It was almost perfect. Almost being the operative word Balalaika was focused on.
A warehouse she had cleared out months ago in order to establish it as a rendezvous point for inter-city operations, in the middle of refurbishing and modeling. It was a difficult task, redoing a building designed for storage and scrutiny being outfitted for defense and protection.
It was a process ordered months ago, and was hardly complete now. All the most delicate of arms and ammunitions were removed and stored at the new off-site location, far away from the prying eyes of the cities thieves or eager competitors. Now it housed safety rooms, concrete bunkers, and a central command station.
Still, it wasn't done. More than one wall lacked the concrete reinforcement, rebar was missing from several walls, some windows remained untainted, and worst of all, more than one hallway was missing a lookout or security camera. Blind spots and weak walls littered the compound.
But a Russian soldier did not request better circumstances. Only more time.
Time is what Balalaika excelled at using.
With little time, she had gathered the most likely targets for John Wick and moved them to this location, placing them in rooms that had been mostly secured, and rapidly gave orders to finish what could be by priority. The little time she had allowed her to outfit the building to the same level of security as the Hotel itself, bar the obvious breaching point.
It was a quality to her character little spoken off, but often remarked by the superiors of the Russian Army before the fall of the USSR. Her ability to make much happen in so little time, but always with less than what was usually needed. She used those skills effectively here.
She had to, as John Wick was the ultimate test for those skills.
But it was because that this man was her enemy now that she knew she had to take few risks, the enemy of time. Many loved to indulge in risks and unnecessary requests when time was short, caring more for safety when time was in abundance.
Balalaika was smart enough to not take risks that didn't benefit the lack of time. She didn't push the men she had gathered into a singular room. She didn't order more of her men to arm the walls. She didn't care to finish the concrete or rebar support, and she didn't bother to change the windows.
She also didn't risk to observe the warehouse-turned-safehouse by eye, at least her own eyes.
Everything was being viewed through the computer screen on her desk. True, she could direct the camera and request the necessary adjustment of focus, but it felt too artificial for her to give the complete clear on the set-up of the base.
She sighed through her nose, pinching the bridge. This was the necessary trade-off for dealing with a man as dangerous as John Wick. The separation of players, by distance as far as she could manage, from the man who could go anywhere and take anyone, the Babayaga.
The cigar slowly crumbled along the stick in her mouth, forcing her to brush off the ashes that fell to her desk. It was a passive movement, her eyes and attention much more focused on the screen that was being shown to her.
She couldn't be there to make orders herself. So for now, Balalaika gave orders as her men toured the facility by camera.
"Mount a M18 Mine along that corner," she spoke aloud, pointing at the screen before her. "The visibility is low while approaching it, but make sure to place a concrete slab from the construction to hide it completely." It would also protect it from stray gunfire, in one direction at least.
"Understood," Boris spoke behind her, pen scratching on paper. He soon started speaking in Russian through a nearby radio, giving the necessary orders to the available men. They were not to stop for her.
To stop and ask questions would be a waste of time, and the men could work while she finished her assessment of the safehouse.
"Remove that pillar," she spoke again, trailing a steel column that was jutting out from the wall. "It provides too much cover non-beneficial to us." It would make for excellent cover for someone moving through their grounds."
"Understood," parroted Boris again, but Balalaika did not comment on her dislike for the repeated words. It was not beneficial to time for her to be critical on etiquette. Wars were not won with kind words. They were won with cold fury.
It was the thing she knew John Wick had an endless supply of.
"Board the window, along the northern wall. If necessary, remove it completely." Her fingers traced a tinted glass as they moved by it on the screen. It lacked the temperament to resist bullets, and would make for a weak point for defensive men, her men.
"Understood," came Boris's voice again, before he spoke further into the radio in natural Russian. Balalaika didn't blink as she continued to stare at the screen. It was a sight she knew John would be watching soon enough.
The demon of the New York branch, and one of the most calculating and effective men she had ever met.
And the only man on this Earth, in past or present, to make her second-guess her own decisions.
Balalaika tapped her fingers across her jacket sleeve, eyes unblinking as she stared at the screen in front of her. The quality was suitable, for the image, and was slow enough for her to exam the warehouse they toured through. The metallic walls, spread supports, mid-constructed cinderblock barriers, and all the soldier stations peppered throughout.
"Remove that station," she noted again. "It's too open and there isn't time to reinforce the cover. Move him to the roof and join surveillance."
"Understood," Boris added again, pencil scratched across the pad of paper still. She never glanced at him as she worked. She trusted her men, as they were loyal to her.
It was something she knew John Wick was the outlier for. One trait among many other unique attributes.
His unparalleled marksmanship, proficiency in both Russian and American Martial Arts, dedication to a job, and focus on tasks at hand. It made him far more than merely a capable soldier. It made him the dreaded name whispered amongst the unfortunate members of New York and the well-informed across the world.
Balalaika would use that information to its fullest now.
"Bolt the door, three times over," she tapped on the screen as the camera panned over a wooden structure. "Make it obvious if anyone unauthorized attempts to enter through it." Picking locks would be child's play for a man like John Wick. Dead bolts were never simple.
"Understood," Boris monotony replied. Balalaika kept her focus on the screen as he subordinate parroted the orders in Russian.
Talking was something she wished she could have done. It would have made for a much more enjoyable night.
She would have talked to John.
Balalaika was unconcerned with the world beyond Roanapur, beyond the walls of her city. If John had gone to war with the other branches of the mafia, she wouldn't have cared until they gave her orders to.
In truth, perhaps, she would have liked to talk about a deal with him, perhaps to guarantee that ship he was so keen to as Dutch about. A small task in exchange, maybe, perhaps as small as a lesson to an upcoming gang regarding their place in the hierarchy of power, but that would have been all.
Her train of thought stopped as the camera panned over the objects she was guarding, the valuable members of the Lagoon Company.
Rock and Revy, sitting across from one another in a bare lit room.
The image didn't last long, as the soldier holding the camera continued his work. She didn't fault him either, her own eyes continuing the look over the screen for any areas of improvement. She only made note of the importance of the two here.
Rock was an information source that only the well-informed of Roanapur were aware of. Herself, Mr. Chang, and Yolanda of the Rip-Off Church.
She could not risk John getting to one of those information sources. If he did, he might be able to secure escape.
Not even Balalaika was sure what kind of information John Wick would want, but she knew he would want it. He was a man of focus, and no man so dedicated to his work would act without knowledge or means. He had been robbed thoroughly of one, and was not left only with the other.
Worst yet, he was acquainted well with Dutch, so finding Rock would likely be his main task for information. And because of that, the pacifist member of the Lagoon Company made an excellent piece of bait.
Revy was present simply for her fiery need to protect the Japanese salaryman. If nothing else, she would be useful in slowing John, if only for a moment.
Balalaika did not make enemies of trusted friends. But she didn't make allies out of vicious dogs.
John Wick had killed three of her men, some of her best. Only a dog that had lost it's bark and relied on its bite would make such a terrible mistake.
So now he would have to pay.
"Disengage the wiring to the garage doors to all but the southern entrance, then begin to barricade the inner safe rooms." Balalaika gave her orders as she took the cigar from her mouth, beating its end on the ash tray by the screen. "Following that, turn off all flood lights and use night-vision to observe the rural entrances in the usual shifts."
"Understood, Kapitan," Boris spoke for the last time, his words smoothly transitioning to Russian as he gave the commands through the radio. "May I assume that is all?"
"Yes," she agreed. "When you are done with the orders, prepare yourself as well. We don't know where John is going to attack, and we should be just as prepared here." Thankfully, the Hotel was hardly a building under construction.
It was the home of her operations, and was the fort of Roanapur that the Triads couldn't hope to scratch. With her most talented and loyal men within it, buildings wired to blow around it, and security that had been established and upgraded through years of work, it was far more effective than the renovated warehouse she had just supervised.
The warehouse was a renovation, the Hotel was a command post. One was always more secure than the other, and Balalaika knew that no enemy of hers would dare to attack while she was within the building.
But she also knew John was no common enemy. The boogeyman was not to be underestimated.
"I will pass the orders to the men and begin the tertiary patrol routes as well," Boris spoke in tandem to him ripping the paper from his pad, preparing it for the necessary filing and resource management. "Is there anything else you will be needing of me, Kapitan?"
Balalaika looked at her loyal subordinate, through eyes that were surrounded by fried skin and sagging lines. He looked no better, lips flat and stern, eyes hard and hollow. It was a long night for both of them, and the reminders of John's strength was not a far-off memory in either of their minds.
The Babayaga was here, and they had, likely, what he wanted.
"No," Balalaika spoke simply. "You are dismissed." Her loyal soldier bowed before leaving the room, securing the door and leaving her sight. Balalaika sighed in the solitude of her office.
She sighed and let her head lean back in the recess of her chair, letting the wisps of sleep pass through her mind. It let her imaginings run wild.
Hearing of John Wick on the battlefields of Afghanistan, witnessing his destruction of the contracts he took, offering a job in the city she had captured, marveling at the efficiency of his work, listening to the tales of his exploits grow, and wondering at how he had left it all behind.
Then she saw him laying next to broken concrete, broken limbs and bloodied pools by his side. She saw herself walking up to him, a pistol in her hand as she walked over the bodies that he had dropped, the hundreds to thousands of lives that he had taken.
It all led to Balalaika standing over John Wick, gun to his head and victory in her grasp. She smiled cruelly at the idea.
Hotel Moscow checking out the Babayaga.
Balalaika was an excellent leader, an excellent planner, but she was too blood-thirsty. She wished for war in Afghanistan. She would take risks that led to gun fights, so long as she had more guns. She wanted his presence in Roanapur, a city of thieves and killers, to be more permanent.
John knew all this. And he used it.
He knew, upon waking up, that Rock was no longer present at the Lagoon Company building. He can across where he had gone, and who he was taken by, when he saw a Russian scout by the building. The scout's position was too obvious for John not to notice, not when he knew where to look.
John knew that there were many locations that Balalaika would take potential bargaining chips. And a source of information, no matter what the area, was just that. She must have been aware of what he needed. How she knew, he could not say. But she had become accustomed to the city of Thieves. Where she got her information was not something he was aware of.
But then again, it was beyond his focus. All that mattered was she had it, and he needed it. He did not know how Balalaika was aware of his plan, but that didn't matter.
Focus was paramount now.
Focus had showed him how to interrogate the soldier he had found, out of earshot and eyes glance of his friends. Clean, efficiently, and information the man could give up in hopes of placating him with the idea it wouldn't be enough. But John didn't need much.
He only needed to know the area of that Balalaika had taken Rock to. He needed to know if she was with him. And, most importantly, he needed to know what it happened.
And, now that he had all of that, he had enough.
It was enough to take him to the warehousing areas of Roanapur, both the most protected and most vulnerable part of the city. It was the same in many places around the world. Given the reputation of the city, and the lack of patrolling security between the warehouses, it was easy to confirm multiple factions owned multiple buildings.
A tenuous and volatile situation, but with the limited space the city had to offer, it was likely the grounds of a shaky truce. That was to John's advantage.
Fewer guards outside, outside any of the warehouses, meant fewer points of being seen. That meant he had more time to focus on the warehouse that was his primary concern, and to conceive a plan for assault. And like all plans, it began with the building itself.
A standard warehouse, especially in third world nations, were made of few supports and many thin metal walls. Walls that kept out the more harmful elements, but could hard with stand a bullet, let alone a truck. The Hotel had very likely reinforced those walls with concrete or cement blocks. Fast and easy to stack, with the benefit of taking bullets from most weaponry before shattering. Some, but not from heavy artillery.
The warehouse itself was modest in height, far lower than the many that dotted New York's harbor area. It was outfitted, as John suspected, with widow watches and support. Doubtlessly eyes with high-powered rifles. It made a frontal assault suicidal.
Armed guards were spread out around the bottom of the warehouse as well, behind barricades of steel and concrete. The same materials, or leftovers of them, were likely used for reinforcements. The guards themselves were only moderately impressive.
The difficulty with any guard was the requirement to be constantly vigilant. Even for a trained soldier, that required frequent breaks. Assaulting just before then was optimal, but John did not have the time to scout and check the changes in shift. Even if he did, Balalaika would likely alter them randomly.
The VSK rifle could pick off a good number of soldiers, but then would alert them to his presence. The Hotel was far from incompetent, and such an act would put them on high alert. With his current munitions supplies, and general wounds, taking down the guards present and extracting Rock would be extremely difficult.
Concealment would be difficult as well. Normally, he could hide in a crowd, or at the very least use passages that were hidden from even the eyes of his enemies. But this was the city owned by the Hotel, but kept in control by the fear of the knowledge keepers. Any entry he may have been told was very likely to be whispered to them as well.
There was no honor in the book keepers. They were requirement payment to tell him, but say the same to Balalaika with only the knowledge that she smiled upon him. It was the damnation of the town.
For now, the way to act was to cause a distraction. A distraction that did not require his presence, but caused the damage to one of their men. Destruction of property would easily be seen as a diversion, but the death of a soldier, their soldier, would be impossible to ignore.
Or perhaps, he only needed to make it appear to be the death of their soldier.
He did have the body of the man he had interrogated, kept alive in case there was any guard or protocol John was not aware of. Their body, if put into a place of unrecognition, would spark fear that he was nearby, and locatable if given a sound.
He would need an inconspicuous entrance then, one that was either seldom used or not used often by the guards. Every building had one, and a warehouse, modified as it was, was still a normal building once. It was unlikely, if not impossible, for Balalaika to remove all but one entrance.
A distraction then, timed with his entrance at another door. If he was in luck, there may be soldiers leaving said door in an attempt to flank, if his distraction was sufficient enough. An explosion was sufficient, especially in a place that was housing the goods of multiple factions of Roanapur.
He only had to be sure that it was a door another soldier opened up, not himself. If a door was not used, it could have likely been trapped, or deadbolted. A dead bolted door required force to enter, which would attract too much attention to quickly.
When the fighting began, and the guns started to fire, he couldn't stop moving. That meant he had to be careful. He was already at war now with the Hotel.
The risk was even greater with the nearby warehouses, areas that were likely taken up by other gangs. The knowledge that they were was all the knowledge that he needed. Instigating the Cartel or Triads would be detrimental to his escape from the city of thieves. He just needed to be careful, focused, as he placed the body, the bomb, and the jeep attached.
That could displace the soldiers, especially if Balalaika was not present. He focused on the idea, refining it. There were flaws in the plan, yes, obvious flaws that he could not ignore once given attention, but they could be flaws that may be reconciled.
And he was a man of focus. If he could ruin the attention of his enemy, make them move in a way that was against their training, then he could win.
Victory now was the extraction of Rock from the Lagoon Company. That was enough.
Nestor took a long drag from the cigarette in his hand. It warmed him in the cool night, cool for the tropics of Roanapur in the very least.
The use of the tobacco stick was not enough to dull his senses, nor to distract him. The Kapitan had told him and his fellow brothers of the man that was coming to take Rock. A man that was more monster than soldier, and more legend than veteran.
He had not cared for the whispers of this Babayaga while he was in Moscow, and the stories had dried up by the time he come to Roanapur. The tales of the man, and what he was capable of, were more than Nestor believed were possible.
But his Kapitan was clear that the man was not only real, but coming. Her orders were stronger than gostpel, so it was his place to question her motives. He was only aware of what he knew.
He knew that his leader stared down rifles in a land full of radicals and monsters, yet had only requested more bullets to fire. Here, she had brought men away from the collection duty and used them as guards against a man known more by his deeds than his face.
It was enough to make him break his taboo of smoking, and warm himself in the night with it.
His eyes remained vigilant as he took in the smoke, staring across the harbor for any sign of the Babayaga, for John Wick. Any sign was sign for worry now, and he was not one to ignore what he could see. He only had to be sure he did not miss anything.
Nestor was sure he would not be the one to cause the death of his brothers, his comrades. So he would remain vigilant, so he would be the one to save them.
Shifting his binoculars again, he looked down the wide expanse between the warehouses, the division between their own modified bunker and the nearby Triad storage. He had questioned at first why they were situated so close to their rivals, but the Kapitan had explained it so easily.
The close proximity to their strongest enemy gave them a great defense against any third parties. No one would dare risk assaulting them here without risking damage to the goods of the Triads. Perhaps someone could escape from their tight grasp on the city, with planning and practice, but to do so with the eye of the Triads looking for them was impossible.
So, to extract Rock from this modified warehouse without gaining the attention of the Triads was nigh impossible.
Though the idea was impossible, Nestor entertained the thought that perhaps he'd be able to relax this guard shift. Perhaps the Kapitan would capture the Babayaga before he ever set food near them. It was something he had no difficulty in imagining from his leader.
What was an American pig compared to the fires of Afghanistan?
"Comrade Nestor, copy," his radio spoke. Nestor lifted his free hand, depressing the button and lowering his chin to speak into the mike.
"I copy," he returned. Likely a roll-call. Important now more than ever, when the enemy was a coward who would use a knife over a gun.
"One of our jeeps is parked aside your location. Do you have eye-contact?" Not roll-call then. Nestor didn't make a noise or note of his correction. Instead, he flicked his cigarette, raising his flash-light and walking to the nearest location aside his post.
It took little time to find said jeep, parked some distance away. But that was the concering aspect of it. It was parked too far away. The Traids may contest that they are intruding on their territory. That is not something any member of the Hotel would risk would the Kapitan's orders.
"I see it," he returned. "Do you wish for me to investigate?" He would so without question, but only if he had to. To do so otherwise would risk his post.
"Hold for back-up, then proceed." Nestor nodded at the command. He followed the orders without question, only wondering now how the jeep had gotten there.
If it was one of theirs, then a comrade would be held liable for creating miscommunication and a spending of resources to check on it. If it was not one of theirs, then the security would go up.
He recognized a diversion when he saw one. Any man who had seen so many battles wou-
"Com… rade?" A voice came from the jeep.
Nestor had his rifled raised in an instant, focusing through the scope, washing the dark out with a hazy green. It showed far more than a simple light. More importantly, it showed him what he heard.
A man was in the jeep. A man rising up from the back seat, wobbling as if he had taken the bottle of Vodka alone. But most importantly of all, it was a man Nestor knew.
"Vasili?" Nestor questioned in returned. How was he here? He was keeping guard on the Lagoon building for the Babayaga to show up there? "Vasili, why are you here?"
"Comrade?" His friend asked again. "I… I do not recall. The Babayaga, he… he attacked me." Nestor bit his lip. Perhaps this John Wick was a more dangerous man than he gave credit for, ambushing a sniper of Vasili's talent… and without lethal force.
"Hold Vasili, hold," Nestor commanded again, never lowering his rifle or taking eyes out of the night-vision scope. "You have been attacked. Hold!" He did not know John Wick, but he knew a trap.
And a trap required bait, as was a comrade alive and well. That meant the trap was close. But it was impossible to tell if it was the jeep itself, or the Babayaga lying in wait.
"Yes… Yes, I… I am-"
BOOOM!
Boom!
The explosion rocked the far side of the building John hugged, the vibrations running through the sheets of steel. They made for good conductors of vibrations and waves. They were poor at dampening sound. That was ideal.
Already he could hear the Russian words being screamed from around the building, rushing to the remains of the jeep and the man he had killed within. It was wise to have left him alive, for as long as he did.
But John had to focus. The attack started a timer, a timer of when the reinforcement of the Hotel proper would arrive, and when the neighboring warehouses may send their own reinforcements. It was difficult to say how well it would work, given his display at the Yellowflag.
But for now, he only needed to focus and wait for a que
BANG!
The door far aside the wall he held to burst open, two guards running out with rifles raise.
That was John's que.
Bang-Bang
The Takorev Pistol fired accurately, no further than fifty meters. The two men fell in the same time, letting out pained cries as they were hit. The whiplash of their head made it clear John was on target.
He closed the distance to the men quickly, pistol raised as he approached. Russians were cunning, and playing dead was not beyond them. Up closer, he could see the red of their blood leaking from their heads, one hole each.
Bang-Bang
And two made sure they were gone. He didn't have time to search them for ammo. He assumed he had enough, but had to remain focused on his goal.
The door, stuck open by the bodies of the Hotel Moscow guards, gave John easy access to the warehouse. He entered with pistol raised, sweeping the open corridor quickly. No guns were aimed at him, and it was well-lit enough to keep shadows from playing tricks on him.
A camera was aimed on him, on the far side of the hallway. Bang. Before it wasn't.
He had to remain focused, and letting the enemy see where he was would ruin that. He had to be quick, efficient, and hidden from view as long as he could.
John hugged the wall as he moved forward, glancing behind him the further he moved in. The guards from the exterior could approach at any time, yet rushing in without knowing the layout would be hazardous. Not to consider Balalaika likely modeled the tunnel for surges.
However, it was a rush job, as he knew. That meant he could succeed. So long as he remained focused. He stopped at the corner, raising his pistol and peeking around it
BANG
He ducked back into cover, one of the concrete blocks of the adjacent walls losing a chunk of its material. The shot was wide, and wide its range. Another shotgun model gun, likely. Not a rifle, as John had seen enough. He had also seen where the shot had come from.
A bunker, of sorts, made by the spare blocks. Hardly to be seen as anything more than convenient cover, but cover enough to require his entire munitions supply to get through it. But there was going to be far more than just one bunker to shoot through.
Ka-Chink. "Surrender!" A voice shouted from around the wall. "And perhaps the Kaptian will offer leniency!" They would not accept surrender. It was a ploy to be used on weaker men, on thieves.
Perhaps in the city of thieves it would work. A shootout with desperate men coming out to keep their life, only to have it be stolen away just as quickly. It was a common Russian tactic, in seizing land and taking down foes. Short and soft lies for greater gain.
But John was no fool. He was focused.
He bent at the knees, leaning out of cover at half his height. A height that required the opposing gunmen to adjust to. He, however, knew where they were.
Bang-Bang
A pair of bullets took out the gunman, not even a cry of pain. A likely kill shot. Had to be confirmed.
John rolled from his posture, never taking his finger off the pistol's trigger. The moment he stood, he began to walk again, shifting behind himself only once to confirm no other soldiers were approaching, they weren't. But he had to keep moving.
He walked around the barricade, keeping his pistol up as he looked down. Two bullet wounds to the head. Kill shots.
The gun was another KS-23, as he expected. Good for indoor use, given the range and close proximity. It could be useful, if in the short term.
John knelt until he was behind the same barricade, completely covered by approaching men. None were present yet, but John had no intention of waiting. He holstered his pistol, grabbing the shotgun. A 4-gauge model – Chink – that had three shots left.
He didn't have time to look for more. He had to focus. The modified shotgun, would be suitable for the close quarter, and likely would serve the purpose of making his approach faster. That was a priority, to minimize the risk of being flanked too early, thereby stalling his approach.
As John stood, he looked behind himself, the KS-23 raised. There was no one, but that wouldn't be for much longer. He began to move again, this time prepared for barricades.
And they were there, just around the corner.
Bang!
BANG!
And as he had expected, a guard was there to fire at him, too late. He had seen the second shot of the four-gauge weapon
Now that he knew to expect them, he could focus on them. He tune out the shower of gray dust from a missed shot, blowing remains from the cement blocks along the wall. They were not important and beyond his focus.
His focus was on moving forward and aiming for the heads of the men behind cover, watching for the ends of barrels around the corners of walls, and checking to make sure no guards were approaching for a flank.
Ratatatata-
Or ducking behind the opposite end of the hastily built cover as automatic fire came. That was not something to ignore, semi-automatic rounds that had room for approach. He had taken cover before the fifth bullet had flown, a two bullets slower than what he would have once been capable of. But thinking that wasn't important.
What was important was the recognition that the man who had fired had fired blindly, a tactic to force the enemy into cover. A common tactic when you had superior numbers or the intention to escape. Both were viable tactic now that they knew he was here.
-taatatatata-
If the order had come from Balalaika, he could understand what she was thinking.
She was more prepared for common soldiers, having fought against and prepared for common threats for too long. But common threats meant greater numbers, and greater numbers required keeping them in place for long enough to reduce those numbers or remove precious cargo.
But he was not an average soldier, and he was focused on what was at hand.
-taatatatata-Chink!
Like the reloading of a gun.
John ran from the cover, keeping his pistol raised as he did so. The automatic weaponry that was firing on him was removed, likely to reload. It would be too slow.
He swung his fist as he rounded the corner, catching the Russian on the jaw. It was not what the man expected. Him or his partner who was raising his gun as well. But they were not used to their enemies engaging like this.
Bang!
John was.
He shot the third of the shotguns cartridges into the guard he had not punched, removing him from the fight. The guard he had assaulted grabbed at his arm, twisting it. It was not the best situation for him. It forced John to drop the shotgun, bending his back to prevent his arm from fracturing. It was a common Russian tactic, one that John was aware of.
It was how he knew the blow to his back was coming, a foot to his lower spine. But he expected it, focusing instead on not the blow itself, but what to do next.
And next was to draw out the pistol, twisting and stepping back to put room between him and the Russian.
Bang-Bang A double tap to the man's chest had him slump over. Bang A final shot to the head had him dead on the ground.
That was five now, five guards and they were just beginning to enter the building again after his distraction. It meant he had to hurry, he had to focus. Focus on the idea that the Russians were using close-range weapons, the automatic weapon clearly now an SR-2 Veresk modified machine gun. Focus on the tight corridors lined with not steel, but concrete.
The focus reminded him of the Russian tactics, of how they would work in the field. The few companies he worked with in Afganistan, before he returned to the states, before he joined the mafia, all used the same tactics when they were establishing bases.
Create bunkers and traps. Bunkers to station one in, and traps that looked just the same. Traps that had claymore mines or grenade bouquets in them. If there was a soldier in a bunker, there wouldn't be a trap.
But just ahead of him, where no guards approached, was a bunker without a man. John could not think of a reason why the soldiers would not be pursuing him from the front now. Not unless they were waiting for the trap first.
Keeping the KS up, a single shot to its munitions left, he looked over the bunker from the far side, in case there was an enemy awaiting to ambush him. There was no enemy, but there was a trap.
A claymore mine, American made, positioned in such a way to blow up should he pass. They had prepared for an assault from a flanking position. But they had not prepared for him. John knew their tactics, and he knew the American weapons.
John reached behind the active mine, a mine that was situated in the hollow holes of a concrete block for support. He hit the safety, on the back of the mine, rendering it harmless to approach, but still live to explode.
Grabbing it, he pulled it up, walking back quickly to the corner of the hallway he had just approached from. There would be a flanking force coming for him, and he'd be ready.
He whipped the edges of his black over-coat, kicking the gray dust and stray bullets off of the material. He was bruised, easily, and likely shredding the remains of the mesh weaving of his suit. It wouldn't last much longer in a fight. He didn't intent to fight for much longer.
He set the mine about the corner, leaning it against the wall and flicking it on. He turned away from it quickly, leaving it to be found by whatever force was unfortunate enough to come across him from the rear.
And by the sound of the boots marching through the halls behind him, that wouldn't be long now.
BOOM!
Rodion cursed at the sound, gripping the handle of his KS-9. The claymore had gone off, but there was no way to find out if it had done in the target as they had hoped, as he now prayed. He only knew what he did.
This Babayaga, a demon from the Kapitan's past, had taken out nearly a dozen of their men already, with bombs, guns, and whatever other tools a demon had at his disposal.
Ratatatat-Bang-Bang-Ratatatat
Gunfire continued to sound from the corridors farther away from him, a sound he couldn't approach. Not yet. Not while the bunker door stood behind him. He couldn't abandon his post, or else he would dishonor the Hotel's name, and soil the Kapitan's respect.
"Luka! Oleg!" Rodion yelled into his microphone once more, maintaining his positioned exterior the main holding room. "Luka! Oleg! Respond!" He only received more static in return.
Bang! Bang!
"Micheal! Boriv!" He yelled the names aloud now, his mic forgotten as the shooting and fighting approached. He would not until he was given orders to remove his post, but he was becoming acutely aware how close the danger was.
Ratatatata! BANG! BANG!
A danger that continued to bring the fire fight closer and closer to the main bunker. A bunker that Rodion now defended alone.
"Joshua!" Rodion yelled name after name into his mike, but only static returned. And worse yet, so did the sounds of the approaching fighting.
For five minutes the fighting had gone on, since the explosion outside the warehouse. Now there wasn't a sound but his own breathing.
Rodion cursed into the mic, raising his KS up as he stared down the hallway. The modified bunker he sat at was guarded enough, but he still needed to expose himself to aim, and that was likely room enough for a demon like John Wick to get him.
This Babayaga truly was the demon that the Kapitan made him out to be. Using an IED to blow up one of their stolen jeeps, and the men that had gone to investigate it. Using the rear entry way, and being prepared for their troops leaving it, and not to mention how the barricades they had assembled did little to no good against him. Not even their own claymores seemed to slow him down.
Rodion couldn't explain it, and he hated the idea of having to recognize it, but this John Wick… it seemed he knew of their plans better than they did themselves. If this was the strength of an American working for the Russians, then he was knowledgeable now of why the man was so revered.
It didn't mean he wouldn't kill him.
Rodion adjusted his stance, keeping his hands on his gun as he kept watch. The moment any man rounded the corner, he would shoot. His fellow Hotel members were aware of the danger and would not make the mistake. John had to check first.
Ka-Chink-chink-chink
Rodion looked up at the sound, watching as something hit one of the reinforced walls, bouncing into the open hallway. He followed it for a moment, just long enough to recognize it. But it was a moment that he would regret.
It was a flash bang
BING!
"GAH!" Rodion yelled out as his senses were crushed, blinded by the light and deafened by the sound. He knelt back in his cover, refusing to drop the gun and risk the Babayaga killing him with it. Instead, he focused on his recovery, hastening it.
He shut his eyes crouched in the corner, covering his ears. His breathing calmed, shaking his head, straightening his posture, anything to make the lights fade faster. His shut eyes started to blink, focusing on the outlines in front of him. The door the safe room, the gun in his hand.
And the demon of a man standing in front of him.
The man, dressed in a suit black as shadows and a tie to match and hair that was more appropriate on the head of a beggar than a ruthless killer. He didn't shake as he stood above Rodion's prone form, not even as he aimed the pistol at his head.
Rodion recognized the pistol, a Takorev pistol, aimed at his head. He did not recognize the man behind it. The only other thing he could recognize, through the flashes of white that still dotted his gaze, were the man's eyes.
They were focused, on him.
"… keys…" The man said, and his lips moved. There was more being said, but Rodion couldn't hear. It was obvious what he wanted though.
He wanted entry to the room.
"No," he spoke back, simply. And the Babayaga answered simply.
BANG! With a bullet to his leg.
"GYAAAAH!" Rodion yelled, dropping his gun and grabbing at his leg. Blood shot from the wound, missing his leg but turning the meat of his thigh into a useless mass. It was far from the first time he was shot, but it was never a pleasant sensation.
Even more so knowing that the man kept the gun on him, still smoking, and carrying more bullets.
"The keys… now," the man spoke the sentence again, assumingly the same one. Rodion sneered up at him, careless of the man's threat. The Babayaga appeared far more apathetic to him.
"…. No." Rodion forced out through grit teeth, knowing what it meant. But it was a risk he had accepted long ago. The members of the Hotel never lived long. Perhaps it was time he checked out.
John Wick lowered the gun again, perhaps aiming for his other leg.
BANG!
Rodion tensed, hearing the sound, but he felt no pain. He didn't need to check his leg to wonder why. The true source of the sound was immediately obvious. That was the metal door to the bunker, swinging open.
Both he and the Babayaga turned to the open doorway. There, standing in it, was the purple-haired gunman of the Lagoon Company, dressed in a crop-top and hot pants, and snarling like the mad dog that she was.
Then, like a bat out of hell, the Lagoon woman ran out, arms raised and striking at the man. It was too quick for Rodion to catch what the woman did, let alone react to it. Yet it appeared to be almost predicted to the Babayaga.
He leaned back, dodging the punch from the woman. He sidestepped then avoiding a kick from the opposite side. When he reacted again, it was to strike.
The Babayaga twisted his body, lowering his center of gravity, striking at the girl's own. It was a Russian move, a Russian strike and he did it like it was second nature. But the girl wasn't a Russian, she was a mad dog.
The strike hit, but it only gave the girl leverage. Leverage to grab his arm and twist. She did so with a twist of her body, trying to swing the Babayaga's arm over her head. An arm break, if he recalled the American maneuver.
But it didn't work. The Russian fighting method was too strong.
His leg rose up, kicking the back of the girl's legs. They bent under the force, rendering the arm-break maneuver useless. All she succeeded now was pulling the Babayaga forward a bit. But he still had a gun on her.
Thwack!
Until she swung her arm backwards knocking it out of his hand. Rodion was impressed, but the Babayaga hardly reacted. At least, not like it wasn't expected.
His hand now free, he hit at the Lagoon woman's shoulder, weakening her grip on his arm and letting it slide out. He kept his arms close, center of gravity small, as he delivered two quick punches to her chest. The blows were obvious.
"GAH!" The woman let out, falling back under the assault. "Fucking bastard!" The girl roared before charging again. She charged again, this time swinging low to high. An upper cut, likely to destabilize his posture. It didn't work.
Like he expected it, the Babayaga leaned back, letting the blow swing far and high, missing drastically. He reached up in the same moment grabbing at her arm. A locking maneuver. It would have worked, if the woman hadn't clearly expected it.
"Got you!" She yelled, slipping her bare arm out of his hold, grabbing at his own. And she did, a twist maneuver that kept his arm locked within hers. It was disadvantageous, and a move Rodion was glad to see. Perhaps this woman could take down the Babayaga, long enough for him to make a move.
He reached for his KS-9, ignoring the pooling blood of his leg. Killing the enemy of the Hotel was paramount.
Thwack! If only he could do it.
No sooner did his hands touch the gun than did the Babayaga's foot sweep by, kicking it far and away from him. It slid down the hallway, far out of range. All while he wrestled with the Lagoon girl. That wasn't going to last much longer.
She quickly raised her free leg, trying to ram it into the stomach of the Babayaga. At first, it looked successful. The man doubled over at the blow, either not expecting or too slow to react to it. The woman did the motion again, and again, but the effectiveness wore off quickly.
Rodion couldn't tell if the Babayaga was jumping to avoid the blows, had put his arm in the way, or simply gotten used to the attack. Regardless, the outcome was the same.
The Babayaga twisted his own arm, letting it fall over the girl's shoulder like it belonged there. Before she could react now, he grabbed her arm, pulling his free, and twisting it behind her back. That was no Russian move. That was an American move.
A 'chicken-wing' if Rodion recalled correctly. A debilitating move that kept the girl's back to him, and range of motion shot. Slam Motion that was further restricted by slamming her against the wall.
"GAH!" she yelled out, caught behind the man. "You fucker! Let go of me right now or I'll-"
CRACK
"GYAAAAHYAA!" The Lagoon girl yelled as the sound echoed through the stone hall. It was impossible for Rodion to miss. Not only the sound but the maneuver.
The Babayaga, holding the girl, never heeded her words. He just held her arm, put his shoulder to her back, and pulled. It wasn't a move to break, an arm, but to debilitate an opponent. He had pulled her arm from its socket. It would take time to reset it. Time neither of them had.
"FUCK! Shit!" The girl yelled as she fell back, clutching at her arm. He didn't even care to study her. He was reaching for something on the ground again. Rodion knew what it was instantly, and the same as the Lagoon girl.
"And fuck that, too!" The woman yelled. She spun with her leg, trying to strike again, but it did no good.
Bang!
With a pistol in hand he was more than ready now.
"GHAAAA!" The girl yelled again, this time with a pain the same as Rodion's own. A bullet wound through the leg, making it mush to the touch. He could already tell it was through-and-through, the bullet having lodged itself into the wall nearby. But that did not mean the girl was well.
Blood pooled behind her, John Wick standing high above her, gun in hand and ready to fire again. Those same focused eyes looked down at the girl, through his black bangs and the Lagoon girl's own lavender locks.
It took that long for Rodion to realize why the Babayaga was so feared to the Kapitan. He wasn't just strong, or capable, or even skilled.
He was just focused. Focused on what he had to do. It was that focus that was going to kill the Lagoon girl, then himself. And likely Rock as well.
At least the Kapitan would kill him in the end.
"STOP!" Came another shout from the room. Rodion knew who that was. And it was his job to protect the man.
"NO! Stop!" He yelled back into the room, still clutching his useless leg. The man didn't stop though, Rock stepping out in his Japanese Salaryman attire. He wasn't even looking at Rodion. "Get back inside! Lock the door! Now!" If he did that, then he would be safe.
"Leave her alone, please," the Jap was talking, talking, to the Babayaga. The value the Kapitan saw in him must have been deep, because Rodion saw only stupidity now. It was the girl's fault for putting his life in danger in the first place!
"Rock! Get the fuck back inside!" Even the girl agreed now! "Hurry! Before this fucker does-" She stopped herself, and it was a small mystery why.
The Babayaga was walking towards him. He was walking towards Rock!
Rodion looked for his gun, seeing it just by the edge of his feet. If he bent, neglected his wound, he could reach it. He could reach it, grab it, and fire it. But in that time… the Babayaga would easily have been able to empty his clip into him.
"ROCK! You fucking idiot! Get back inside!" The Lagoon girl kept yelling. She was clearly in no better position, arm dismantled and leg shot like Rodion's own. "That fucker is going to kill you!" No, he wasn't, at least not yet.
Rodion knew that, even as he watched the Babayaga stop in front of Rock, towering over the short Japanese man. The difference in skill, in strength, in ability, was clear on sight. Rock was nothing more than foolish, and the Babayaga was ruthless.
"I swear to god Rock, if you let him kill you, I'll dig a hole to hell and kill you all over again you limp dick fucker!" Neither man flinched at the girl's words. Rodion was merely looking for a way to attack.
He had no knives to reach for, and the Babayaga was faster than he was. There was little he could think to do, and it sickened him.
"So… are you going to-" Anything Rock thought the Babayaga was going to do never happened.
Not after he was pistol whipped across the side of his head.
"NO! You father-sucking bastard!" The Lagoon girl yelled as Rock's body hit the ground, hard. It was instantly apparent he was out cold. A hit like that, along the head, from a man as strong as the Babayaga. There was no way he was still awake.
But the Babayaga paid no mind. He reached down, grabbed Rock by the collar, and lifted him. He lifted the man like bag of trash, dragging him down the hall. And that was exactly what he did.
The Babayaga dragged Rock down the passageway he came in from.
Rodion moved for his gun the moment he could, foregoing the spilling of his blood for the chance to shoot the enemy of the Hotel. Better to die succeeding than giving up on the floor.
He bent his good leg, putting weight on it as he watched the Babayaga turn down the hallway, Rock motionless in his hand. He was out of sight by the time Rodion was on his good leg, shakily, and blood quickly spilling down his leg. He would have to endure.
"Can you stand?" He asked the Lagoon girl, shuffling past her. She had a good leg still, like him, but he also had to arms. She lacked on of her own.
"Fuck me!" The Lagoon girl yelled, pointing ahead with a bloody hand and loose arm. "Get Rock! Stop that fucker from getting away!" Her course words were unnecessary, but she was correct.
Rodion pulled himself up, pushing against the wall for support. He grabbed his pistol, cocking the gun as he dragged his feet forward. He stepped over the perforated bodies of his friends, of his comrades, as he kept his gaze forward.
The Babayaga was pulling a hostage with him, an unwilling an unconscious one at that. He only had one had to use, and Rodion was wounded. But that was unimportant. He only needed to shoot the man once and he would go do. A shot in the back would at least down the Babayaga, if not manage to kill him.
He ignored the pain in his leg, the bullet wound and gift from the enemy of the Hotel. His wounds were not important, only the mission was. Only the mission to stop John Wick from gaining any information, no matter how minor, from Rock.
Rodion stopped at the corner peeking out far enough to ensure he was not to be shot. He saw only the same lightly lit hall, covered now in blood and gray dust from the fire fight. But no John Wick.
He turned the corner quickly, holding his gun out at the ready just in case. But still there was no John Wick or Rock. That meant he had to hurry. He still could-
Click
Rodion looked down, at the wall of cinderblocks they had constructed a few hours ago. He saw a cut string, a collection of grenades, and a spare pin at his feet.
"Huh?" BOOM!
Boom!
John didn't look behind him as the trip-wire he had assembled went off. It gave him time to escape, as he had predicted. It was beyond his focus to check on how efficient it was.
"Dammit! Rock!" The girl yelled again far behind them now, but John paid her no mind. She was disarmed and disabled. She was no longer a threat. Plus, she was a friend of Dutch. Even if his old friend had betrayed him to Balalaika, John wouldn't betray him. She was not a member of the Hotel either.
It was Dutch and Balalaika who were in trouble, not the girl. The girl was just defending a friend, that was all.
John dragged the unconscious body of Rock behind him, keeping one hand available on the pistol, five bullets at the ready. Enough to kill five men foolish enough now to get in his way.
But there were no men left, none of the Hotel guards present to get in his way. Even as John walked through the quickly constructed walls, he passed the fallen bodies of the Russian men, all killed by his hands.
Some by bullets to the head, some with initial wounds to the chest, a few with knife wounds in the back of their head, and eve more with snapped bones. They were all very strong, but hardly experienced enough.
The barricades were good, slowing him down ,but he was prepared for the flanking, and the lack of secondary entrances made the path the same. It meant he could prepare for them as well. And there was only so much cover, and so much room, a refurbished hallway could offer.
The war they had been ready for in the open was nothing like the war he had endured. And he was focused on a task tot complete. They were focused on just living to the next day.
BANG
John kicked the side door to the warehouse, leaving out the side. The exposed jeep the soldiers had used was waiting there. He fished the keys from his jacket pocket, even as she pulled Rock behind him and held the Tokarev pistol.
And the girl, Revy, continued to yell behind him. John didn't care, he wasn't focused on that. He was focused on escaping with the cargo.
When he was next to the jeep, John bent down and picked up the Japanese man by his waist. He was small and thinly set. It was easy to lift him into the back of the truck, well enough to not risk his position in a drive.
The door the jeep slammed shut, John already walking swiftly around it. He had to hurry, as the area was no longer safe. The keys were in the ignition before he had even set down in the seat, turning them and letting the engine roar to life.
He was on the gas a second later, racing away from the warehouse and the bodies he had left behind. He didn't care for the shouts he heard or anything else. John was focused on the drive now, and nothing more.
He had gotten what he had come for.
"Shit! No!" Revy yelled as she threw the hand gun against the ground. It clattered uselessly, just as useless as her fucking arms. "Fucking shit! Hell fucking fire up at bitch's cunt!"
Her screaming echoed through the bullet-perforated walls and broken concrete blocks. The empty warehouse didn't do anything now but just yell back at her what she was screaming, and Revy fucking hated it.
She hated it almost as much as the bullet wound in her leg, the dislocation of her right arm, or the way that John fucking Wick had taken her to task like she was a fly on the wall, and he was the almighty fly swatter.
What she hated, with all of her black heart, was what she realized through her cold fury.
John Wick, the damn boogeyman of New York, had kidnaped Rock.
Air hissed through her teeth, a clenched jaw threatened to crack the molars in her mouth. She didn't care. After this, the Big Sis was probably going to shoot all her men, or just her, or just give a snide fucking comment about how dumb she was. Like salt on the wound!
"The fuck!? Why the fuck?!" Revy lifted and slammed her head against the dry wall, cracking it and leaving an indent into it. She snarled into it, leave spit and venom in the plaster.
She did more damage to a fucking wall with her damn head than she did to a fucking single man with the Hotel on her side. Useless, fucking useless.
"Why the ever loving fuck?!" Revy shouted again. This time, with a bang of her head forward. It was too much for her tired body.
Already dragging itself through the hall, she faltered and fell over, body collapsing into the wet mess that was the warehouse ground. She couldn't even tell if it was blood, gasoline, or whatever other liquids you'd find in an abandoned warehouse flour.
It could've been used spunk from Eda's last fuck and it still wouldn't've have pissed Revy off any more than she already was. Nothing could match the absolutely hatred she felt right now.
For herself.
"Always him! Why? Why the fuck?!" And she needed to know. She really needed to know.
Rock had something, or knew something, that made the literal demon of the killing world come after him. Not just to kill. No, that'd be too fucking easy for the boogeyman, apparently.
Apparently, John fucking Wick thought it was fair game to raid the Hotel hideout, take out like two dozen of Big Sis's men, then fucking kidnap John Wick while leave her alive! She preferred a fucking bullet in the head over this!
At least then she could haunt the fucker.
But… that wasn't right. No, not yet.
Revy's hand dug into the ground, fisting itself until her knuckles dragged along the wet surface. She hissed until her spit mixed with whatever the sticky liquid was. She didn't care about it, about anything. She only cared about the one thing in this fucking city that mattered.
It wasn't the job, it wasn't the Hotel, wasn't the booze, and sure as fuck wasn't the guns. All awesome in combination, and a great way to pass the time, but they meant absolute shit.
All that mattered was that Revy was the gun, and Rock was the bullet.
It didn't matter if the devil himself had stolen her magazines. She was a determined bitch, and she wasn't going to let her bullets go to waste. Even if that meant hunting the fucker all the way to Georgia.
She was the only one who could use Rock right.
"Wait up, partner," Revy hissed to herself, for herself. She'd shoot any Russian still alive to hear it, damn the consequences. "I'm going to grab the devil by the horns and fuck him up the ass for you." She didn't even care if he took her life for the effort.
Not so long as Rock was safe.
The first thing to hit Rock's senses was a flash of light.
And it was blinding.
Blinding enough that he raised his hands in an effort to block it, but found his hands unable to move. He didn't need to see to tell they were bound. Bound together, then bound to a table, or something close, right in front of him.
It was similar to how Watsup held 'criminals' in the police station, or just crooks who forgot to pay towards the protection fund. Normally it involved police cuffs and a metal bracket secured to the table. This didn't feel like that.
It felt like his hands were bolted to the table. No give at all. That made things considerably worse.
But where was he? The last thing Rock could recall was being dragged out of Balalaika's warehouse by John, Revy shouting at him as he was dragged away. Shew as okay, which was good. But all of the Hotel's men were either injured or dead. That was bad.
Still though, the light was far too bright for him to even get a look for where he was at. He couldn't twist his head enough to avoid it. And what little Rock could see outside of it showed nothing but gray walls and dark shadows. Almost anywhere in Roanapur.
He sighed, working his stiff jaw with the expulsion of air. His chest was tight, probably from how he was handled. This was far from the first time Rock had been kidnapped like this, and it was never gentle. Ever. Why would the worst of the worst treat him any differently?
Speaking of though, Rock couldn't see John.
He could have been in the room for all he knew, but the light was too bright for him to tell. But he couldn't hear anything obvious, not that there was any noise either. It was just a quiet bright room, uncomfortable in every sense of the word.
The salaryman shifted his shoulders, the little he could adjust with his arms bound to the table. It still didn't do much for him, making him feel tight, constricted, and trapped. That was probably the point.
A basic interrogation method, one that Rock was, unfortunately, starting to become aware of. But if that was the case, then it wouldn't be long before John showed back up.
It all depended on how long he had been waiting for, 'stewing' being the term most of the more common crooks used. Leave him alone with his thoughts until he wanted to speak. It was the obvious method, one that he didn't expect someone like John to use.
Then again, Rock didn't know what to expect from John.
He only knew that being able to talk on all of the Hotel, or at least its major fighters, and walking away was something he couldn't underestimate. He had beaten Revy easily, outplayed Balalaika, and was getting ready to interrogate Rock. He could only wonder why.
Bing
And then the light adjusted, making it easier to see.
And across from the table, sitting easily by the now far dimmer light, was the man in question.
John Wick, the Babayaga.
Rock stared at the man in front of him. He had many questions, and knew so few of them would be answered, if they could be. It was hard to think of a question why he was being tied down to the table.
It was more obvious now that his arms, were indeed, bolted to the table. Specifically, by metallic braces fashioned for just this purpose. It still didn't help Rock figure out where he was.
It only confirmed that John was no man to be trifled with, with or without a gun. And even though Rock couldn't see a gun on John's person, that didn't mean he didn't have one.
Because he looked the same. He looked the same now as he did when he was shooting the Russians, fighting Revy, and dragging him out of the warehouse. He looked exactly the same, and that was what made Rock nervous.
He had bene tied up before, held down and interrogated. He had been abused by Koreans, Russians, Americans, and even Cubans when they were in town. But all of them acted differently in an interrogation. Dutch even said that was the trick, being a different person when you wanted answers than when you wanted lives.
But John Wick looked exactly the same. Rock couldn't tell if he wanted answers… or wanted his life.
And that made him nervous.
"Rock." He almost missed the man speaking his own name, even in the otherwise silent room. "I need answers."
And that answered one question for Rock. He had no idea how many more he would get.
Let alone if he'd be able to speak of them again.
Author's Note:
And now we get to the exciting part of the story. An interrogation with John Wick doing the talking.
I'll be honest. Though I started out this story with the idea of (spoiler) having John establish a new Continental in Roanapur and taking over the gangs, I realized that's not what John would want, at all. His character is he's had enough killing and will just try and leave it let live. The whole plot of movie two was to kill everyone who wanted to kill him, them get out. He even went back to his home to die after he 'finished it'.
So, that leads to this story doing two things. 1) Finishing in the next few chapters with one, maybe two, more fight scenes. 2) Leaving off at a point that feels like it belongs, that with all the characters either satisfied or getting paid their dues for actions rendered.
then... yeah, I'd say three more chapters, maybe four, going something like.
Interrogation - Information - Assault - Escape(?)
This and my other story, MagicTale, are both hopefully going to be finished soon.