Cht 1 Excommunicado
John Wick limped gormlessly through Central Park, feeling the weight of eyes on him. For the first time in his life, he panicked. He could see people shifting peripherally around him, checking their watches, their phones, looking for word or some notification that they could spring into action and claim their prize. He kicked his loping gait to a canter, unable to break into a full out run. The shot in his side smarted still, the one in his leg stung like a bitch, and with every step he winced as a frisson of pain shot through him from each gaping, oozing wound. He needed a doctor, he needed a safehouse, and here amongst all these watchful eyes he knew help was nowhere to be found. Not only would he find no sanctuary, but with this many hit takers just waiting to snatch him up as bounty, he wasn't going to make it. But he had to try. The last thing John Wick would do is go down without a fight.
He cut an abrupt left coming out of Bethesda Terrace and headed for Fifth Avenue, passed the Rumsey Playfield, hoping for a hideout somewhere in the manicured courtyards that graced the homes off Fifth. He passed people walking their dogs, heard toddlers arguing for five more minutes before heading home as night began to descend. In the gloaming he carried on, not daring to slow his pace although his lungs ached like a bruise and a cold sweat beaded his brow. His breath rasped out, catching as he felt himself wince in pain. His legs carried him on pure adrenaline nearly passed Madison before he felt a telltale sting just under his ear. He stopped as he heard feet approaching and staggered as the tranquilizer sang through his veins, a temptation to slide into dark oblivion. He barely turned his head before the drug fully took hold, and he heard a tinny voice as he slumped to the ground, "if you could just help me get him into the vestibule, my son…"
John didn't wake until hours later, opening bleary eyes to his surroundings. It smelled musty, old. A library? He glanced around as best he could from the bed where he slept. No windows. It was a basement of some kind, and from the muffled road noise outside he could tell he was still somewhere in the city. As his vision came back into the focus, he spied a large crucifix hanging on the opposite wall. There were more beds down the length of the room, with what appeared to be homeless people on them. He took a deep breath and could smell them, the stench of body odor and bodily fluids, the faint sickly sweet tang of rot and filth. Yet his linens were clean and even as he looked about his immediate surroundings, he saw the IV bag and felt a catheter.
"I see you're awake, Mr Wick," said a cassocked priest. "We will be transporting you soon, but you had to be stabilized and a little down time was necessary once the hit was put out."
"How long?" John groaned, trying and failing to maneuver himself upright.
"You should not move, you're in no condition, and there may yet be people looking for you in the immediate area."
That stilled his movements, and he glanced around at the homeless, all apparently sleeping.
"They either don't know who you are, or they work for the Bowery King, Mr Wick. You have no reason to be alarmed by them."
"Bowery King…" he nearly groaned again from relief. The homeless guy at Bethesda. He'd been barely aware of him at the time, but they were watching as well, and waiting for a chance to snatch him out of the hands of the other hitmen at the park. But to what end?
Within minutes, two paramedics arrived to help him into an ambulance outside. They sedated him again, removing the IV and zipping him into a body bag for transport, before hauling him out on a gurney. To anyone watching, it would appear as though one of the homeless had died at the shelter. Instead, John Wick escaped the grasp of bounty hunters salivating at the thought of the multi-million dollar price on his head. By the time he would wake again, John would find himself in a safehouse, in another basement – this time a field hospital for the underbelly of New York's criminal world. Meanwhile, he slept on as an erstwhile doctor surgically removed the bullets lodged in his body and stitched him up again.
Knowing how hard-headed John might be, the doctor saw to it that he would be kept sedated for a few days in order to begin the healing process. John himself passed in and out of consciousness, never knowing that the Bowery King personally checked in with the doctor, taking instruction on how best to move forward with his treatment.
"He's incredibly lucky he didn't get peritonitis. There was some stomach acid bleed into the intestines from the abdominal gunshot wound, but the more immediate problem is that I had to remove part of the intestines. His leg wound should heal well enough, but still he should be on bed rest for a solid two weeks, and the overall wounds will take another six to eight weeks for him to recover. Until then he'll have to keep his activity level light. No gunfights, no running, chasing, nothing if he's going to survive to see old age at all."
The Bowery King laughed as though the doctor just told a bawdy joke. "We'll be lucky to keep him half so long. I know John Wick. He won't stop. And he likely won't see old age, but we'll see what we can do."
They shook hands before the doctor turned for the door. "I'll check back in a couple of days. Until then the nurses can keep him on a regular schedule and make sure he stays stable. "
As the doctor left, the homeless man from the park stepped up.
"Get Noelle Marais," the King told him. "Somebody's going to have to keep Wick on his toes, and I have a vested interest in him making good on his promises. He'll need backup, and I need someone to keep tabs on him."