CHAPTER ONE
. .. .
Empty Space
. .. .
On every corner was a face.
As he raced through the city of New York, the rain cascading down around him and soaking through his tarnished and stained suit, he could see people watching his every move as he ran past them. With his trusty dog companion running beside him – loyal and devoted to the bitter end – John didn't feel comforted nor reassured in that moment. He saw the sneers on their faces, a blur of expression whizzing by him, and though it was quick, he had seen it in all its glory: the glint of pure pleasure upon their faces as they realised his time was running out and wanting nothing more but to claim the prize attached to his head.
He stole a glance behind him, the figure of Winston in the distance now small and retreating the further he ran away from him.
Time was on his side in that moment, and though it wasn't reassuring as ticking sounded – an imaginary ticking bomb – in his head, growing louder and louder the longer he ran for.
An hour to get out of the city was a long time, but New York City was unpredictable and unreliable. The rain was fighting against him, causing his clothes to become heavy and distracting; an uncomfortable bulk weighing him down.
"Time's running out, Mr Wick," a voice called out in the distance and he looked for the direction of the voice. The voice had been masked by the patter of the downpour and the mass of people who walked on the sidewalk. He observed his surroundings, the voice echoing throughout the streets. His own mind was playing tricks on him, becoming another enemy who wanted him out of the picture.
It was a witch hunt in every sense. They wanted blood and they were closing in on him.
But fear never once clawed at him, the familiar sensation of it eating away at the coolness of his skin never once making his body react. Survival instinct had kicked in long before this, only in the moment when he had put a bullet hole in Santino's head. He knew as soon as the bullet exited the chamber that he would be in trouble, and that this was always going to be outcome. Winston had been kind and had given him a time limit to get out of the city; all of which he didn't and shouldn't have done, but like his dog companion who remained by his side, Winston cared for him even when he had done wrong.
The older gentleman still wanted to protect John until the end.
He came to a stop, his legs aching and protesting against any further movement. He wasn't sure of how long he was running for, but he felt the thickness of his thighs as they were pumped from running. His lungs heaved in his chest and his heartbeat furiously and violently against his ribcage. He knelt down and stroked the wet coat of his dog.
"I'm sorry, Dog."
The dog whined in response, but more so about the rain than the threat against them. He pulled out his phone and dialled the number he knew off by heart – a number he never forgot despite her harsh warning to. He placed it to his ear and listened to the dull ringing tone. It went on and on, until just as he was about to end the call and giving up on his shot in the darkness, she picked up.
"I got the text, John," she said, slight humour in her voice. "Fourteen million. That's a lot of money. They really want you dead this time, huh?"
"I need your help," was all he said, which caused her to fall silent. He allowed his gaze to scan his surroundings, his eyes meeting those who stared back at him.
"I did tell you to forget this number or I was going to shoot you," she scoffed on the other end. "You seem to have forgotten that in your old age."
"You owe me," John cursed. "After everything. I still have your marker."
There was silence on the other end of the phone. He continued; his voice rushed. "And I know that you hate me. But I need your help, and I'm claiming it."
"What if I follow through with my plan?" she mused thoughtfully.
"Of killing me?" John asked. "I wouldn't blame you."
"You're really up shit's creek without a paddle, aren't you?" she asked, her voice growing serious. "What did you do?"
John started moving again, beckoning the dog to follow him with a whistle. They began to lightly run against the harsh downpour as he figured out whether to tell her the truth or keep it from her. He decided on the former. "I shot Santino in the head. On Continental Grounds."
"Holy shit," escaped her mouth, and then after a beat, she let out a small chuckle. "He was an asshole. I'm assuming he came back to claim your marker?"
"Yep," he said. "Ordered me to kill his own sister."
"He never had a backbone, did he?" she responded with a scoff. "Had other people do his dirty work for him."
"Will you help?"
"Did you?" she bypassed his question, and he noticed her tone was softer and vulnerable.
"I didn't kill Gianna," John confirmed to her. "She wasn't going to let anyone take her death away from her."
She let out a sigh. "Defiant to the end. Or incredibly stubborn."
"Will you help?" he asked again, more urgently this time.
He could see her in his head: holding the phone to her ear as she paced the apartment, her gaze on the downpour outside her window. He could tell she was biting her lip and pondering whether he was worth risking her life for. He knew she would be hesitant – who wouldn't? – but that she was thinking about it. He knew her in every way. Her words were like bullets, but her heart was warm.
"Depends," she said. "What do I get out of it?"
"A promise."
"A promise means nothing in this world, John. You know that."
"But I mean it," John responded. "Surely that means something."
There was a moment of silence on the other end, then he heard her sigh.
"Fine. When do you need me?"
"Thank you, Annabelle," he whispered, genuinely. "Can you be at the Continental in ten?"
"Make it five," she said, then ended the call.
. .. .
Annabelle Vivienne Huntington was the apple of her father's eye.
Winston had been promised a son but when he was handed a bundle after the twenty or so hours of his wife's labour, he had gotten quite the surprise. A screaming new-born with a set of lungs on her had been wrapped up in a pink blanket. He had stared at her in almost disbelief; even the doctor had told them that they were expecting a boy, but she had been a surprise in every sense.
Tiny fingers had curled around his pinky finger, the cries and screaming having quietened at the human contact and warmth he was providing her with. He had watched his daughter with as much wilderment as she watched him with, with brand new eyes blinking at the light and at what was to be her new world. Her legs would kick occasionally against the restraint of the tight swaddle, looking for a bit of resistance in the material. He was scared to hold her, in case he broke her, but his heart had opened, and he silently promised to keep her safe no matter what.
But one thing was certain, she was going to break his heart.
Winston knew it as soon as her large blue eyes focussed on his for the very first time.
And in that moment, as John Wick approached the Continental to find her standing there, she had broken her father's heart and betrayed him for the man she loved.
John took in her frame and her appearance. It was a little different from the last time he had seen her. Her short, curly, brown hair was now longer, straighter and blonder, the rain darkening the honey shade and causing her curls to spring back to life despite her trying to hide her hair under a hood. Her attire was no different however, and as she held her leather jacket close to her body, he took one last glance of her with her unaware of his gaze upon her.
She turned then and watched him approach her, the steel grey dog beside him, and faltered. He caught her reaction to the mere sight of him, but he made no movement, out of respect to her, to let her know that he had seen her falter.
"I was expecting you to not be here," John commented as he slowed, his muscles protesting against him.
"You look like shit," she raised her eyebrows at him as she observed him. "The suit remains slightly untouched, which always surprised me even then."
He pulled out a coin from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She glanced at it for a moment then back at him.
"I don't want to be bought, John," Annabelle told him with a furrow to her brow. "You needed a friend. I'm not going to take that off you, and you can't expect me to."
He placed it back in his pocket and glanced down at his dog. The dog sat down despite the wet ground.
"No," she then said, with disbelief in her voice. "You called me to look after a dog?"
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't need help," John said, looking back at her.
"A dog," she said slowly, as if the words were not of her native tongue.
"You forgotten how to form words now?" John smirked, then watching as she rolled her eyes at him, he stopped. "I rescued him. He was going to be put to sleep. I need… him to be safe, if I don't come back."
Annabelle looked at John – truly looked at him – and felt herself falter again. The very fact that he had said it himself showed her just how serious he was. She saw the grief in his eyes, the sorrow that clung to his heart like an entity, and the burden on his shoulders weighing him down. Though he looked like the John she knew, or had known, she could tell he had been dealt a hand and it had turned his whole life upside down.
"What happened to you?" Annabelle asked, her voice soft.
He avoided her gaze, the burn of his stare moving from her and back down at his dog. He composed himself after a moment then shrugged his shoulders. "It's a story for another time."
She simply nodded, knowing there might not be another time. "What's your plan? Do you have one?"
John bowed his head, his wet hair falling into his face. He combed it back slick against his head with his fingers.
"You don't have one, do you?" Annabelle whispered; her worries being confirmed. "John, they're going to kill you. This is serious… this is not—"
"I know," John whispered, distant. "Hey, at least I'll be out of your hair soon."
Annabelle could only watch him with an indescribable sadness in her eyes.
"But I'm going to fight," he whispered, reassuring her. "I'm going to fight until I have nothing left."
"I can help with that," she said, her voice desperate. "I can do more. Just say the word—"
"—no," John said softly, with a shake of his head, a moment of remembrance passing between them. "This is my fight. You are already doing me a great service by looking after my dog, and I already owe you my life for that."
He glanced at his watch, tilting his wrist to him. He had less than forty minutes before his time was up and his life depended on every single minute.
He closed his eyes and sighed.
The calm before the storm was somewhat pleasant.
He wasn't sure how he was expected to feel, but he knew this was not normal. He should be angry, bitter and frustrated at the world. But he felt at peace, as if Helen was offering him some comfort beyond the veil.
Annabelle pulled her jacket open and pulled out a glock and handed it to him. He hesitated before he took it, bowing his head in gratitude.
"You better come back," Annabelle said after a moment. "And if you don't then I'll kill you myself."
John smirked at that. "Is that a promise?"
Annabelle smirked, then shook her head.
"I'll be seeing you, Belle," John whispered, watching as the use of her nickname causing her heart to break even more. Her lip quivered and her eyes filled with tears.
She softened her face and nodded sadly. "I'll be seeing you, John."
And then, with a blink, John Wick – the man, the myth, the legend – was gone.
. .. .
The Continental welcomed her home like an old friend.
Though the reception was anything but. Her appearance after so long caused the attention to move towards her, and they watched as she walked down the long and narrow foyer towards the front desk with John Wick's dog beside her feet. Charon, a familiar face, watched her approach him with a genuine smile despite the sense of hostility in the air.
"Hello Ms Huntington," Charon said with a smile. "How may I assist you today?"
"I need a room for the night," she told him.
"Do you require boarding for the dog?" Charon asked, his gaze falling onto the familiar dog. As he raised his gaze onto the woman once more, he knew John Wick had called her.
Annabelle shook her head. "That won't be necessary. He'll be with me for the night."
Charon nodded. "And will you be dining with your father this evening?"
"Do you think that's wise, Charon?"
Charon considered the options for her. After a moment, he sighed. "How did this transpire this way?"
"Tu en sais plus que moi," she said with a shrug.
Charon simply hummed in response and pulled out a set of keys from the drawer of the reception desk. She furrowed her brow.
"The penthouse, ma'am," Charon told her, dropping the keys into her hand. "I will put you under a different name so that your father won't know that you are under his roof."
"Thank you, Charon," she mustered up her best smile. "Will you notify me if he comes looking for me?"
"Mister Wick?"
She shook her head. "My father. I understand John is—"
"—excommunicado," the voice of Winston came from behind her. "Yes, you'd be correct. May I ask what you are doing here?"
Annabelle smirked at Charon before she shook a deep breath to steady herself. She turned around and allowed her gaze to wash over the familiar frame of her father. Everything about her was her mother, but her height was her father's.
"I'm getting a room for the night," Annabelle explained. "That's not against the rules, right?"
"You abandoned this life, Annie. You choose to leave this world." Winston met her gaze for the first time. "Those privileges of being within this world was stripped from you as soon as you turned your back on me."
"I didn't turn my back on you," Annabelle raised her eyebrows, a defiant teenage rebellion peeking through her poised form. "You did that all by yourself, father."
"Are you helping him?" Winston asked, his voice stern in a fatherly manner. "Because I'm hoping that dog you have with you is not John Wick's. I don't have to look at it to know that it is."
Annabelle pondered for a moment. "If I was helping him then surely I wouldn't be here?"
Winston raised his eyebrows before sighing. He pulled out his Nokia phone and dialled the all too familiar number. After one ring, she heard John's voice on the other end. "Have you roped my daughter into helping you, John?"
Annabelle shook her head, ran her tongue along her teeth in aggravation. She scraped her teeth along her bottom lip and turned to Charon who was watching the awkward father and daughter reunion. She pulled a coin out and slid it across the table to him.
"Boarding for the dog, please," she told Charon, who simply nodded and input the data. "Make sure he's safe."
"What are you doing?" Winston's voice filled her ears, knowing that the question was towards her and not the man on the other end of the phone.
She simply scoffed and shook her head. "Call it off. And I'll return."
Her father fell into silence. Then shook his head. "I can't just call it off. He killed someone on Continental Grounds. If you did the same, I'd hang you up to dry too."
That was all she needed to hear, before turning back to look at her father. Winston stood defiant as his daughter searched his eyes.
"I know you would," Annabelle sighed. "I wouldn't expect anything different from you."
"Ah, if it isn't my daughter," Winston commented sadly. "Forever breaking my heart with her betrayal."
"Tell John that his dog will be safe," she told her father. "And tell him to say the word."
"What word?" Winston asked, which caused the man on the other end of the phone call to falter. There was mumbling on John's side, and Winston furrowed his brow as he repeated his word: "Barcelona. What does Barcelona mean?"
Annabelle allowed a smile to etch across her face, her mind racing with memories of them together in Barcelona: laying together in bed, legs entwined and hearts racing; dancing in the cobbled streets as music played around them; the feeling of freedom and love within their hearts. She nodded mostly to herself and smiled at her father. "Goodbye, father."
"If you walk out there then you are excommunicated, too," Winston sighed, terror in his voice. "If you choose John, you are not my daughter anymore."
Annabelle faltered then and nodded sadly. "You decided that years ago though, didn't you?"
"The life you've made for yourself will crumble down around you," Winston warned her as she passed him.
"Sometimes something is worth giving up," Annabelle told him quietly. "And other times, something's worth saving."
And with that, Winston and the rest of the inhabitants of the hotel watched her leave in a stunned silence.