The jet touched down gently on the wet tarmac. He inhaled sharply as he was shaken awake by the lightly bouncing landing. He opened his eyes and looked around. His blanket had slipped onto the floor and his skin was clammy from the chilly air inside the cabin. He sat up slowly and stretched his legs without touching the seat in front of him with his Timberland boots. He was used to first class, but having an entire jet to himself was a treat, as he usually shared one with about 20 large men.
As the vehicle rolled to a halt, the seatbelt sign turned off with a ding. He slid open his window visor and peered out. The sky was dark- he hoped it was about 9pm, as scheduled. Rain drizzled softly against the glass and fog rolled around the lights on the runway. He unbuckled and stood. Beside his long, comfortable seat was the walkway, then a sofa. On it, his jacket. He picked it up and slipped it over a tight black tee. He grabbed his carry-on from the floor beside the couch, a briefcase filled with papers for choice few eyes.
"Thank you for flying with us, Mr. Kozak," said a voice over the intercom. The captain had made a few announcements regarding turbulence throughout the flight, but the passenger was unnerved. "Your ride is waiting for you outside. Please exit when you're ready."
He rubbed his face, trying to fight off his tiredness, rubbing against the slice on the bridge of his nose that had not healed from the fight he started on the ice a few weeks before.
The stewardess suddenly arrived at the front of the cabin. She drew the curtain and unbolted the jet door. "Have a nice trip," she said smiling politely. He smirked at her coolly. Slight surprise on her face, she pointed at her neck, then his. He looked across the cabin to a mirror on the wall and noticed a red lipstick stain on his neck. He rubbed it off with his palm, then swung the briefcase over his shoulder as he moved to the exit with his free hand in his jean pocket. He winked at her as he passed, and she blushed and looked away.
He tramped down the steps and into the brumous night. The private runway was small, with just a few hangars with chained doors, save for the one his jet would be entering. He stepped onto the pavement and spotted a man in a suit standing under a light beside a dark green Buick.
"Mr. Kozak," said the man in a gruff voice. He stood, shoulders back, hands crossed over his belt, in a gray suit with a black shirt. His hair was was greased back and dark, matching his short beard and moustache. The light reflected off his Aviators.
"Call me Sokol," said the young man in a thick Russian accent, lowering his briefcase and extending his right hand.
"John," said the stranger, shaking Sokol's hand firmly. "The boys will unload the merchandise. I'm told your, uh, invention is soon to follow." He motioned behind Sokol, where several men were unloading heavy black duffel bags from the jet. "Shall we get going?"
Sokol nodded and entered the car at the motion of his driver. When both men had entered and shut the doors, John reached a hand into the back seat. Sokol flinched, and reached for the door handle. The driver laughed. "Relax, they're not that dangerous." Sokol turned to look in the back seat. There was a grey blue-nose pitbull napping on a blanket. Sokol scoffed out a laugh, then turned to buckle his seatbelt.
"John Wick," Sokol said as the Buick exited the gated facility and drove down an unmarked road towards the highway. "Heard a lot about your work."
"Nothing personal," he remarked, not glancing over.
"I don't mean recently. I know you have done much before. Like that Brazilian cartel job?" Sokol whistled low. Sokol was in no way associated with any mafia- he was simply a thief, and a good one, but also a very shrewd when it came to information.
"You know about that, huh? Did your research, kid." Wick smiled. He did not think anyone knew about his previous work outside Viggo's posse or those who sought refuge at the Continental Hotel. Wick liked to keep it that way, and wondered how Sokol found access to his work.
Having proven his prowess with intel, Sokol changed the subject. "Nice ride," he said, smoothing a palm over his armrest.
"It was a gift," noted Wick. "Bain thought we should pick you up in style. Got a ride?"
"Marussia B1," the young man replied coolly.
Wick bit his lip. "That's- that's nice too."
Sokol smiled. His car was one of the many luxuries of his salary and fame. He sighed through pursed lips. All that was behind him now, but he looked forward to what riches the future held. Through casual conversation, Sokol watched raindrops race down his window until the car reached inner-DC. Sokol gaped at the monuments he had only before seen on television. Wick knew the others were waiting on him, but he took special care to drive Sokol past some major sights. The Washington Monument, the Capitol Building, the White House… Sokol held back the urge to whip out his phone and take pictures to send his ex-teammates.
He would miss them. He would miss the roar of the crowd when he scored a goal, or the limelight as he walked the streets of Saint Petersburg and was approached for autographs or embraces from adoring ladies. He would even miss bouncing against the walls of the rink and bloody noses. He softly felt the bridge of his nose. The deep cut remained. He quickly glanced over at Wick's face and noticed the same scar. They were alike in this regard, but Sokol imagined they had more in common than both having their noses shoved in.
As Wick drove past the presidential home, Sokol looked briefly, then leaned his seat back and lounged with his hands behind his head. Wick initially considered the kid was jet-lagged, but looking over, he noticed Sokol's furrowed brow. He was thinking deeply. Wick supposed it was time to head to the safehouse and introduce the him to the gang.
Wick wondered how Sokol would get on with the others. It was clear Sokol had something unique to bring to the table- this kid was a genius, or so Bain described. An engineer designing a drill which could challenge a Vegas safe- and at 24-years-old? Wick knew Dallas would appreciate anyone who had something strong to offer the team. Sokol seemed energetic and snarky, so making friends with Wolf, Chains, and Hoxton would be easy. He was the same age Houston was when he started casing houses, but instead of raiding dresser drawers, Sokol was ripping into bank vaults. This might cause some superiority complex, but everyone seemed to feel that towards Houston. The ladies would eat him up, not just because Wick knew Sokol was handsome, but because he was so young. He smirked as he imagined Bonnie and Clover pinching his cheeks and messing up his hair when they passed him, getting on with him as if they were siblings. Jiro was collected around everyone, and would go to great lengths to save you face, even if he hated you. If he had a problem with Sokol, no one would ever know.
Sokol knew what kind of man Dragan was. When he stopped in Croatia to meet with the Butcher and the jet was stocked with illegal weapons, she had told him all about Dragan. He knew to watch his back, but something about his work as a double-agent actually conforted the Russian. This meant Dragan was shrewd, as was he, and Sokol appreciated quick wit and cleverness. Wick, however, could only guess how the two would get along.
The only thing Wick was concerned with was Jacket. Wick enjoyed Jacket's company- never a word more than needed to be said (even if it was through a recorder) and they had the bond of being ex-military and working with Russians in the past- though sometimes Wick was taking Russian orders instead of names. He wondered how Jacket would react to the new addition to the gang. He considered how he would introduce the two as he listened to Sokol mumble across the car.
"Blyad," Sokol whispered, trying to get comfortable in his seat. He sat up and re-adjusted his seat.
"You good?" asked Wick, wondering what was going through Sokol's head.
"Can you pull over?"
After a minute, Wick parked in the rear of a decaying building. The dog in the back seat perked up. As soon as the vehicle stopped, Sokol leapt out and kicked a rock into a brick wall.
Wick thought it best not to ask, but stepped out and leaned against a rusting garage door, lighting a cigarette under a light on the wall shrouded by thick fog.
"Chto ya zdes' delayu?" Sokol asked himself, wondering what he was doing in the US. Yes, the opportunity for millions of dollars was staring him in the face, but it was still only an opportunity. He was just a kid- what if he messed up? The only thing he had to offer was a drill, and some muscles and good aim from hockey. Back home were thousands of adoring fans, some with his name tattooed where he had signed it, some having given him things in thought of the women, of the cars, of the thrill of the game. He already kissed all of that goodbye, but if he messed up one heist and ended up in jail, he would not even have money as a cushion. He was generally unfamiliar with the American legal system, and knew hardly anyone in this nation would recognize him as the hockey star worshipped in Saint Petersburg.
He had not considered all this on the flight over. When Bain had contacted him about joining the world-famous Payday Gang, he jumped at the offer. He was focused on the sweet money, on the potential fame, but it was not until now that he realized that may never come if his skills did not match up. He ran at an old metal trash can and kicked it with his heavy boot, denting it and causing it to roll away across the asphalt.
The pitbull let out a bark from the backseat, having been startled. "Uspokoit'sya," said Wick, telling Sokol to settle down.
Sokol laughed. For a moment, he forgot Wick must have known fluent Russian. He ran his hands through his blonde hair and sighed heavily.
"Talk to me, kid."
Sokol frowned and shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. "Maybe I was too eager to come. I must start at zero and work way up."
"You'll go far, fast. You're a smart kid. Now, let's-"
"Smart enough to design drill, yes, but drill has not been assembled, has not been tested. Smart enough to be heisting in Russia, but I know nothing about America. I have much to learn before I can play with heisters like Payday Gang."
Wick scoffed out a chuckle. "Do you think we brought you all this way to teach you how we work? This isn't an apprenticeship."
"You are one to talk- John Wick, great assassin, many kills under belt and millions of dollars in bank account. You are true American bada**."
Wick laughed. "That may be true, but things didn't start that way. I had to work my way up from little better than a loan shark. But you, Sokol, you've got more experience than most of us did at your age. You're already better off. Russia's a big place, and you've busted some of its biggest banks. We've only just now considered targeting the Benevolent: the oldest bank in the US, but not nearly the biggest."
"What if drill does not work? What if Sokol gets busted and spends rest of his life in American jail cell?" He cracked his neck.
"Don't doubt yourself. Seems to me you play it pretty cool, but you've got some underlying doubts. Don't let anyone see those."
Sokol frowned. He was usually very confident, at least at face value. He was team captain for a reason- he was a strong leader with strong will. Everyone always saw the best of him- his teammates, the press, the ladies. This was his first time drawing things out like this- and to a stranger. Could he confide in John Wick or the rest of the Gang? He got the feeling Wick wanted him to give it a rest and suck it up, but Wick was more concerned for Sokol. Wick knew showing weakness would be any fighter's greatest downfall. Sokol gritted his teeth.
"I don't even know anyone here- no comrades, no glory like in Russia!"
"Not yet," called a voice from across the lot.
Sokol and Wick looked up. There stood a man in a gray suit with a purple shirt and tie. His dark hair was heavily graying, as was his short beard. He stepped out of the shadow of an alleyway. Wick threw down his cigarette and stamped it out. He considered introducing the two men, but he was certain Sokol could sense who he was facing.
"Bain only brings on the best," Dallas smiled to one side, revealing a sharp canine. "You'll be a billionaire in no time." His words were powerful and demanded a comfortable silence in the air. Wick noticed Sokol had calmed significantly, perhaps out of embarrassment in front of the Payday Gang leader, or maybe Dallas's presence had some sort of settling effect on his nerves. The Russian rolled his shoulders and approached Dallas.
"And that's who you got," he said, standing just two feet from Dallas. "Best heister in Russia and soon, America."
Dallas glanced at Wick. He smiled. He liked this confident side of Sokol and hoped it would stick. Wick shook his head, slightly frustrated his words seemed to have no effect on Sokol and that Dallas could walk into a conversation and command it with his confidence. He opened the driver door and his dog hopped out. He whistled and the dog followed him to the garage door, which he rolled open and ducked under. He then went through a door. Sokol heard voices of other men greeting him inside the old building.
"Your welcoming party," Dallas grinned. "Ready?" he asked, wondering if Sokol wanted to meet the gang, but Sokol also felt another question in the air. Ready to start the rest of your life? He was ready, and he was excited. His insecurities would have to stuff it. He swallowed his sullen feelings and put on his usual smug face. He was ready to enter the Payday Gang. He stepped inside with Dallas.