'd been reassigned from London.

"Well, go on," Staines said when the silence stretched.

Salvetti flipped his screen around to display CCTV footage of a shootout that had taken place outside the Little Russia Church before it had been burned down less than twelve hours ago.

"NYPD has suspected that this church was a front for the Bratva for years, but we've never had any proof." Salvetti shrugged. "Until now, at least. This man waltzed into the place and torched it, killing several people in the process."

Salvetti zoomed in upon the face of a man with shaggy dark hair, a scruffy beard, and a desolate look upon his face.

It was the man from the pub, John.

"Shit," Eames said. He wished he'd gone with his gut instinct and tried to arrest the man earlier.

All eyes in the room settled upon him.

"I've seen this man before. Sat next to him at the bar, even." Eames checked the time on his phone. "It's only been twenty minutes; he might still be there."

He scrambled to his feet.

"Drive, and take Jameson with you," Staines snapped. "Go, go."

Eames ignored Jameson's complaints, "why me, why Eames?" and burst out of the room, pointing at the nearest agent.

"You—got a car?"

"Yes," she stuttered, eyes wide.

"Come with me, garage, now."

To her credit, the woman straightened her back, grabbed her jacket, and strode toward the lift.

"I'm Eames," Eames said. Jameson darted into the lift after them, just as the doors were about to close.

"Starling," the agent said. "Claire Starling. Where are we going, Agent Eames, Agent Jameson?"

"A fucking newbie?" Jameson said, scowling. Starling pursed her lips but didn't respond.

"Piss off, Jameson," Eames replied. "We're going to The Penrose Steps. It's a couple of streets down. There's a man there we need to take in for questioning."

"I know it," Starling said. She had dark hair clipped into a sensible ponytail and solemn brown eyes.

The lifted dinged, letting them off in the garage. Starling strode forward, the lights on a silver Toyota flashing.

"Shotgun," Jameson called. Eames snorted, but didn't argue.

Starling, it turned out, drove like a mad woman. Eames clutched at the handle on the car and thanked whatever god that was out there that he'd put on a seat belt. In the front, Jameson was groaning, clutching at the dash.

The Toyota ran a red and screeched to a stop outside the pub. Eames threw himself out of the car, thankful to still be alive. The pub was lit just as invitingly as before, making Eames ache for home, and a team that he knew, and his own bloody car.

"Looks like a shithole," Jameson said, the prick.

"You're a shithole," Eames retorted and pushed open the door.

John was no longer sat at the bar. Arthur was behind it, however, standing there with his arms crossed. His gaze landed on Eames, then Jameson, then the badge on Jameson's hip.

"I thought you looked like trouble when you walked in," Arthur said. His brow was furrowed, as if deep in thought.

"Where's John?" Eames replied, not in the mood for banter.

"Who?" Arthur asked. After a pause, he smirked. "No one called John here."

"What? John. Your brother. Sat right here, had a rough week—you said both his wife and his dog died."

Arthur looked at the empty barstool Eames had gestured at and shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know anyone named John," Arthur repeated.

Eames blinked, then narrowed his eyes.

"Don't fuck with me, Arthur. Where is he? He's wanted for questioning regarding a case Interpol is investigating."

A smirk was creeping across Arthur's face. He unfolded his arms, spreading them wide, and shrugged again.

"I don't know anyone named John. I don't have a brother, either. But, gentlemen, be my guest. Take a look around, have a drink. Perhaps you'd like the same again, Mr Eames?"

"What a fucking waste of time," Jameson grumbled.

Eames glanced around the bar. To sweep for prints they'd have to get a warrant and to ask the customers for statements they'd need proof that a crime had been committed.

"Would you mind coming with us, then?" Eames asked through gritted teeth.

"When the bar closes. That'll be in four hours, gentlemen. Now, if you don't mind, I have actual customers to serve."

Jameson had returned to the office to report back to Staines, while Eames seated himself at the bar and ordered continuous refills of coffee. Arthur had taken to ignoring him, which suited Eames just fine. Instead, Eames scrolled through the news on his phone and the periodic emails that Salvetti sent him with updates from Interpol. The Italians had torn apart the remains of the Russian mob like vultures on a corpse. Abram Tarasov was holding together the bare bones of an operation in Queens, to little avail. Parker was working on getting Eames a warrant for the CCTV footage inside The Penrose Steps, but even expedited it had to be signed off by a judge, and no judge was going to be awake at this hour.

When even the news quieted and Parker's emails trailed off into meandering suppositions, Eames slid his phone away and tried to remember everything he could about Arthur's brother.

His initial impression had been correct: the man was a cold-blooded killer. He remembered seeing blood on the man's knuckles—hopefully they'd be able to get a DNA match from one of John's victims.

Eames sighed and took a swig of coffee, even though it had long gone cold. To call the men that John had killed 'victims' was a curious conundrum. He'd murdered them; there was no doubt about that. But many of the men, should they have been imprisoned and trialled for the crimes they'd allegedly committed, would have faced life sentences, or the death penalty in one of the other States.

In fact, if Eames had been the one hunting them, and if they'd shot at him first, Eames would have been well within his rights to have shot back and called it self-defence.

He grimaced. This was why he hated organised crime. No one was truly in the right. There was no 'innocent' party. Sure, John had killed upwards of fifty men. But many would argue those men had deserved it.

"Can I get a refill?" Eames asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes, Arthur was standing before him, arms crossed once more.

"You're pretty persistent, aren't you?" Arthur said. He almost sounded impressed.

"I'm stubborn," Eames corrected. "It's a common trait found among those of us that grew up under the perpetual rain cloud above London."

"Huh. No refill, I'm afraid. I'm closing for the night."

Eames blinked himself properly awake and pushed himself to his feet. When he looked around, he realised the pub was empty, the lights dimmed.

"Shit."

"Are you still taking me in?"

Upon inspection, Arthur appeared weary, even though his suit was immaculate and his posture perfect. He'd pulled on a smart blazer over his waist coast. He looked delectable, wrapped up in an armour of his own design.

"Are you going to give me anything?" Eames tucked his hands into his pockets, frowning. "Don't bother answering. You're not. Or you don't think you're going to."

Arthur shrugged.

"Tough shit." Eames jerked his head toward the door. "It's a fifteen-minute walk. Let's go."

They walked to Eames's office in silence, which Eames appreciated. He wasn't sure he'd be able to hold a conversation with a man that was withholding the location of a dangerous criminal, not even one as handsome as Arthur.

The night guard buzzed them both in and Eames escorted Arthur to an interrogation room; they doubled as holding cells. It was a basic, white-walled box room with a single humming light that dangled from above, and a metal table and two chairs bolted to the floor.

"Water?" he asked.

"Please," Arthur responded, settling into his chair with the look of a man who'd been in a cell before. "Sparkling, if you have it."

Eames snorted and slammed the door shut.

The bullpen was buzzing, twenty-four-hour news flashing across a screen mounted on a wall, agents chattering on their mobiles, and Staines's team still in the conference room Eames had seen them in before. Even though it was nearly two in the morning, the city's seedy underbelly was likely only just coming alive.

"Nice to see you, Eames," Jameson sneered as he entered. "Took you long enough."

"Fuck off," Eames grumbled.

"Shut it, the both of you," Staines said. "Sit." He pointed at a chair. Eames slouched into it, rolling his shoulders.

"So shit went down, we all know that," Staines said. "Salvetti's been keeping you all updated, so you better have read your fucking emails. Parker's not had any luck with her contacts, but we've managed to get agents on the ground at the scene of every major crime. They all have the same report from eyewitnesses. This man, John, murdered a fuck load of criminals and waltzed away with nary a scratch. Eames, tell me what you know."

"Piss all. I went into the pub, ordered a drink. The man that served me, Arthur, told me his brother, John, had had a bad day, wife and dog recently deceased. John was sitting next to me, grizzled, vet, blood on his knuckles, looked like he might shank me if I looked at him wrong. We exchanged a few words, nothing meaningful, and then I got your call. When I went back, John was gone, and Arthur was feeding me some cock and bull about there never being a John in the room in the first place."

Eames sighed, feeling the long hours of the day.

"Arthur's in interrogation room two. I'm going to talk to him in a sec, with your permission. We've already established a rapport."

"I should do it," Jameson interrupted. "This is my speciality. I'll get the fucker to talk."

Eames hardly liked the sound of that. From a glance at Staines, he could tell that Staines was reluctant too. The man was a bastard and a bully, but he knew what he was doing. Eames stared through the glass dividers and into the office, tuning the subsequent argument out. He was too tired to shout down Jameson as he normally might. If they wanted to fuck up the case, they could do it. It wasn't as if Eames had much sympathy for the victims of John's rampage. He didn't like the consequences, but he'd come here to sting the Italians, and perhaps the manoeuvring the Italians would have to do to secure their position would lead to them making mistakes that Eames could take advantage of.

"I've got something!"

Salvetti had obviously been trying to catch their attention for a few minutes. He was flushed pink, staring fixedly at his screen when all eyes settled upon him.

"What?" Staines snapped, dropping his argument with Jameson.

"I got into the CIA's database. They've been keeping secrets. This man? He's an internationally renowned assassin, and his name is John Wick."

Eames dropped the folder he'd compiled upon the table before Arthur. It slapped against the metal, echoing around the interrogation room.

"So," Eames said, and let the room fall into silence.

Arthur stared back, impassive.

"You're a tough little bastard," Eames admitted after five minutes had passed.

Arthur smirked.

"Your brother. Tell me about him."

"I don't have a brother. I never have. Take my fingerprints, my DNA—you'll see that it's true."

Eames flipped open the file and spun around the picture they had of John. Arthur leaned forward to inspect it and then yawned.

"Don't know him."

Anger boiled up inside Eames, but instead of letting it get to him, he used it, let it make him insouciant. Maybe Arthur thought he was safe with Eames, thought he knew Eames.

Nobody knew Eames, nor the depths he'd reach into for justice.

"You don't know him. Are you sure? Because I remember that face. Hard to forget it."

"I'm sure. Never see him before."

"Fair enough. I wouldn't want to know him either. He's a scumbag, a good-for-nothing, a piece of shit. People like him should have been drowned at birth. He murdered at least sixty people in less than a day. Makes me wish New York still instituted the death penalty."

Arthur met his gaze and held it. Eames flashed him a grin.

"If I were you, I'd be scared. He's your brother, right? Did he abuse you as a child? I bet he did. I bet he pushed you face first into a toilet until you thought you were going to die, and then laughed when you cried. I bet he cut you with a kitchen knife, and told you that if you tattled, he'd cut out your tongue."

Something in Arthur's eyes darkened. Eames took this as reason to continue.

"Did he fuck you? Did it hurt? Did he hold a knife to your throat and tell you that it was meant to hurt, that you deserved it? I think he did. I think-"

"STOP IT."

Arthur stood, his chair clattering to the floor.

"Stop it," he whispered. "He's my brother. He's never touched a hair on my head. He would never hurt me."

"Don't be fucking naive. You can't trust him! He kills people for a living."

"Not any more," Arthur growled.

"Sixty-eight and counting in the last twenty-four hours," Eames snapped.

"There were extenuating circumstances!"

"Don't be such a fucking idiot," Eames said. "He's a murderer. Why are you protecting him?"

Arthur visibly took a deep breath and sat back down.

"Is it still murder if every man that died was Bratva?" he whispered. "Fuck you, Eames. You think you know shit? You know nothing."

Then Arthur grinned, white teeth and eyes like a shark.

"You have twenty-four hours until you have to release me, less, now. You're not legally allowed to hold me for any longer than that. Even if you get me to talk, John will be long gone. You're just wasting your time."

Eames huffed.

"Perhaps. But I want John. I want to catch him. He's key to the case I'm working. I'll be on his tail— he'll never be able to stop running."

"John's a ghost."

Looking at Arthur, Eames could tell that he meant it. If John was gone, he was long gone, and they'd have no fucking chance at finding him.

"Why he do it?" Eames asked, realising that Arthur might have insight that Interpol didn't. "Who sent him? He's your brother, he gave up that life, fine. Why he get back into it?"

At this, Arthur sagged into his seat and shook his head. He snorted a bitter laugh that entirely lacked mirth.

"You won't believe this bullshit," he said. "I hardly can."

Eames raised his brows.

"Go on."

"Iosef Tarasov stole his car, and killed his fucking dog."

For a moment, Eames thought of Poppy, his chocolate labrador, currently being looked after by his twin sister. He could easily imagine how murderous he might feel after discovering that someone had attacked her, had tried to kill her.

"Shit."

He blinked away thoughts of his dog and swallowed, realising that no one had sent John Wick after the Russian mob. Instead, one man had decided to decimate them single-handedly. As none of the organised crime syndicates had called in a hit on the Russians, they'd all be desperately scrambling to get themselves in order.

The Italians ought to think themselves very lucky indeed. They had the strongest foothold in New York. In a convoluted manner, John had done Eames a favour. The bigger the operation, the easier it was to take down.

Eames lurched out of his seat. He needed to get surveillance on the D'Antonios immediately.

"I'll be back," he said, and headed up toward the conference room. He took the stairs two at a time, passing Parker on her way down. He needed to speak to Kitty, he needed to update Staines, and he needed to speak with his contact in the Italians.

He'd just reached the seventh floor when alarms started blaring.

"Level Five security breach," an impassive male voice announced. "Level Five security breach."

Level Five meant that a dangerous criminal had escape one of the holding cells. Eames froze, staring at the door leading to the bullpen, before whipping back around. He swung himself over the edge of the railings on the stairs and used the metal bars to climb down to the second floor much faster than he'd walked up from it, jumping from ledge to ledge. Landing on the second floor, he withdrew his Glock 17 from his shoulder holster, and slowly twisted the handle on the door out of the stairwell.

The corridor was empty.

Eames stepped forward, wary. The alarm continued to blare. He headed toward Arthur's cell, a sickening feeling solidifying in his gut.

"Hello?" he called.

There was no reply.

The door to the interrogation room was shut. Taking a breath, Eames pushed it open.

Parker lay prone on the floor. Blood spilled from a wound in her neck and had formed a dark pool beneath her. Her blonde curls were sticky with it and her face had been beaten.

"Shit," Eames said, stepping forward to attempt first aid. He froze when the cold muzzle of a gun settled against the back of his neck.

"This is a mistake," Eames said, heart racing. How had he misjudged the man so badly?

"Shut up. Put your hands out to the side and drop the gun."

Eames gritted his teeth and did as he was told. He was no hero; he was not going to die today, not for this bullshit.

"Take two steps back," Arthur said. "Left. Turn right. Go in."

Eames was directed into the room that held all the footage of what happened inside the holding cells. He clenched his fists and stared blankly at the screens.

"Watch the last ten minutes," Arthur said. "Do it."

The footage was blurry, black and white. CCTV was shit, even in Interpol. Eames watched it, all the same, wondering what Arthur was trying to prove.

Parker let herself into the room. Eames frowned. It went against protocol to interfere in another agent's interrogation. It led to confusion, miscommunication, badly handled cases. Then she smiled, placing a pencil on the table, saying something to Arthur which caused him to tense. Arthur then had looked at the CCTV, then back at Parker. He held up his hands in surrender; it was quite clear what he was trying to say.

That was when Parker drew the gun. Eames watched as Parker shot at Arthur, who moved with superhuman speed, grappling with her, and eventually incapacitating her with a pencil.

"A fucking pencil," Arthur muttered behind him. "What a fucking joke."

"I don't understand," Eames said, although he did.

It was quite obvious that Parker wasn't working solely for Interpol. Perhaps she never had been. Bugger it all to hell.

"You're coming with me," Arthur said. "And you're getting me out of this concrete offence to architects all around the world, and then we're going to work out who that woman was working for, and maybe once we've done all that, I'll help you bring down whichever criminal enterprise you want."

Eames's voice was hoarse as he spoke. He'd always known that he fucking hated New York and hated Americans even more so.

Fuck them all.

"Deal."

Word Count: 5028

Hogwarts Auction Day 8 Round 1: Dialogue - "You can't trust him! He kills people for a living!" [5028 Words = 100 coins]