Author's Introduction

Hello and welcome! This is a standalone story in the Wickverse, following several semi-original characters (I'll explain some more in a moment). If you're just joining us from the Wickverse, please enjoy!

If you're joining us from the Mass Effect universe and wondering what the hell our erstwhile N7 Fury is doing in the fantastical criminal underworld of John Wick, let me explain. No wait, that will take too long. Let me summarize. It's not a crossover. If you've read my ME story Special Ops, you may recognize some of the names. They're not the same characters, they're the same archetypes. Think of them as... alternate universe variants: some details (especially setting-specific ones) may be different, but they should feel recognizably similar.

Right then, thanks for putting up with some meta-exposition.

Killing Strangers

Now…

The burst of gunfire ripped into the warehouse wall beside her head. Lining her pistol sights up, she squeezed the trigger twice and put two rounds into her assailant's chest. A scream of pain came from her right and she put a last round through his head, dropping him to the floor. She spun to see Fabbro's man twitching, a sword impaling him clear through the back. What the hell?

Somebody behind ripped the sword from his chest and shoved him towards her with a kick so she couldn't get a clear shot. She pushed the dead man aside – and ducked as the blade whistled for her head. She caught a glimpse of his features as he kept moving – so fast – and brought her pistol around. The swing had been a feint though, and his other hand lashed out to parry her wrist, keeping her from shooting him. She grabbed his sword arm in return, clenching it at the wrist as he twisted the blade around, its tip just scraping her leather jacket and failing to penetrate. She fought to bring her pistol around, squeezing the trigger repeatedly. Rounds bracketed him as they circled in a macabre dance, shattering the window behind him.

Her attacker swept one foot behind her ankle, using his advantageous reach and mass to force her to the ground. She curled her legs around his and twisted, levering him off his feet as well. The blade lanced out and she just barely swung her head aside. The tip punched into her hood, sweeping it off her head. His other hand still kept her pistol at bay, so she released his sword arm and lunged into a murderous embrace, bringing herself inside his arms to foil the blade. She reached down, ripped her knife from her waist. The blade sprang out with the push of a button and sent it towards her opponent's head. He pulled back and the edge of the blade just barely made contact with his skin. He dropped the sword, grabbed her neck, and bashed her head into the floor. Stunned momentarily, she couldn't resist as he surged to his feet dragging her along by the neck still.

Then he threw her out the shattered window.

She caught one clear glimpse of his face as she left the warehouse. Huh. She recognized him. The ground rushed up with relentless speed and hit her.

Then…

"Let's go home."

Walking slowly from the wounds he'd endured over the past days, John Wick led his new dog from the pound and into the city night of New York, moving towards the brightly lit bridge in the distance. He left behind a trail of corpses: of outmatched gangsters, of an old friend loyal to the end, of murdered sons and fathers, and a toppled shadow empire.

Wick, in his indomitable will, cared not for what he'd unleashed.

The contract Viggo Tarasov placed upon his head had been pulled. He'd avenged himself and Marcus; Continental would take care of its own. For now, the legendary assassin sought only a modicum of peace. Factions were already maneuvering to rush in and fill the power vacuum Wick left behind as he disappeared into the night like the boogeyman they called him. John Wick left another legacy: the weapons the shadow war would be fought with. Tarasov's open contract had been a beacon of lethal opportunity, kicking off a scramble towards New York City of underworld legends, killers, and predators.

Earlier…

I hate New York traffic. Susan Rizzi steered the rental car through the streets in the early afternoon. The heavy gray clouds creeping in overhead promised rain, while the damp sidewalks and occasional puddle testified to earlier precipitation. Navigating through the grid, she turned down one narrow street and pulled over into a reserved spot before she'd reached the sharp curve of the turn ahead. She got out, adjusted her long coat, and popped the trunk to get her luggage. Out came two large cases and she rolled them up the street towards the hotel entrance.

The Continental stood at the tip of the sharp corner, a towering triangular wedge of carved gray stone and dark windows like murder holes. Susan looked up at the lamps hanging from the column row that comprised the building side, shining warmly like a series of lighthouses illuminating a dark coast. The front entrance stood at the corner base; a black cloth overhang with a stylized C shielded a fanned staircase leading up to the double doors. She climbed the stairs with a case in each hand, politely shaking her head as the bellhops offered to take her luggage. Nobody carried her guns but her. She nodded her thanks as one opened the heavy doors for her.

Right inside the doors stood a pair of wrought iron gates that cranked apart at her approach, welcoming her into the hotel lobby. Gleaming marble pillars lined the warm chamber, stretching up to the arched, vaulted ceiling with its retro chandeliers. Frescoes and decorative designs covered much of the surfaces in sight. Fine leather-backed seats and couches stood interspersed along one side of the chamber, occupied by men and women in a mix of formal clothes. Soothing, quiet music filled the air, masking their conversations. At the far end stood the front desk.

Susan arched an eyebrow at the crowd in the lobby; she'd rarely seen such a line at the Continental. It stretched from the front desk to halfway across the lobby. Nearly everybody had some form of long or bulky luggage – hardly surprising considering the Continental's typical guests. Most of them reflexively looked back towards the doorway as she entered through the gates. Again, unsurprising given their occupations. She took the opportunity to see if she recognized any of the faces present. Tom Diomedes and Melody Dumont stood in the mix; they nodded back towards her. Taking her place at the rear of the line, Susan waited while the shaven-headed, dark-skinned man in suit and glasses manning the front desk checked guests in and made polite small talk. The iron gates behind her slid open; she half-turned and looked over her shoulder at the new arrival.

The man slipped inside the doorway, taking a half-step to the side as he did so in the unconscious manner of one clearing a chokepoint. Asian, she noted. Chinese features, but not entirely; he had hints of Middle Eastern ancestry in his face. Handsome, in a reserved sense. A suit but no tie, with a long tubular case slung over one shoulder and standard bulky luggage in the other hand. His gaze flickered over the lobby and its occupants. She didn't recognize him; not an East Coast regular then, but somebody who could get a reservation at the Continental. He met her glance and nodded politely. Susan acknowledged the other professional with a fractional tilt of her chin, then turned back to wait in line.

The concierge had lost none of his efficiency and the line moved briskly. Susan stepped up to the smooth marble counter between two cylinder shaded lamps. He looked down at his desk. "I have you listed for five nights?" he said, his accent drawing the vowels out.

She nodded. "That's the plan. It depends on business, of course."

"Of course. Will you require access to stored items this visit?"

"Possibly, but not right away." Susan reached into her coat pocket, withdrew an embossed gold coin, and slid it gently across the counter.

He reached out without looking and swept it out of sight. His hand came back up across the counter and slid a matte black key card towards her. "Room Seven-Twelve. Welcome back to the Continental, Miss Rizzi. Do enjoy your stay."

"Thank you. It's a pleasure to be back." Susan nodded and took the keycard. She turned away and headed towards the elevator.

The iron gates slid open, admitting Elijah Wu into the Continental lobby. He glanced around, taking in the décor and the occupants. Some he knew by reputation – like Migg and Kerranus. Most were mysteries; New York wasn't his home turf. Not that this crowd would be exclusively New York professionals, given this new contract's value.

The last woman in the line looked over her shoulder at him; Elijah sensed the appraisal in her gaze and returned the curiosity. Tall, pale skin, brown hair swept aside in a bob cut. He appreciated her delicate facial features and the keen presence in her eyes. Her pale cream coat ran down to mid-calf, catching the eye with a floral pattern along the sides and waist that faded from pale blue hues to soft pinks. She carried two reinforced luggage cases; so did most people waiting to check in. Elijah nodded to her; she barely returned it. He saw the change in her eyes as she turned back to the front desk, dismissing him as an immediate threat.

Elijah stood in silence as the line progressed forward. The woman before him got her keycard and walked towards the elevators, eyes flickering over him as she passed. Up close he saw that the flowers on her coat weren't a print, but actual blossoms incorporated into her garment. He watched her from the corner of his eye, then turned towards the counter.

The concierge gave him a polite nod. "Good day, sir. Have you a reservation?"

"Yes. Under 'Wu.'"

Another nod. "Our records show it's been two years since your last visit. I have you for eight nights?"

"For now." Elijah slid across a gold coin across the counter.

The concierge replied with a keycard. "Room Seven-Thirteen. Enjoy your stay."

"Thanks." He tucked the card into one pocket. "It's… Charon, right?" The nod he received was so slight it could just have been the concierge glancing at his ledger. Elijah returned it nonetheless and turned to the elevators. The woman in the flower coat stood waiting before a black lattice gate that looked like it came from the turn of the last century. Despite its seeming age the lift system ran quietly and smoothly; like many things about the Continental, surface appearance and underlying truth could be different things.

The elevator car slid down to the lobby. The woman hauled the gate open, stepped in, and turned to face forward. She moved to one side, giving him room. Elijah stepped in with a polite nod; their luggage made it slightly cramped but not uncomfortably so. "Floor?" she asked. Her voice was low and smooth like fine brandy.

"Seven." He pulled the gate shut and she hit a brass button. Just the one, he noticed. They both stood facing the front of the car as it ascended, quiet classical music piping from disguised speakers. The elevator halted and he opened the gate, a little alcove with dark purple carpeting and elegant two-tone walls. Elijah stepped out and heard the woman follow, instinctively alert despite Continental's rules. He kept moving, turning into a corridor lined with black glossy black doors and lamp basins. Carrying his luggage, he strode down towards his room, relaxing slightly as the woman hung back just enough to stay out of reach – a professional courtesy he appreciated, and one that the ill-mannered upstarts among the China coast societies could stand to learn.

Elijah moved to Room 713, inserted the keycard and cracked the door open. He turned back, smiled politely to the other professional. She nodded back, moved to the door opposite his, and pushed her luggage in. She shut the door behind her, and he did the same.

The hotel room had that New York mix of retro architecture and contemporary furnishing, all done with an understated elegance that spoke of abiding familiarity with old wealth. Susan set her luggage down in the closet, opened the first case, and began hanging up clothes. She slipped the coat off and sat down on the bed, sighing at the positive luxury after her last job. Speaking of… her phone had several new messages, one of which pertained to the open contract she was after. She opened it and frowned; the thing was simple, direct, and sure to cause trouble.

John Wick contract cancelled effective immediately per VT order. No payments enumerated. Cease all completion attempts.

"Damn," she said. So much for this trip. It looked like her original reservation at the Continental had been wildly off the mark. That came with a sudden relief, if she was honest with herself. Every professional in the underworld worth their price knew who Wick was – and the almost ludicrous exploits assigned to his name. He'd dropped off the radar around half a decade ago, when she was just starting out. Vanished like a ghost. Some said he got out, got married. Others claimed that he'd finally been killed. Susan had always doubted those stories. If somebody had taken Wick down they'd have made it known the length and width of the shadow world. And now out of nowhere came a multi-million open contract on him – by the man who'd been his principle employer. Or at least, there had been. Now there were going to be a lot of disappointed professionals. At least the Continental was unchanged, and New York had no shortage of distractions. Worst case, she could enjoy a vacation. After Brazil she could certainly use one.

She spent the first night looking out the window, listening to the fierce rains come in waves to beat against the glass like muted gunshots. The never-ending sounds of the city at night drifted through the air – sirens, horns, and the growl of engines. It felt heavy, momentous – like some drama was playing itself out elsewhere with the contract's cancellation. Eventually, tired as she was by the travel, Susan went to bed and shut out the world, relieved that she didn't have to figure out how to kill John Wick.

The vibrating buzz of her phone's alarm jolted her awake. Mumbling and cursing, Susan rolled over and fumbled for the infernal device. Killing the alarm, she climbed out of bed and stretched. A day of leisure, she decided. Coffee and something sweet in the late morning, perhaps. While the Continental had exceptional food services, some things she liked… outside the Continental's realm. She left the hotel soon after, dressed for the weather, and headed for the little Parisian patisserie she knew.

She really should get something better to eat for brunch, she knew, but one sniff of the green tea crepe cake broke that resolve. She'd only gotten one bite in when her phone buzzed. Susan contemplated ignoring it for a moment. Finish the cake and the coffee. The moment passed quickly. She opened the message.

Rizzi, heard you're in town with no contract. Work to be done. I want to arrange a meet to discuss opportunities. Bianco 2 PM today. The Blacksmith

Susan sighed. "Fabbro. That was fast." She checked the time and sighed again, looking mournfully at the cake. She wouldn't have time to properly enjoy it if she wanted to make the meeting on time.

Elijah opened the door to the penthouse, walking through the first partitioned chamber to a room with a round table. Scrolls of Chinese calligraphy hung from the red and gold walls – characters for strength and loyalty. Glazed porcelain stood on stands interspersed around the room. A man in a fine suit sat at the table; it took Elijah a second to recognize him. 'Eighth' Tiger Shun, the American east coast head of the Silver Mountain society. He was younger than a man of his position typically would be, barely a sprinkling of gray hairs visible at the temples of his immaculately coiffed hair. His face was round and smooth, but couldn't hide the sharp cruelty in his eyes. Something important must have happened for this meeting to be taking place.

Flanked by two guards, Elijah stopped the proper ten paces away and brought his hands up before him, clasping one fist into his palm. Shun smiled emptily at Elijah. "Mister Wu," he said in Chinese. "A pleasure to meet you at last. You come highly spoken of by our west coast associates. How's your Mandarin?"

"Passable," Elijah said. "It isn't my primary language, I'm afraid."

"English then," Shun said, switching languages. He waved Elijah to the seat opposite him at the table. A fine tea set sat before him on the table, and Shun poured a measure but left the cup on the table. "I understand you came for an open contract?"

"Not anymore. It was pulled."

"Do you know why?"

Elijah shook his head. "Didn't say."

"The buyer is gone."

Elijah's eyes widened. "Gone – as in… Viggo Tarasov's dead?"

Shun nodded. "His body was found by his helipad last night. He was trying to run from something."

"John Wick. It must be. I guess that leaves his son in charge then."

"No. Iosev is dead as well. It seems Wick's anger was originally directed at the stupid boy."

"Christ. He just decapitated the strongest house on the east coast."

"Indeed." Shun tapped the table with his fingertips. "This is an opportunity like none other. When the archer's bowstring is broken, the crouching tiger springs forth from the grass," he said in Chinese.

Elijah raised one eyebrow fractionally. Shun was talking about a shadow war: a messy, bloody affair no matter how flowery the language. He'd seen it in China and California more than once. "Why am I here?"

"Your… services to the west coast brotherhoods are well known. I wish to put your skill to use."

"Who's the target?"

"No, no. Not like that. At least, not immediately. This is greater than one bullet in the right man. This requires a proper youxia, a skilled retainer at arms. A blade in the sheath capable of both striking and warding."

"You want me to just stick around on call?"

"A crude way of stating it, but accurate enough."

"I'm sure you have-" Elijah barely stopped himself from saying 'thugs.' "-personnel."

"Of your skill? Not many." Shun leaned back. "I understand you are an associate of the Silver Mountain and not a sworn member, but many among our ranks look to you as a brother anyways – a surrogate, perhaps. There are other factions waiting in the shadows, we will undoubtedly have to fend off challengers."

"So you want me to stay in New York just in case."

"Just in case. Thirty thousand a day with the standard bonus for unpleasant incidents. We would contact you in the event of any business, so you would be free to pursue any other interests that do not oppose the Silver Mountain." Tiger Shun glanced at his watch, then tapped the teacup with two fingers, signaling that the conversation was at an end. "Do excuse the rudeness, but my time is short. I require an immediate answer."

Elijah hesitated for only a moment. "I'll take it."

"Excellent. Xiao Ma is waiting outside. She has the details of today's work."

Getting up, Elijah clasped his hands together again and bowed slightly. Tiger Shun had already turned his attention elsewhere. Without saying anything else, he turned around and left to get his work details.

Bianco was one of the premier Italian restaurants in the city, known for its authentic cuisine, extensive wine list, and impeccable service. Among those immersed in the underworld it was also known as the preferred front for Marco Fabbro, representative of certain… old world interests on the American east coast. Susan pulled the heavy wooden door open and stepped into the comfortably dim interior. The head waiter was a thin man she didn't recognize. He looked up as she entered. "Good afternoon. How may I assist you?"

Susan nodded towards the rear. "I have an appointment with the Blacksmith."

The man didn't miss a beat. "Of course, ma'am. Right this way." He spun on his heel and led her through the restaurant on a winding path that both showed off the opulent furnishings and gave anybody in the rear plenty of time to flee or prepare a response. Typical Fabbro. The "waiter" halted before a polished black door, unlocked it, and held it open for her.

A pair of men waited on the other side in a small antechamber leading to a staircase. The fine cut of their Italian suits did nothing to disguise the air of ready violence that hung about them. She only recognized one of them, a lecherous made man who went by 'Jonesy' Tony. The other one looked her over, held out a fabric lined tray. "No weapons," he said.

Susan reached into her coat and pulled out her pistol slowly, holding it by the slide. She laid the Czech-made P-07 onto the tray, then brought out her automatic knife – a slim, oblong black rectangle. She set it next to her pistol and looked at the two guards.

"Arms out," Tony said. Sighing, Susan held her arms up to her sides as Tony stepped around behind her. He ran his hands up her legs and over her body, out across both arms, then back across the front of her chest. She bit back her annoyance as his hands lingered on certain parts longer than strictly necessary. "She's clear," he said, stepping back around. Tony returned the glare she shot him with a grin as he passed a hand over himself. "Come on, doll. You know you'd love to get your legs wrapped around this."

Susan rolled her eyes. "Are we done?"

"Go ahead, ma'am." At least the other guy could maintain some decorum of professionalism. She walked past them and climbed the stairs. As she moved out of sight she heard him say quietly to Tony, "I thought she'd have more knives on her, y'know?"

"Susan!" Marco Fabbro sat in the VIP lounge, a roomy but intimate space of contrasts: sleek modern furniture of smooth leather and gleaming hardwood surrounded by practically Roman stonework and Renaissance paintings and sculptures. Fabbro was solidly built, a big man accustomed to fine things. The cut of his suit showed the bulk wasn't softness; his pecs outlined the slender, needle-like pin lacing his shirt pocket and his broad face could have been chiseled from granite. He rose from his table and offered his hand; she shook it once, then he raised the back of her hand to his lips and planted a kiss on it. "Lovely as always, huh?"

"Fabbro." She nodded to him and to Edmondo, the spectacled, middle-aged man who served as Fabbro's advisor sitting at the same table. He returned the nod and went back to his computer.

"Sit, sit. You want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks." Susan sat opposite him and folded her hands on the table. "What's this about?"

"Straight to business." Fabbro nudged Edmondo. "Gotta respect that, huh?"

"Quite." Edmondo adjusted his glasses, his voice a baritone seemingly at odds with his nondescript appearance. "It's been some time since we've procured your services, Miss Rizzi."

"I've kept busy. What's going on?"

"Got a job for you," Fabbro said.

"I figured. Who?"

"Not like that. You hear about Tarasov?"

"Pulling the Wick contract?"

"Gettin' whacked."

Susan blinked. "Viggo Tarasov's dead? Guess he didn't pull that contract in time."

"You know what this means, right? Things are gonna be a mess until things shake out. You know the leverage he had on this city was unreal, huh? He had everybody who was anybody eatin' outta the palm of his hand, from the governor on down. Now he's gone."

"The balance of power has shifted," Edmondo said. "There will be… factions scrambling to take Tarasov's place. It's probably no surprise that we're one of many."

"Dog eat dog," Fabbro added. "Last one standing takes it all."

"And you want me to do what?" Susan said. "Take out the heads of all your competitors? I hate to break it to you, Fabbro, but I'm no John Wick."

"What? No! Cool it, Rizzi. Sweet Mary, no need to reenact the Boogeyman's last dance." Fabbro bobbed his head. "At least, not yet. We'll keep things civilized for now, huh?"

"Then what's the job?"

"Think of it as… independent contracting, representin' our interests. Exclusive contract: you work for us when we need your services."

"Thereby taking me out of the market for competitor contracts?"

"Bingo. Look, Wick's contract brought in troubleshooters from all over. This city's a powder keg waiting for a match, and you all-" He waved a hand at her, "are like sparks dancing around. People are moving already to snatch the pros up."

"People?"

"Tarasov's remnants, the cartels, those Silver Mountain chinks, you name it."

"You worried about a contract out on you? I'm not a bodyguard, Fabbro."

"I know, I know. But you are a troubleshooter, huh? And trust me, 'fore long there's gonna be trouble needs shootin'."

"For how long?"

"Can't say for sure. How long did it take old Viggo to secure his grip on the city, huh? Don't worry," he said at Susan's expression. "I get you're an independent woman. But you help us out, we help you out, huh? I'll pay you twenty percent above standard rates for each… situation you help resolve."

"That much?"

"It's a buyer's market out there, Rizzi. And we're on the clock here, tick-tock. What's it gonna be, sweetheart?"

Susan smiled. "It's not like I have anything better to do right now."

"Good." Edmondo looked up from his laptop. "Marco wasn't exaggerating about timely necessities. If you accept, we're tasking a crew for this afternoon. Tarasov's primary stash was destroyed yesterday, but we know he had at least another safe house in Brooklyn. There should be leverage there. If we can recover it, it'll put us in an advantageous position."

"Sounds simple enough," Susan said. "Why do you need me?"

"The safe house was secret. Its existence and location were… disclosed yesterday in a rather spectacular fashion."

Fabbro snorted. "John Wick fucked the place up like you wouldn't believe."

"What makes you think there's anything left to recover then?"

"He evidently wasn't interested in its contents," Edmondo said, "just its occupants. He killed everybody present and left."

"Sounds like Wick."

"Indeed. But now its public knowledge, and we undoubtedly won't be the only ones attempting to recover Tarasov's intelligence. Hence, your presence."

"In case your men encounter other interested parties."

"Bingo. You're a troubleshooter." Fabbro leaned forward. "I'm expectin' trouble, and you're going to shoot it."