It started with her.
The girl had moved to the farm closest to Wick's property approximately seventeen months ago. She had three large greenhouses behind her small home. Beside the house grew a large flower garden. John only knew this because he drove past her place to get to town, and occasionally he allowed himself a look. A month and three weeks in, she returned the dog after he had run away. Flowers were stuck in his collar and dark soil clung to his paws but she did not seem to be angry. John apologized but she insisted unnecessary. She noticed John's lack of, well about everything. A week later she left a slice of cake on the porch, insisting it was extra and that she could not eat it herself. Thirteen days after that Wick met her at the gas station, fueling up her 1970 Ford Bronco. She had a basket of daisies in the back seat. She noticed him staring so she gave him one.
The dog liked her. Wick liked her.
Along with her Bronco, she had a 1966 Shelby GT Mustang that she occasionally took out for a spin. John heard the burn outs and invited her to his hangar.
She ran a floral design business out of her farm. John often saw her in town delivering pieces to clients. They usually enjoyed a bottle of wine and leftover cake after she had finished a wedding.
She began to pick up treats for the dog, and sometimes treats for John. Though disciplined he was a sucker for Twizzlers.
He had noticed her accent the moment they first spoke but it wasn't until she introduced him to her special collection of home brewed Kentucky Bourbon did he appreciate her heritage.
Their friendship was simple and comforting. That is why, after neither seeing nor hearing from her in eleven days, John decided to drive over.
The farm was small but well maintained. She had insisted that his dog have the run of her place as well, she claimed he was a good watch dog. John disagreed but let the dog out nonetheless.
The house was a comfortable size, and it shone pale blue in the moonlight. He tapped on the door twice.
No answer.
A sound in the house set John's body on alert.
He tapped again.
This time she answered. One hand carefully tucked behind her back. He could tell she was not expecting anyone. "Hello John," she said as she cautiously closed the door behind her.
"Hey, Mal." He grumbled. He was unsure of how to interact with her in this setting. He imagined this was what a father endured when his daughter missed curfew. A cut on her cheek drew a thin line of blood down to her jaw.
She leaned back against the door, trying to feign casualty, and perhaps would have succeeded if she were not in the company of a world class assassin. Someone moaned from inside.
"Where's the dog?" She asked, her accent deep. White knuckles clung to the door knob.
"Back at the house. Just thought I'd check up on you. Haven't heard from you in a while." This exchange had them both feeling the sensation of something being very off, but also very familiar. She usually kept a basket of flowers, which John knew were mums just because of the time he had spent with her, beside the door. The basket had been knocked over. It felt just as out of place as he did standing awkwardly on the porch, uninvited inside.
"I had to go out of town. Family business." John saw something flash in her eyes. He became very wary of what was to come. He had suspected that the girl was a part of this world for a long time, but instead of feeling satisfied with confirmation of his suspicion, he was left feeling worried instead.
A crash came from inside the house. The girl blinked once, an annoyed smile turned her lips up at the corners. "You seem busy. I'll leave you to it." John said.
She looked back at him in understanding.
He glanced at her feet as she walked in the door. Blood splattered on the corner of her slipper.
She entered the house and John walked back to his car. He could smell the lingering scent of discharge from the firearm aimed at the back of his head before he felt the cold metal against his skin. John took a deep breath.
One shot and the man's blood sprayed onto John's shoulders.
John turned. The girl stood on her porch, Heckler and Koch in hand.
Wick had helped her paint her living room this past summer, but the crimson blood did not complement the yellow hue.
"Delphi Kane. Dinner reservation. 12 please. Thanks, Frankie." She spoke on the phone.
Realization washed over John. He was not one to show surprise, but he was also impressed that she had hidden her identity so well. He had heard her name in circles before. Dangerous circles. He asked her a question with his eyes as she laid down the phone. She answered sarcastically with a dangerous grin.
"You should go." The girl, Delphi, stated. John tried to not be offended. He didn't say anything, but she saw it nonetheless. "Look- I've got some things I need to sort out. You've spent a lot of time getting out of this business. If you stick around here, they'll pull you back in."
John thought for a moment.
Then he helped her move the bodies.
