It wasn't the first time a heist had gone sour, nor would it be the last. The getaway from the bank had been clean, but Bain's voice in their ears told them the true objective – a way to flush them from the safehouse and take it. The group was torn, crammed in the back of the blue van, the vehicle ripe with sweat and adrenaline – did they go back and spring the trap or keep going to set up somewhere new?

/ This is Bain. /

Cursing and grumbling ceased as the electronic earpieces came to life.

/ …Consider your compromise…resolved. You have a guest waiting for you. /

"Well, what the ever-loving-fuck does that mean?" Houston spat, earning a perfunctory elbow in his side from his older brother.

"…I suppose we'll just have to find out," Dallas replied staring across at the other two. "Thoughts?"

Chains shook his head, brow furrowed. "I have nothing against checking it out."

Wolf nodded, peeling off his wig and throwing it to the floor of the van, cursing as it bumped over a pothole. "I like our little home base. Be nice if we could keep it, yes?" Wolf agreed, a toothy smile stretching his lips. "Make sure we roll out the welcome mat all fucking proper."

They arrive and the property is dark. As they pull in and around they notice the burnt husks of armored vehicles and several slumped corpses littering the drive. Blood soaks the front steps – a man in tactical gear lies mostly decapitated over the threshold.

More bodies litter the hallways and the rest of the house. Taking the rooms one at a time they find blood, bullet holes, and the broken bodies of slain men. In one room, they find a gore encrusted pencil left on the kitchen counter and Chains swears, then starts laughing.

"Goddamn shit-fucking son of a whore. A fuckin' pencil. Who the fuck can do that?!"

The others express surprise at Chains' break from stealth before he continues:

"John? You working again?"

A voice answers back from the darkness of the room they just left, low and rasping slightly as if the owner is unused to speaking.

"Afraid so. You're lucky I was in the neighborhood – I'm about ready to clock out for the evening."

"Chains? You know this guy?"

"We go back. Though last I heard, Baba Yaga had retired."

"…Didn't quite work out. I figure I'm owed a favor."

"And what right does some random shithead have to demand things of us, huh?"

One of the gang loses his temper – Houston, of course it's Houston – and charges into the room to hit John. With a smooth motion, Wick spins him up and over his shoulder, twisting him into an armlock punctuated by the cold flash of steel ghosting against his pulse point.

"I wasn't asking. But I pay my dues." Wick's voice is a low growl, cutting through the spew of expletives from his struggling captive. A shift of his grip sends the younger man gasping a high-pitched sound as the change pinches a nerve in Houston's shoulder.

Chains hold up his hand, empty and placating. "…John – let him go, will you? Not everyone has heard of you. Especially outside your circles."

"Alright. I'll be in touch."

He shoves his captive forward, kicking him in the back of the knee to send them stumbling before dancing back into the darker edges of the room.

By the time they hit the light switch, he's gone.

"Chains, what the fuck? Who was that?"

"That was… an old friend. We were in the marines together. Later on… John went on do become rather infamous in the underworld. They called him Baba Yaga – The Boogeyman. Him demanding a favor like that – it could be good for us."

"How so?"

"What, you think he did this-" Chains gestures at the carnage littering the safe house, "-with help?!" He shakes his head.

"We're alive right now because he decided that us owing him for taking out the trash was worth more to him than our lives. Fuck."

John Wick proves a ghost. The gang doesn't realize that the assassin is dogging their steps until a well-placed sniper shot makes itself known during one of their closer encounters with what passes for the local law enforcement, and when the backup the dirty cops had radioed in simply fails to show. Chains ends laid up with a broken collarbone when he gets a text from an unknown number:

? / That's two.
Chains / WTF – gimme more than that, man.
Chains / Fucking seriously! [Your message could not be sent.]

Tracing the text proves useless – a prepaid sim-card on a number no longer in service. Bain and the reach of are worryingly unable to pin the elusive man down.

/ Not surprising that he'd be staying off the radar, / their benefactor comments. // The price on his head has gotten rather large, even for him. /

The knowledge that they have a stalker in an ex-bratva hitman kicks the team into new realms of vigilance and paranoia. The Baba Yaga has laid claim to two nebulous favors – there's an uneasiness that arises with the speculation of when he'll decide to collect.

It's more than a month later when the Baba Yaga comes calling for his dues.

The heist goes well, the dollar value second only to the impact against the Murkywater PMCs payment system. There's a rare period of downtime afterwards, quiet and calm as it ever gets when waiting around the safehouse for the heat to die down, doing small things to keep the edges of their skills sharp and their camaraderie as cohesive as it gets.

Chains gets the phone call – after all, he knows John. (He knew John, years ago. From the stories he's heard he's not sure how much of the methodical marine still lives in the deep shadow of his hellish reputation.)

/ I want in. /

"Shit. Thought your type stayed out of our end of things."

/ Exactly. /

"You're in some kind of trouble then. You helped us out to obligate us into returning the favor."

/ I could insist if you prefer. /

The cold delivery of the thinly veiled threat sends chills down his spine. "You gonna bring the heat on us?"

/ … /

How is it that patient silence is more threatening than ominous words? "Right, stupid question. I won't lie when I say your skills would be an asset to the team – but there will be pushback from the others on this." Houston and his dislocated knee came to mind.

/ I'll be in touch. / There's a click, then dial-tone.

"…Shit."

John Wick is a man of focus, determination, and sheer will. It's something Chains remembers from their time serving together, and something that any digging into his more recent background turns up.

/ More than eighty men dead over a dog and a stolen car, / Bain confirms. Even the master of sounds unsettled when he confirms the story. / From what my sources can confirm, that was just the start of it. /

"Damn. It would probably be best if we don't piss this guy off." Wolf whistles lowly from where he's leaned up against the kitchen counter. Houston has his arms crossed, mouth drawn in a scowl as he curses. Business as usual.

Dallas, ever the voice of reason, smiles wry and resigned as he speaks up. "He's already passed the 'interview' if you think about it."

"Well that's just fucking fine and dandy," Houston spits, snarling. "We can braid each other's friggin' hair and talk about life! I don't want anything to do with this asshole."

"…That's something I don't think we'll get much of a say in," Wolf says, slow and careful.

Chains looks up from where he'd been cradling his head in his hands, bent over the kitchen table, and stops dead when he sees what has caught Wolf's attention.

Houston pulls a gun from the small of his back, an expletive screeching its way past his lips, even as Dallas bolts from his chair to face the shadow in the doorway.

"…" John Wick stands in the hallway, watching them like a viper, quiet and assessing. There's a large paper bag tucked under one arm, the other hanging loose at his side.

"The fuck, man?!" Chains is almost surprised to hear his own voice.

"…I did say I'd be in touch. …May I put this down?" He shrugs the arm holding the paper bag. "Consider it a peace offering." He steps forward without waiting for a response, falsely casual, but his eyes flick between them with hawkish intensity as he sets the bag on the table with a dull clink. He unrolls the top and reveals a bottle of bourbon.

Dallas' jaw drops.

"That's a bottle of fucking A.H. Hirsch Reserve! Some peace offering."

Wick shrugs. "The previous owner thought so."

Later they learn that aside from the focus, determination, and sheer will, John Wick also possesses a gift for massive understatement.

Notes: Everything I know about Payday I learned from the Wiki, apologies if the gang is out of character. Kill count for the first film is 77 - WoG says 84. If you include him taking back his car in Chapter 2, you can add anywhere between five to ten more. A.H. Hirsch Reserve is one of the most expensive bourbons in the world at over $1000 a bottle. How John got it is up to you.