Chapter 2

The city rolled by outside the SUV, buildings and people passing in a blur as Fabbro's convoy powered through for the defunct safe house. Susan Rizzi stared out the closed window, watching the gray sky drift overhead. That also gave her the chance to shut out the inane jabber from the rest of the car's passengers. She hoped there wasn't anything waiting for them at Tarasov's building; if the quality of conversation corresponded with their value in a fight, she'd rather eat her pistol than go into battle alongside this batch of loudmouthed idiots. Hell, if she had to listen to one more recap of whatever reality television Durante was watching she wasn't sure she'd be able to hold back the urge to draw her weapon and just shoot everybody in the car.

The city drifting by looked dreamily peaceful, but felt within her bones that was an illusion. Viggo's hold on Manhattan, for all the casual brutality he'd been capable of, had been a sort of paradoxical peacekeeper. None of the other organizations had been able to oppose him alone, and Viggo had played all of them against each other, keeping old enmities and grudges at the forefront. She'd picked up some gossip upon returning to the Continental, and all of it pointed to one conclusion: things were going to get messy.

"Hey Rizzi." The remark drew her attention. It came from Thrace, a man with nondescript features and a medium build – and one of the more tolerable ones in Fabbro's crew so far. She looked over to see him half-turned in the passenger seat. "You know what the hell's goin' on? Rumor is Viggo Tarasov got taken out."

Susan nodded. "That part's true, as far as I know."

"Shit. Who coulda done that?"

"Baba Yaga."

Thrace's eyes widened. "I thought he got out."

She chuckled. "Does anybody ever really get out?"

"Good point. So we shouldn't have to worry about payback for clearing this place out?"

"It should be empty."

From the rear seat next to her, Durante looked over with a half-sneer. "Why are you tagging along anyways? You're not part of the crew."

Thrace sighed. "Hey, dumbass. She's a pro. Pay a little more attention to real life."

"What do you mean pro?"

"That thing in Naples?"

"What thing in Naples?"

Susan didn't say anything, just looked out the window again.

"Oh for- You know, that hit against Piccoli's men? That was her!"

"Oh." Susan looked back at Durante and suppressed a grin as he shuffled a few inches away from her.

At least that finally shut him up.

The two SUVs came to a halt half a block away from the safe house. They were close to the old docks and rows of warehouses and shipping containers filled the space as far as the eye could see. The New York skyline sat in the distance. Getting out with the others, Rizzi glanced around at the nearby buildings, getting her bearings and heading off towards their destination. She raised the hood of her leather overcoat, settling it in place around her head. An affectation, but one that helped hide her face from casual observation. A still, lifeless quiet hung in the air like a funereal silence. Thrace, Durante, and five others followed while the drivers remained with the vehicles.

Rizzi moved quickly and quietly, slipping past several disheveled looking buildings. She winced internally at how some of Fabbro's men tramped along; there was confidence, and there was disrespect. Rounding a street corner, she came upon the property in question. The yellow strands of crime scene tape left no doubt of that. A veritable wall of shipping containers blocked sight of the building itself, hiding it behind battered ridged steel. Ducking beneath the police line, she stole past and moved along the perimeter to locate a gap wide enough for cars to get through. The sight of the warehouse brought her to a halt. Fabbro's men joined her with a chorus of muttered curses.

"Okay," Rizzi said. "Keep an eye out."

Viggo's safe house had already been given an initial cleaning, but that hadn't been anywhere near enough to erase whatever carnage had occurred. Most obvious were the burnt husks of a trio of cars sitting outside the side doors of the warehouse. A closer look revealed bullet holes scattered around. "What happened here?" one of Fabbro's men wondered.

"John Wick," she said, turning to three men standing behind. "Check the ground floor. You know what we're looking for." She turned to Thrace. "Let's take the second floor."

He nodded, shrugging as they walked. "You really expect to find anything left here?"

"Expect? Not really. It's our job; if there's really nothing here, so be it."

"Why would Wick have left anything?" Thrace said as they headed for the stairs just inside the cavernous open floor. "Guy wasn't an idiot. Anything here would've been worth tons."

"Word was Wick came here for one specific target." The metal stairs rattled under her tread.

"So?"

"That was his style. He didn't let anything distract him from an objective. If he was here to kill one man, that's what he would have done. Anything else? Not a consideration."

The second story of the safe house looked more like some teenager's den. Stacked pizza boxes and soft drinks sat on a table with several couches arrayed around a TV. One wall with tall, wide windows looked out into the open space below. A door by the far side, probably leading into the office with the exterior staircase she'd seen from outside. Rizzi glanced around the room; some other tables sat around the edges. One had an old desktop, worth grabbing. Some bookshelves, one had file binders, another held a collection of children's literature. Okay, that was odd. Also worth checking out. Going through each book would be a pain; better to collect them all and let Fabbro's men sort through it.

She moved over to the computer tower and grunted in satisfaction as she saw the thumb drive sticking out of a front USB port. Something like that was remarkably sloppy, and lent further evidence that Wick had hit the place like a hurricane.

"Hey, got a safe here," Thrace said, pointing to one corner. "Jackpot."

"Only if we can get in." Rizzi pocketed the thumb drive, then walked over and looked the squat metal box over for any obvious booby traps. "Otherwise we're gonna have to move it out of here."

"Jimmy can take a look at it," said Thrace, crossing his arms. "He's got some experience with-"

Bursts of gunfire and startled shouts interrupted him. Rizzi dropped into a crouch, hauling her pistol out. That wasn't far at all; whoever was shooting, they were close. Far too close. "Bring the cars around!" she shouted.

Two of Fabbro's men rushed up the stairs; she barely stopped herself from shooting them. "They're coming from the shipping crates!" Durante said, wide-eyed and breathing hard. "Jimmy's gettin' the cars!"

Rizzi grimaced. "We need to hold defensible positions downstairs then, keep them from getting any closer. Don't pull back here!"

"Hey," said Durante. "You're not in charge here."

"Oh for-" She broke off in a groan of disgust. "You really want to get into this now?" Another burst of gunfire sounded from outside.

Durante glanced out the window. "You're a-" He stopped talking, permanently, as a shot roared out from inside the warehouse and splattered the contents of his skull on the wall behind him.

Rizzi spun and dove aside; several more shots punched through the space she'd been standing. Where the hell was that coming from? The side office doorway – bullet holes riddled its little glass window. She brought her pistol up and put a quartet of rounds through the door, ripping ragged holes through the wood. Return fire came back in, forcing her to move aside, ducking behind a pillar. Two more of Fabbro's men came charging up the stairs and she cursed. Were they trying to get themselves killed?

The storm of gunfire intensified. Fabbro's men began shooting back, pistol rounds echoing in the space like thunderclaps. She heard shouts from downstairs in the lulls. Their attackers had come better prepared, which would be embarrassing – if they got out of this alive. Rizzi started circling around to hit the office doors from an angle. Thrace went for the door as well, scuttling forward. He emptied his pistol as he approached, punching more holes into the riddled surface. Rizzi covered him as he dumped the empty magazine and slammed a fresh one home. He moved towards the door, drew back to kick it open, and-

The door slammed open. A figure charged out, hitting Thrace with a tackle and wrestling the gun upwards; she had no clear shot. The screeching roar of tires came from outside. Another man rushed out of the office door, machine pistol in his fist. She caught a quick glimpse of his features; black hair, flamboyant tattoos covering his bare arms. Rizzi lunged to the side out of his line of fire as he sent a chattering burst her way. The gunman ducked back into the office as one of Fabbro's men blasted away from near the staircase. A long return burst caught both of Fabbro's men near the staircase, spraying blood onto the wall and floor. Then he turned the machine pistol on Rizzi.

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 Thrace 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.

Elijah Wu picked his sword up as another burst of gunfire came from below; he heard several shouts as the Silver Mountain men drove the other group away. They fell back to their cars that had driven nearly into the warehouse. The wild sprays of fire that the Silver Mountain sent their way proved drastically inaccurate and the convoy of SUVs roared off. Wu shook his head. They were a far cry from professionals, he reminded himself. Stepping towards the broken window frame he drew his pistol and looked down.

Just broken glass. The woman – the other professional – was gone. Slipped away into the maze of shipping containers, undoubtedly. He swept the area, pistol at the ready, but saw nothing. Wu shrugged to himself; he realized he didn't actually mind that she'd escaped. He'd seen her, back at the Continental. The woman in the flower coat – on the same floor. Interesting.

Turning back, he glanced at the other Silver Mountain man in the office. What was his name? Zhu-something or the other? Not that it mattered now. The gangster was what they called "very dead," what with the contents of his skull given fresh ventilation by a nine-millimeter round.

Another Silver Mountain man rushed up the stairs, eyes wide and twitchy with adrenaline. "They're getting away!" he yelled in Chinese. "We should pursue and-"

"That's not what we're here for," Wu said. He pointed to the abandoned objects that had once belonged to Tarasov. "Gather everything, and be quick about it."

"But they killed Zhu Qiang! The code of vengeance demands retribution!"

"Not at the expense of the job at hand." Wu matched the other man's stare as he sheathed his sword. "Use your brain," he said in Chinese. "The police will be here soon. If we don't get what we can now, this whole thing will have been a waste."

"You'd never understand," the other man said. "Outsider." But he turned away, heading down the stairs and calling for the others to strip the place.

Definitely not professionals. Wu sighed, holstered his pistol, and moved towards Zhu's corpse. At least they'd be able to bury him properly, instead of leaving the body for the cleaners.

Yeah, that was fun. Staggering slightly, Susan Rizzi jogged down the Brooklyn streets towards the nearest subway station. Getting defenestrated had definitely not been on her to-do list for the day. At least nothing's broken. The streets, also, seemed mercifully clear of bystanders. They were probably avoiding the place given Wick's rampage the other day. That made her job easier, though she kept a tight grip on the pistol underneath her coat. There didn't seem to be any pursuit from those who'd attacked at the safe house, but she'd been doing this long enough to know that could change in an instant.

Grimacing as she moved, Susan ran through the implications what happened at the safe house. Fabbro was certainly right; the sudden vacuum left by Tarasov's confrontation with John Wick had upended everything. Nobody would have been so brazen before. And the speed of it – this wasn't a slow burn, this was a chain of C4 wired up, and somebody had just mashed the detonator.

The New York underworld hadn't been at peace; Viggo Tarasov had just kept a lid on the simmering grudges and hatreds. Like a pressure pot – and now it was all going to blow.

Which meant that she would be very busy.

Susan kept alert as she approached the subway station. People milled around, moved through or loitered. Few paid her any attention, not that it meant much. She glanced at her reflection in the ticket machine and wiped a smudge off her cheek. Thanks for the support, guys. She understood the need for Fabbro's men to evacuate quickly, but that didn't mean she appreciated getting left behind like that. Note to self: best to work alone.

Only when she boarded a train for Manhattan and the doors slid shut did she breathe a sigh of relief, nevertheless positioning herself in a corner where she could see the entirety of her car and its occupants. It appeared to be the standard mix of cosmopolitan city-dwellers, almost all of them engrossed in their various mobile devices and paying no mind to anything else around them. Gripping the overhead rail with one hand and her pistol with the other, Rizzi adopted a blank look like that of the others around her as the car jolted into motion.

Fabbro was not at Bianco, much to her annoyance. Susan left the restaurant, just filling up with the evening crowd. Legitimate restaurant customers, at first glance. Fabbro probably didn't do much of the other kind of business there during the dinner hours. The restaurant manager gave her one of his addresses: a penthouse suite in one of the posh towers that catered to those with more money than most people could dream of. Not that she was toeing the poverty line or anything given how much certain contracts paid, but this was the domain of another magnitude of wealth.

The taxi dropped her off at the base of an art deco tower that stretched up into the sky. The doormen at the brass counter wore suits that were just a tad too loose. One might have been somebody whose regular jacket was at the dry cleaner, but both of them? Yeah, they were packing, and probably more than sub-compacts. She walked right up and placed her hands flat on top of the counter. "I'm here to see Marco Fabbro."

They both tensed at that, sitting straighter and staring at her with not quite hostile gazes. One's hands disappeared behind the counter as the other picked up an ornate phone. "And who shall I say is calling?" he asked.

"Susan Rizzi, regarding today's… errand."

She stood still as the doorman carried on a brief conversation, keeping her hands on the countertop. Then the man nodded, hung up, and hit a button under the counter. A section of the silvery embossed wall opposite the bank of elevators slid open, revealing a little alcove. "Go right ahead," he said. "Mister Fabbro is expecting you."

"I'm sure he is." Susan nodded at both of them and strolled to the alcove, keeping her hands in sight as a courtesy. The niche led to a private elevator large enough that she could have laid down comfortably in it. Plush, deep red velvet carpeting and copper etchings made it feel less like a lift than an entry chamber to some bohemian turn of the century lounge. There were no destinations on the control panel, only up and down. She hit the up button and waited as the elevator climbed with a smooth swiftness that made her stomach dive for her feet.

The private elevator deposited her in a marble foyer with Jonesy Tony and two others waiting for her. He motioned her forwards and Susan stepped towards them, handed over her weapons, and endured another patdown. Tony was even less subtle about copping a feel this time, and she had to stop herself from slugging him in the face. Finally he finished and waved her towards a pair of carved mahogany doors.

Fabbro's penthouse had no shortage of opulence and luxury on display as she hauled one door open and slipped through. It led to what might have been a living room, if typical examples contained old Roman sculptures, a marble fireplace, and crystal chandeliers visible from orbit.

And of course, an irate Mafioso boss.

Marco Fabbro sat at the head of a long, dark table, a brandy snifter before him. Edmondo sat near him, focused on his ever-present laptop. Fabbro stared at her as she approached. "Rizzi." His voice could have frozen the Hudson River. "That was some performance today, huh?"

"We got jumped," Susan said. "You were right; there are others interested in what Tarasov kept there."

"Others who got the upper hand today," Fabbro said, and took a sip from his snifter. "Thought you were dead when you didn't come back, huh?"

Susan smiled dryly. "Your guys were in such a hurry they left me behind. You know how the subways are in this town. Even more when you make sure you're not tailed."

Fabbro grunted dismissively.

"As to what Tarasov had…" She pulled the thumb drive from her pocket and slid it across the table to Fabbro. "It may not be a complete loss."

"Ha! Now that's why I pay you!" The coolness in his voice evaporated in an instant, replaced with the jovial warmth he affected most of the time. Fabbro seized the little device with a hunger typically seen in starving men, holding onto it for a moment before passing it to Edmondo. The advisor hammered away at his keyboard for several moments.

"You may not want to plug that in until you're in a Faraday cage," Susan said. "Who knows what kind of safeguards that thing might have?"

"Tarasov was old-fashioned about these things," Edmondo said in his deep voice. "Digital security mattered to him less than more direct forms of leverage. And besides, we possess the access codes."

"You do?"

"We're on the rise, Rizzi," said Fabbro. "Some of Tarasov's former guys can see which way the wind is blowing."

"That was fast."

Fabbro didn't seem to mind. He took another sip. "These guys you tussled with. Heard it was chinks, huh?"

"That's right."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Fabbro blew a breath through clenched teeth. "Figures. Not surprising, really. Thought something like this might happen, huh?" he said to himself before looking back at Susan. "Okay, doll. Not bad, not bad. You proved your worth today. Take the rest of the night off, huh? We'll call if something comes up."

"As you wish," Susan said, but he was obviously not paying her any attention at that point, leaning over to stare at Edmondo's screen.

She showed herself back out to the foyer, collected her weapons, and slipped into the private elevator. With the adrenaline long worn off, she felt the fight now: the sting in her knuckles, the ache in her hip where she'd landed after getting thrown out of a freaking window. At least the leather of her coat had kept the glass from slicing her into ribbons. Small mercies. Susan refused to let it show as she walked through the lobby; in this life, revealing weakness was about as safe as swimming with sharks while you had an open wound.

The subway back to the closest station to the Continental had the typical Manhattan crowd packed into it. Halfway there she decided she wanted a drink. Maybe more than one, the way the day had gone.

Fortunately, the Continental had something for that.

Susan headed back to her room first when she reached the hotel. The hooded coat went into its spot in the closet, the gun into the heavy, high-quality safe the Continental provided. One long shower later she felt human again. She caught up on some reading as she waited for the night to grow later: the party wouldn't really get started until after midnight. Finally she got dressed – nothing too fancy, just a classy black evening dress. One of her knives went into a thigh sheathe mounted high up. A purse rounded out the ensemble, holding a stack of gold coins and a P30SK.

The Continental might have its rules, but that still didn't make it smart to wander amongst people like the hotel's clientele unarmed. Susan left the room, walked down the corridor, and hit the button for the basement in the elevator. The lift slid downwards through the stories and the slick decoration of the hotel walls gave way to the bare surfaces of the basements where the hustle of hospitality business took place. White brick walls condensed steam from a dozen laundry machines in one room, pipes and valves ran along the ceiling in snaking, twisting configurations. None of the staff batted an eye at the woman dressed for a nice evening walking through.

Susan passed through an electrical room, turned a darkened corner, and came to a short hallway that ended in a single black, wrought-iron door. Its only distinguishing features were a square viewport pockmarked with dark circles and a coin slot, like one that might belong on an old newspaper stand. She came to a halt before the door, reached into her purse for a gold coin, and dropped it into the slot. The viewport cover slid aside with a resounding clack, revealing through the circles a pair of suspicious eyes on a face rendered almost green by some light above. The eyes stared at her for another moment, and then the door unlocked with another clack and swung open inwards. The iron portal might as well have served as some mythical portal to the underworld.

Susan stepped through into the Continental's speakeasy. A riot of sounds and smells greeted her: conversations between dozens of people mingled with the jazz band they had on this evening. Cigarette smoke battled a bevy of perfumes and cologne for primacy, while various snacks and bar food contributed their own aromas. The speakeasy itself looked like it had come straight from Prohibition – and knowing the Continental, there was a very good chance that was actually the case. Green and red lamps overhead cast a curious mix of light and shadows. The architecture and furnishings were an art deco celebration of the excess of the Roaring Twenties, with inverted conical chandeliers hanging low between pillars of swirling marble. Mirrors disguised as windows gave the space a strange feeling of infinite expanse, as if she really had walked into another world.

The stage and floor dominated the middle third of the speakeasy. Mournful saxophone tunes sounded over the chatter coming from multiple round tables set around the floor. Men and women packed these spots; a smorgasbord of some of the world's deadliest, in the finest eveningwear. Susan nodded to several as she moved past the space. With the Wick contract gone, she wondered briefly how many were getting snatched up by the groups jockeying for power in the wake of his rampage. Felix Kerranus gave her a polite nod and tipped a hand towards the empty chair at his table, but she shook her head and moved towards the bar. He was nice enough – and could practically work black magic with an assault rifle – but she wasn't feeling too much like… professional company tonight.

The bar ran along over half the length of the speakeasy. Rows of bottles both classic and exotic lined the wall behind it. The old wooden surface had all the unavoidable nicks and marks and patina of long use, but it was clean and well cared for, functional despite its seeming age as with so many things about the Continental. Susan sidled up to an empty spot, glad that the bulk of the activity seemed to be at the tables on the floor. It left her with a good meter's clearance on either side, just right given her mood.

"Susan!" The barkeeper moved on up, a warm grin on her lips despite the cold cast of the green light above. She had her hair bundled up and out of the way, highlighting her strong cheekbones and jaw. A sleeveless, low-cut shirt showed off the extensive tattoo design on one arm and a fair bit of cleavage. Its dark color contrasted with her pale skin, making her seem to glow in the relative darkness. "Welcome back."

"Addy," said Susan. "Good to be back."

The other lady eyed her over. "Looking good. I thought you were in Brazil for a while?"

"That's right."

"No tan? You're still as pale as I am here." Addy held up one white hand.

"It was a… work trip," Susan said. "I didn't get to spend much time on the beaches, it was all indoors and underground."

"Welcome to the life, huh?" Addy said, grinning and spreading her hands.

Susan laughed quietly. "Yes indeed."

"So, what's on the palette tonight?"

Susan sighed. "I'm a little tempted to go with just a martini tonight."

"Aww, that's no fun," Addy said with a playful pout.

"Okay, okay." Susan straightened, thought for a moment. "Alright, how about… a Jupiter?"

"Now that's more like it!" Addy's grin was infectious as she turned away and began gathering ingredients. This was something they'd been doing for a while now; Addy had a standing challenge with Susan to stump her with a drink order. So far the assassin had never managed it; the Continental's barkeeper seemed to have an encyclopedic mind for cocktail recipes. She'd never even seen Addy consult a recipe list. And watching her work was seeing an artist in action. "So," Addy said as she scooped ice into a Boston shaker, "it's been that kind of day, huh?"

"It has been that kind of day," Susan affirmed. "This city's about to go to hell in a handbasket, courtesy of John Wick."

"Don't judge him too harshly." Addy shrugged sympathetically. "He just lost his wife. He got out of all this for her, you know. Losing that kind of center – that can drive anybody to do all sorts of things."

"Not just anybody could have taken down Viggo Tarasov."

"True enough." The drink, strained into a cocktail glass, looked like a swirling cloud of light gray ashes. Like the remnants of Tarasov's empire, Susan thought. "Don't look now," Addy said, leaning over as she slid Susan's drink across the aged counter, "but I think you've caught somebody's eye."

Susan stiffened instinctively. "Where?"

"Left shoulder, coming up." Addy lowered her voice so she was barely audible over the band and background conversation. "Ooh, he's a looker." She straightened as somebody slipped into the space next to Rizzi. "What can I get you?"

"A Sazerac, please." The voice was melodiously masculine and sounded about as tired as Susan felt. She raised her glass and was about to take a sip when it addressed her. "Have we met?"

Susan finally turned to the man – and went very still. It was him: the guest across the hall. The one at Tarasov's safe house with the Chinese sword who'd pitched her from the window. He wore a black suit that would have fit in any number of firms in the city and a shirt that was such a dark red it nearly gleamed charcoal in the speakeasy lighting.

Brighter red was the thin line of the nick she'd landed earlier. His gaze roamed over her face, a thoughtful quirk in his lips as he took in her features. Did he recognize her?

She fumbled for a response. "Um, I'm in room seven-twelve," she finally settled on. "You on the same floor?"

"Ah, seven-thirteen," he said, nodding. "Right, you had the flower coat in the lobby."

"I'm flattered you remember." Maybe he didn't recognize her from the safe house after all. That made sense: why would he approach her otherwise? Susan smiled politely; part of her just wanted him to go away and leave her alone. A more rebellious part hoped he'd keep talking.

"It was quite lovely." He turned back to the bar as Addy returned with the Sazerac. "Thank you."

"Enjoy,' Addy said with a quick glance at Susan. She moved away as another guest further down the bar raised two fingers to get her attention.

The man picked up the glass with his left hand and brought it up, smelling it appreciatively before taking a sip. As he lowered the drink he extended his other hand to her. "Elijah Wu."

She clasped his hand. It wasn't so much a handshake as an old-fashioned declaration between two warriors of honest parley and no hidden blades. Not exactly literal truth in her case with a Makora strapped to her thigh, but the metaphorical statement remained. "Susan Rizzi."

His eyebrows lifted. "The Lady of Blades. What a pleasure."

Susan groaned, rolled her eyes. "You keep your head down, do things neat and professional. Then one contract goes off the rails and you end up with a goddamn title."

Wu grinned crookedly. "Off the rails? Word is you took out four marks using a knife. While wearing… not very much."

Susan rolled her eyes again. "It's always that part that gets exaggerated. It was a masquerade; I was in an evening gown. And it was three marks."

"Still impressive."

"It wasn't by choice. I couldn't get a gun into the venue. Not to mention everything else that went wrong. The fourth target choked to death on an hors d'oeuvre – that was what screwed my plan in the first place."

Wu raised his glass towards her. "I can relate."

A breath of laughter escaped from her. "Why? You dress up in evening gowns often?"

He returned her grin. "Contracts that go… off the rails."

"Do tell." Susan mentally kicked herself. Why had she said that? Just stay away.

"Alright." Wu leaned on the bar, still facing her. "There was this one contract. Squirrelly target – had escape plans for any situation, any place. I caught up with him in Taipei, tracked him through the metro. Turned out it was an open contract. There were a half-dozen others looking to close it out aboard the train car. The whole damn thing turned into a mess real quick."

Susan arched an eyebrow. "That Taipei Metro thing? That was you?"

"Partially. I did mention the six others?"

"I caught that, yes. So how big a role did you play?"

"Well, the guy who ended up on the opposite track under the incoming train? He was the contract."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, that was me." Wu took another sip. "Also, an accident."

"An accident?"

"You know how it is with open contracts. Everybody wants to be the only one who fulfills it. We were all so busy trying to remove each other from the equation that the mark went ignored. He was trying to get out of the car, got caught between Leng and myself. I shoved him out of the way. He wasn't supposed to go out the window like that."

"So you got the credit for the contract then?"

"I did. Mind you, getting out of the metro was something else entirely."

"I'll bet it was," Susan said. She realized she was leaning towards him.

"Speaking of throwing people through windows…" Wu's smile vanished. "How much is Fabbro paying you?"

Rizzi's blood froze. "What are you talking about?"

Wu brought a finger up and swiped it gently across the nick she'd given him. "That was a close one – closer than anyone's gotten in a while." He nodded to her. "You seem none the worse for the defenestration."

"Wasn't my first fall."

"I'm glad you're unfazed."

Susan narrowed her eyes; there hadn't been any hint of sarcasm or flippancy from him. "Why? You're the one who threw me."

"My apologies. The demands of business." Wu tapped his nick. "Much as I hope this was."

She shrugged noncomitally.

"I recognized Fabbro's men and vehicles at the safe house. How much is he paying you?"

Susan took another sip. Addy's artistry really deserved to be better appreciated without such concerns, she mused. She looked into Wu's eyes. "Why do you care?"

"I'll offer you more to walk away. How much?"

That was a surprise. "And you would do that… why?"

Wu opened his mouth, closed it as he continued gazing at Susan. "Call it… enlightened self-interest. I don't think today was the last time Fabbro and my client are going to clash. I don't need any more scars, so I'd like to remove you from the equation – peacefully."

"You don't think you can take me?"

"After today's performance? I'd rather not find out one way or the other. How much?"

"You're serious…" Susan stared at him for a moment. She shook her head. "I'm under contract. It's not about the money."

Wu sighed. "That's it?"

"What else is there? I'm under contract."

"That's admirable, Rizzi. That really is. I don't want to kill you."

She'd heard that before, of course. Usually it was just a platitude – a polite way to say, don't take this personally, but I'm going to kill you and get on with my day. Something about Wu made her think he actually meant it. "After today's performance," she echoed, "what makes you think you can?"

"Things may be different next time."

She stared at the other killer coldly. "Is that a threat? Remember where we are."

He held his hands up. "I know. No business on Continental premises. Don't worry; I heard what happened to Perkins. I'm not talking about breaking into your room or anything like that. I meant out there – things will escalate."

"Hmm. I suppose Tiger Shun has never been known for restraint." Susan smirked at the faint surprise Wu tried to hide. "You're not the only one who can make an observation. Shun prefers working with Asians anyway – that was an easy one."

"Then you know how he responds to perceived threats."

She shrugged. "Still doesn't change the fact that I'm under contract."

"Like I said, I admire that. I really do." He tipped his glass towards her in another toast. "Just out of curiosity then: how much does it take to buy such loyalty from you?"

"You really wanna know, huh? Susan cocked her head. "Fine. Fabbro's paying me twenty percent over the standard rate for ongoing, on-call."

Now Wu raised an eyebrow. "That's a fair bit less than the Wick contract."

"That's because it was the Wick contract."

"Fair point." Wu smiled wistfully at her. "I'm sorry I couldn't talk you out of Fabbro's offer. Have a good evening, Miss Rizzi."

"And you, Mister Wu." Susan nodded to him, watching as he slipped away into the crowd of the speakeasy. She took another sip of the cocktail in her hand, barely tasting the delicately balanced notes as her mind dwelled on other things.

Addy came back, leaning over the bar with a playful grin. "Aww, did you shoot him down?"

"Not yet, Addy," Susan said with one last glance to where Wu had vanished. "Not yet."