John watched the Cartel from the scope of the rifle, silent and hidden from the few pedestrians below. He only focused on remaining hidden from them. They weren't what he had to observe.

He was memorizing the compound at the far end of the street, a gate that was raised towards the main entrance, flanked both within and without by a pair of moderately armed guards, wearing off-market and non-marked bullet proof vests. Low-grade from simple observation, likely purchased for visual intimidation more than tactical reasoning. Roanapur was not a city of intelligent thieves, but wary pickpockets and low-priced killers.

It was evident from the traffic within the building, little that he could see through the grating and low-tinted windows, that the main offices and rooms for meetings were held in a wing of the building, non-centralized and likely out of sight from the windows of the building. A little focus on the people inside made it clear. Too many moving too quickly from the left to right, never disappearing for long between the pairs of windows he could see. No central hall or room they entered and stayed within.

More focus gave the clear agreement with the layout. Hiding the high intelligence or value areas from view and sight, making it a higher risk for foreign parties to enter, making it easier to defend, and making it simpler to kill anyone entering to extract the data. Any breach had to have an exit, and if the Cartel had buried their valuable data in a place without windows or clear exits, it would be easy to corner and kill them.

But that worked off the assumption of a raid.

A raid was what Rock of the Lagoon company also assumed. It was clear from the words he had spoken and few pieces of information he had written down that he assumed it. He was of the belief that John would cause enough damage for Balalaika to enter and take what was necessary, to risk her men for the available slab of meet.

John had focused more on the woman in the past than the new information broker of Roanapur. He knew it was not the case for most dangerous woman of the Russian Mafia.

So long as she believed the Babayaga was in play, she would risk her men fighting him than a piece of territory she could not guarantee. He was a fight, a war, and a more tantalizing risk to pursue than the Cartel who had festered beneath her for so long. If the risk was the same between them, which it was not, Balalaika would surely pick him.

He could give her the war and fight she craved.

John took his eyes off the scope, shutting them to heighten his focus. Focusing on what had to be done, now that he had more information on the what and where. He needed the how.

It was because of the knowledge of Balalaika, established patterns of the Cartel, and information from Rock that John knew a raid was out of the question. Even a successful one would not guarantee his way out of the city.

He didn't need a raid, he needed a takedown. A takedown was not a raid.

That was a mistake too many made. A raid involved searching for a singular object, a person, and either extracting, destroying, or changing the item. A raid involved causing the least amount of damage to reach the objective as quickly as possible. A takedown was not a raid, because a takedown required that the facility be completely inoperable, if not destroyed.

No, a takedown was not a raid. The areas of focus were all too different. That was what made it so difficult.

So many areas he had to focus on. Focus on not only the objective he needed to reach, the armaments he needed, but also the number of rooms to clear, the areas of exit he had to choke, the resistance that would grow the longer the takedown proceeded for, any areas of reinforcements that could make his own exit more difficult, so much to think of. So much to focus on.

He disliked takedowns. Everyone in the continental did. Winston once commented that a takedown was an impossible task, outside of having a large sponsor, team, or being in a city that had little resistance.

But John had none of those things. He had no support, no team, and Roanapur was a lawless city with resistance to all things that led to law and order. Thus, it was an impossible task. It was an impossible task, but he could do it.

When he focused on what he needed, he had done the impossible before. He only had to do it again.

He needed to find armaments, perhaps make a deal or call on a favor of the few members of the lawless city who still looked to fulfill old deeds. The few guns that he had were of sufficient make and quality to ensure short gun fights, but a takedown of a Cartel safehouse was no such thing. Even the warehouse, modified and bunkered by Balalaika and the Hotel, didn't compare.

The Cartel home was layered with brick, mortar, and likely sheets of metal to ensure the use of hand-held explosives and low-grade munitions would be a non-issue. The bolted frames of the window, layered with rebar, was a clear indication than entering from any location but a doorway would require sufficient firepower that he didn't have.

John opened his eyes as he stared a head. A car was approaching the building, the third one of the day and unmarked like the two before it. It was a white Civic, a year John didn't recognize, possibly modified to avoid that very thing. Too small to be carrying anything of great importance, too unguarded as well. Likely involved the rotation for the guards then, internal primarily.

It made sense as well. Focus degraded with time, and time spent in constant focus made one easing to distract. The Cartel clearly knew this, knew it enough to keep their guards consistently changing. That meant John could not rely on an assault in the twilight hours to catch them off guard. They would be prepared.

The same could be said for their gun models. Lightly modified automatic models by appearance, but too far away to tell with any great detail the specific make or model. It would have to be a guess they were designed for close-range assaults with any large range weaponry situated inside. That made sense, removing from the front line of fire.

But that was not in his focus at the moment. He needed to focus on what he needed, not what the enemy had. He needed to focus on what was independent of their supplies.

Armaments was the primary thing he needed. Enough to be able to enter the building without fear of running out of ammunition, then procuring the rest of his weaponry from the fallen guards. It would be crude, but so long as he was focused, effective. Reduce the need to carry heavy packs of ammunition as well, making movement easier.

That still required enough to be able to remove no less than eight cards, likely twelve. The Cartel would be hiding more of their men form sight. A bit of focus on the tactics of safe house enforcement made that clear. Hiding the strong points of a defense by appearing vulnerable. A trap for attackers. Average attackers, which John was not.

He needed his weapons though. Thankfully, he knew of one person who would accept a favor in the future. If he focused for a moment, he could see how the conversation would play out with them.

Yolanda was consistent if nothing else. It made the conversation easy to focus on.


"My my John. I didn't think I'd be seeing you again this soon," Yolanda would remark with a slight grin beneath her habit. A merchant's smile, one that she wore better than Dutch, Balalaika or Mr. Chang. The one she wore when she serviced them all. "And from what I have heard, things could have gone better for your reunion with old friends. I would even guess that I am the only one of them to offer you a conversation over threats." She would not be wrong.

Although the conversation would not be what he needed to discuss, Yolanda was not one to talk business before pleasure. He needed her help, so he focused on what was necessary to be said.

"Only you and Watsup have done nothing to me." His remark would be accurate. Yolanda would not be pleased with so little, however, not when she was used to entertaining Balalaika and Mr. Chang for hours. "I suspect Dutch told Balalaika of me being here, and I was the one who did harm to the Mafia in New York."

"So I've heard, so I've heard," the faux nun would address. Her information was always small, but quick, especially when it was of power changes. "And what a tragedy it is to have the once great and feared Babayaga suddenly looking in the darkest corners for aid, rather than hunting in them for profit." Her silver tongue would be sharp. He would have to be no different.

"I'm used to dark places." John would have to focus on areas he'd been in that were bloody and dark. Bloody battles made for intimidating conversations, or just reminders. "At night in Afghanistan when hunting for insurgents, a night club looking for the killer of my dog, underneath the Italian sewer system after killing a family head, and the New York homeless barricade while removing another family. I do well in dark places." Yolanda would be impressed, not scared.

"I've heard a little about that, too." She would remark, maybe point a finger at him, grinning all the same. That wasn't what was important. He had to focus on what she'd say next. "And I assume you are here again looking for aid in those areas, correct? Not revenge, maybe, but defiantly something to help you survive. Am I wrong?"

"You are not." When Yolanda moved to business, he had to do the same. Time was already short. "And I recognize that you would not tell either side of where I am, because that would be choosing a side." Yolanda stood as the neutral ground of Roanapur for her naturalness. Equal gain on both sides. Neither would risk upsetting that balance.

"As true now as it was decades ago," Yolanda would say next. Her pride would be evident in her voice. "But I must say that the same rules for them apply to you. Choosing sides is always a dangerous game, John. And strong, wise, and handsome as you are, you are still a side in a growing storm." Maybe her smile would lose some of its mirth, but it would not be his focus.

John had to focus on what to say to her next. Not a counter, not an argument. Arguments worked from the high ground to the low. When working up hill, you needed low resistance, conserve energy, ensure strong footing. Conversations were the same, especially with merchants.

"I'm not looking for a favor or aide," he would need to say. "I'm looking for protection in the house of the lord." She would grin brightly at that.

She would be the only one of the church members he had seen to recognize the phrase.

"And for what do you need the lord's shield?" Yolanda would return as she leaned on her knees, a glint in her lone eye. "Are you chased by demons of your own make? Or are you looking to offer salvation to another you care about?" Hunt or Hunted. The key question to decide on what to purchase. John needed firepower.

"I wish to quell the sins of others," he would say next. It was the last code words he would need. "Something that they will not realize is there." Because that would be all Yolanda would need to acquire what she needed for him.

She would sit on it for a moment though, waiting patiently. She was not in a rush for time like he was, and any good merchant knew that biding time when the other had time to lose made for better deals. So John would have to wait for Yolanda to either assume her patience had run its course or hand over begin to discuss what was important.

It would happen eventually, however. She had never forsaken a deal before and she was not one to begin new habits. If the Ripoff church remaining the only unchanged part of Roanapur was anything to focus on, it was that she was consistent. And consistency was key to determining what would happen. He only needed to focus.

"We have what you need, I'm sure we do." John had confidence she would. "The only difficulty that I'm coming to is the price to be met. You are an old friend John, and one that I do enjoy conversations with, but offering salvation without gold is not something I can afford. Not in this city." Though cruel as Roanapur was, John knew that the rule held strong in all nations that held a Continental as well.

She would want gold, however. Thankfully, John had just enough left to pay. Possibly.

He would take out the last coin he had. A meager amount, to be sure, but enough to attract her attention. Hardly enough to earn more than a nice meal or a fine tour, but nothing scoff at either. A merchant did not turn down profit. Yolanda was a master merchant in the city of thieves.

"A single coin?" He would nod at the question. "A gold mark can go a great ways, but it has little else to depend on. You would need to have some skill to use whatever we can provide for… that amount." Her head would indicate towards the coin, perhaps as her hands motioned towards the product crates that she had out in the open.

Her insinuation, which would be somewhere between bargaining and honest truth, would mean one of two outcomes. He would either be obtaining a low-quality weapon that one of their previous clients refused to pay for, or he would be getting a low power weapon that was not worth keeping inventory of.

He needed the former. The later he already had. So he would need to emphasize such.

"Even if it isn't your best, I'll make do." John always had before. "I only need it to be able to last the night." An emphasis on the quality of the weapon would be all the indication Yolanda would need.

She would grin brightly at the words, either knowing what to get him or having an idea of where to find it. Either would be enough for him, because either was what he needed. No matter the reasoning, her next action would be clear.

"I can procure you such an item. I only need you to promise that you didn't receive it from me." A neutral party didn't want to be associated with the crimes their client committed. Gunlords prospered in war because both sides thought they were loyal. Yolanda of the Ripoff Church was not seen so kindly by the other thieves of Roanapur, but the ignorance of her operations was the bliss of the murders about it.

It was clear what she would ask. It was just as evident John would agree. He never spoke of her before and that would not change.

It would be difficult to determine what would happen next. The specific events would be difficult, even with a hard focus on Yolanda and the Ripoff Church. It would be hard because she was no longer in the same company as she was over ten years ago.

She would call in the nun and priest that were there before, either by their names or some title that he was not familiar with. They would grab the gun from the supply crates, with the ammunition as well, then hand it off to him. Where that crate was, how long it would take, and what the model was was currently impossible to tell.

He had no idea to know how her fellow nun and the young priest would move with the orders of the old woman, aside from showing her the respect for her seniority. And it was the inability to focus well on them that would lead to the outcome altering slightly, minutely, based upon how they acted.

John could only be sure he would leave with a weapon and Yolanda a gold token richer.


It was easy to see Yolanda helping him, even as he focused on the guards at the gates of the Cartel compound. He returned his focus to them.

Per his assumptions, on the mark of his calculations, they were rotating shifts, a pair moving in behind the guards at the head, a shoulder tap, and then the old guards moving back into the compound. Eyes never leaving the perimeter. Smart, organized, focused.

Always a hand on their weaponry, never taking a cigarette out of pocket, never drinking water, never doing anything that would leave them vulnerable for even a moment. The actions spoke of great detail to their combat abilities. It also confirmed, if silently, the value to the compound they guarded.

It was still yet impossible to tell how truthful or sure Rock's words were, but it was clear that this was far from any simple safehouse of the Cartel. John had been tasked by the Russian Mob of the United States, Porto Rico, and Italian branches to disrupt Cartel activity before. Safehouses they used were often more settled to seclusion of land rather than well guarded, hoping to have the people inside remain forgotten rather than guarded.

Without focus, it seemed foolish. With it, it came to be only cruel. The Cartel chose seclusion for those they 'protected' because they never truly intended to protect them. The killers would find them, the killers would end them, and because the individuals being guarded were often alone, nothing else was lost.

When the safehouse was held in seclusion, it was a shooting range. Given this compound and its defenses, something of immense value was here.

It was still too early to say Rock was honest about the detail of the operations being held here, even if there was fruit to the words. Despite the focus John gave to the facility, he only ever returned with confirmation of its defenses, its worth, and its need to be kept safe. It all implied what Rock spoke of, but did not confirm it.

Confirmation would require eyes on the target. He knew this well. He had to remain focused on that. He needed to find and hold the information and documents, paper or electronic or anything other medium the Cartel chose to detail their receipts and transports on. Once he had that, then he could proceed forward.

His head slid off of the scope of the rifle again. This time, John moved it from the window, in case a curious eye saw it. A gun in a perch like this for too long would gather the Cartel's attention. That was focus he did not want on him. Rather, he needed to focus on what next, after he had spoken to Yolanda and procured an extra weapon.

It was incredibly important to remain focused on the order of operations for a takedown. He was concluding the recon now. He would gather the weapons necessary to make the breach of the compound most efficient. He would move through the compound floor by floor, prioritizing the exits first and using any explosives the guards had on hand to create choke points. They would have same, as all Cartel members did.

John shook his head. He missed a step. That was bad. He had to go back and focus.

After he procured the weapon, he needed to procure an eye to watch him. He needed someone to watch and make sure that he would not be followed in by reinforcements too quickly. Even better, if possible, he needed someone to be able to ensure that he would be able to leave enough time for Balalaika and her mend to secure the compound after he left.

If the Cartel was able to take over the compound once he took it down, then it would all be for nothing. A waste of his focus. He could not wait for men to arrive. They would kill him. He needed to ensure that they would not enter after him, or come up behind him.

To do that, he needed to have their barracks, or equivalent therefrom, to be either under another assault or be indisposed by some greater attack. A knockout of the radio towers, a killing of their radio command, burning of the compound, enough so that there was no feasible way for them to reach this safehouse by the time John's takedown began.

He focused on any contacts he had who could aid him, and afford to be aided. One came to mind, though risky as it was. It was possible. Possible, but he needed to focus to think of how to convince the man.

For Dutch, even the guilt of betrayal wouldn't work. Threats could. He had to only focus on the in between. Thankfully or not, it wouldn't be him he started to speak with.


John would tune the radio he stole from one of the Russian men to the predetermined frequency, 328.8. The same frequency as US command posts, posts that had not been present in the Roanapur area before he left and had not appeared afterwards. A frequency that was safe to speak on.

It was the frequency he gave to Rock of the Lagoon company, one he told him to tune the radio in the ship to for if he needed anything else. John knew the man would do just that. He had focused on him enough in the room to know that he wouldn't forget details easily, especially details that led to information and profit gain. A true intelligence dealer.

John had been focused on the young salaryman when he had spoken to him earlier. His words, mannerisms, intents, everything he could see. Rock knew the man was honest, careful, and most importantly, cunning. Those qualities, however, John wasn't going to focus on.

When the conversation started, he would focus on the emotion he saw in the presence of someone else. Empathy. That was a simple emotion to play off of.

"Matchstick," John would speak carefully into the radio speaker, ensuring that no one else around him heard. A simple code word from before he joined the Continental, a call sign from his old unit. The killers and thieves of Roanapur wouldn't recognize it. Rock, if he was careful, would.

"… Lighter," came the soft reply through the radio. "… Is something wrong?" Rock would ask first, doubtlessly. The man was focused heavily on learning what was happening. He would ask first what had happened, disguising it as compassion. A true information broker, through and through.

"No," John would reply simply. Any indication that his plan had altered would lead to Rock, and the Lagoon Company, seeking further compensation. That wasn't negotiable, present or future. And in the future, he knew Rock would be just as careful. "Who else is present?"

There would be a silence, the salaryman confident in handling information, but not at giving orders. He would follow the lead of those present on the other end of the radio, Dutch and the mad woman who had attacked him. Both were fat stronger than the Japanese man, John could tell. What he could not was how they would react to him.

"Myself," Rock would start, leaving a pause. He would do so in the hope that John would accept it. He would not. "And… Dutch and Revy." He knew Dutch. Revy was the name Rock had screamed in the Russian compound before. Doubtlessly the mad woman would be present. He hadn't killed her, and she wouldn't accept not fighting.

He didn't need to focus much on her to know that she would not give up easily. The mad look in any killer's eyes was proof enough.

"Gotta admit, didn't think I'd ever be hearin' from you again, John." Dutch would cut in then. A businessman like those employed by the Continental, but dealing instead with liars, thieves, and killers. Little different, different only in the lack of honor or law. "Figured you'd call this all even, seein' as Rock got the Marker from you."

John knew Rock would tell them about it. Dutch would not accept his employees having secrets, and having the Marker was a secret that would be too large to hide. Perhaps a more experienced broker could, but Rock was too new, too green, to possibly know how to lie and hide from Dutch.

"This definitely ain't no social call either, not from the big bad Babayaga himself." He hated that name and Dutch was aware of it. So, he would use it often, to disrupt John's focus. It wouldn't work. "Can't even say that I'm happy ta hear from you either, seein' as the last time my employees met ya you kidnapped one and shot the other through the leg."

"Fucker's gonna regret that shit." John could only assume the woman would be unable to speak politely or hold her tongue. She had charged into a Russian fight before, yelling curses and feral battle cries. "Lucky he's still got a head on his shoulders without a new vent shaft in it." Her threats would be obvious barbs, colorful as her hair.

"Ice it, Rev," Dutch would return. He was experienced and capable when it came to controlling his employees. Dealing with killers before and after John left would make him hard as steel. "So why the social call, John? Pretty sure you gave the rig and code to Rock for us callin' in that favor. It ain't the other way around." He was not Yolanda. He would not find pleasantries before business.

John paused his imaginings, focusing on what would be the correct thing to say. It had to involve discussing the Cartel compound and the barracks, wherever those were. He had to do so in a way that would convince the Lagoon company to help without asking for more. It would involve a great number of gambles, difficult because he didn't know enough about Rock or Revy. Only Dutch.

"I need assistance for Rock's plan to work." Beginning there would be good. It would emphasize that the plan was not his own, shifting the blame from himself. "To ensure that I have time to takedown the safehouse, I need to have the guard barracks indisposed for a few hours. Enough time for Balalaika's men to take over the safehouse before the Cartel reinforcements can arrive."

"Extra firepower?" Dutch would add on quickly. He would list everything else. "Man hours, transportation, additional services, bullets and munitions, that's a lost of cost John. From what Rock tells me, you're on the short of high and dry." He would be quick to catch up on what he needed. But John's objective, his focus, would not be on what he needed, but shifting attention.

"That is why I need you to either amend the plan or assist me with it." The battle plan operator never joined the field, but neither did they create a false plan to attempt to gain victory. If he could convince the Lagoon Company they needed to do more to honor the deal, that would work.

"Can't do that free of charge, John." Dutch would hold his ground, for now. "Deal was you get a plan and Rock gets a Marker. Didn't say anything 'bout the plan having to be a solo job or extra guns for hire." That it didn't, and Dutch would not forget it.

"No," he would admit. There was still another hand to play, and then would be the time. "But my failure would mean your inability to collect the debt. I cannot help you if I fail." That would attract Dutch's attention, Rock's as well.

His failure would mean death, and death would mean they would lose both the single operation to hire him for and any other information they could gather from him. For a businessman and a broker, it would be a large loss to them. He could only hope, focus on the fact, that they were not inclined to lose him.

"That's still too dangerous for us," Dutch would add on now. "If we fight the Cartel, and they see us, then they will either blacklist us, or worse, send out their own squads for a revenge killing. We don't have the ability to resist one of the four gangs coming down on us. Again." John remembered the first time it had happened. Now though, things were different.

"I say we do it." Rock would assist him now. He was crafty, but that meant he didn't want to lose his gains. "Dutch, I-I'm sorry but he's right. If John dies then I gave up all that intel for nothing, and the Cartel could still put two and two together and figure out what John was doing and why. Worse, if John gets captured alive, then there's nothing stopping him from telling them about me or the company."

And a snide broker knew that there were no alliances in a city of thieves, only convenient sources of income.

"So you're sayin' we're damned if we do, fucked if we don't?" Dutch would add on again. John would only watch the radio silently as the conversation continued. Even now he would only be guessing what they were saying. When the conversation happened, it would be impossible to hear them over an undepressed radio.

"I'm suggesting that we help John, because him succeeding is the safest path for us now, and the most profitable." Rock would counter with the obvious. "This way, we don't lose anything but some ammunition and a day's worth of work. We know where the Cartel Barracks are, from our drop offs, so it won't be hard to distract or barricade them."

It was a presumption on John's part that they would know, but it was a high chance that they did. Dutch or Rock would have at least an idea. Both were intelligent men.

"I'm with Rock on this one," Revy would choose Rock over Dutch. He hadn't seen her interact with his old friend beyond pulling guns on him before, but she was the one who nearly killed herself for the broker before. Now would be no different, seeing what the Japanese man was thinking.

"Can't say I'm shocked you're lookin' for a bit of blood, but you know you're not goin' for John's neck on this one, right?" Dutch would say something of those lines, referring to the wound he had afflicted on Revy. It was a logical question, but given the girl's apparent desire to protect, and eagerness to kill, her answer was similarly expected.

"Course I do! But I'm getting bloodied and I'll fucking enjoy it!" She would roar back. "Better yet, I'll rip out the fucker's heart Mayan style next chance I get. He's gotta fucking survive this donkey shit show if I'll get the chance though. So we're gonna save the ass of the rucking Russian demon and I'll get my ten pounds of fuckmeat!" All of this would still be in silence. All of this, until this moment.

"John Wick, Babayaga," Rock would speak, using name and title. "Revy and I can help. What do you need?"

That would be enough for John.


Rock and Revy, as the young salaryman had called out to her, would be valuable if she was as blood thirsty as he perceived her to be. It was a difficult thing to distinguish, even with his focus on her for that singular moment in his raid.

She was focused as well, capable, experienced as well, but lacked polish and skill. There was no training behind her strikes and kicks, everything involved the near totality of her weight behind the blows. Pushing the opponent back, trying to gain access to the weaponry again. It was a fighting form based off of experience, not practice or skill. It a bit of focus on the differences made that clear.

But she was strong, and talented, enough for Dutch to hire her. He wouldn't risk himself, as the leader of his smuggling operation. But Revy would help, if Rock said he would, and a bullet wound wouldn't stop her.

The doors to the compound were opening again, reminding John to look through the scope lens again, repositioned once more. He saw the pair of guards within step away from the opening structure, allowing the familiar white vehicle to drive by. The tint of the glass made the occupants almost impossible to see. The shapes he could see were too murky to count.

It was disappointing, but focusing on disappointment was useless. He had to focus on what he knew. What he knew was they rotated guards into and out of the facility frequently. The rotation was doubtlessly designed to prevent fatigue in the guards and keep a vigilant perimeter for the goods stored within. A bit of focus made it evident.

John went further, focusing on the similarities. The men operated like privates in the army, their focus and skill showing in their stance and inability to distract themselves. That implied similar procedures for operating the unit. Operations involving the protection of facilities usually implied barracks, as he suspected they had.

He had focused on their actions and reached the conclusion they had a barracks of some sorts for their men. Focused on both their number, their skill, and the frequency of change. It was nearly a confirmed fact now.

That was good. Knowing were the enemy stayed was an excellent fact to focus on. It made it easier to determine the points for attack, to focus fire on first to cause the maximum amount of damage to the infrastructure of the enemy unit. Now was no different.

Revy and Rock, if John convinced them, would assist him in destroying or distracting the barracks of the Cartel. Enough so that he would be able to takedown the Cartel safehouse he currently observed with minimal interference. That was preferred. However, that was not all it told him.

It told him that the frequent vehicles were likely taking alternate paths to reach the barracks, likely to keep untrained spies or would be observers guessing. It was nothing more than a delay than anything else. Any small amount of focus would see through the poor disguise. John saw through it quickly enough.

He could use that though. The alternate paths meant that the guards at the gates likely didn't lookout for a vehicle setting down one specific path. That implied that they would check only the vehicle at first, not the area it came from.

If John got that vehicle, on its way to the compound, then he would be able to get much closer to the compound than approaching from the streets. That was important. He had to focus on that.

Any amount of focus to his approach told how the guards were likely looking out for him now, his face now known from the fight at the Yellowflag and the many killers that were there, desperate or otherwise. They would watch out for him and fire without impunity. That meant he had to find a way to approach them safely.

The tinted windows of a friendly vehicle was one such way. Even if a too common one. That could be an issue.

The military had callsigns for approaching friendly vehicles for that reason. An off market and modified Jeep could be mistaken for a friendly APC if given enough paint and metal work. Callsigns kept friendlies common in the desert heat. The Cartel would very likely have something similar. It wasn't something he could discern by focusing on them.

It could have been common amongst the Cartel entire, unique the facility, or even something that changed day to day to keep intel secure. Given the security of the base, the latter was most likely. That meant it was not something he could easily find, and not something that Rock would know. His information would be dated.

John focused on that, staring at the guards, their vests, and the small radio coils that rolled up the lengths into the short brim of their hats. There had to be a way to gather the callsign, enough so that he could at least drive to the gate. That close and he could dispatch the first for guards and gain cover to tag the last eight. Then the takedown could commence.

It was not something he could determine through focus alone, not so quickly. He had little time to take what he needed and even less time once he got it. John knew, focusing on his past, that once he obtained the vehicle and radio codes, there would be a routine checkup, a squad update. If that was missed, skipped, or even delayed, suspicion would rise. If the vehicle was completely absent, including the personal, it would be labeled compromised and disposed of on sight.

John felt his lips twist thinking of who would have the information that he needed, an old ally that may have that kind of information to share, even if for a price. A price, at that, he had to be able to afford. That was not a high value anymore. Not while he was trapped in the city of thieves with the swarm of the Continental at his heels.

John focused on the names that came to his mind, but none were safe, checked off as quickly as they appeared.

Mr. Chang was after him as well, with the bounty information now known Roanapur. He would be more cautious, but still just as quick on the trigger.

Yolanda would already helping him for his last coin and would do no more. She may even sell information about him to the gang leaders for a quick coin.

Dutch would not risk offering services for free and would hopefully have already offered Revy and Rock to assist him.

Balalaika was the most avid person attempting to kill him. No more focus was needed as to why.

Tom Sawyer was dead… but John focused on that. Tom Sawyer was dead, but he had a replacement that he had met and spoken to.

Sawyer, the mute cleaner of Roanapur, the killer of Tom Sawyer, was someone who might assist him. But she would not do so for free, John could tell with a bit of focus. She was broken by the city as much as any other thief or killer, one of those she doubtlessly was.

It was possible, focusing on her connections to the gangs, to know those codes or codes similar enough. It was information necessary for her job.

Focusing on her and what little he knew of her past, John wagered he may know something she would like as well. Maybe an exchange could be made.


He would approach the autopsy room of Sawyer, the butchery and the dismemberment shop. It would be clear if she was present or not very quickly, as he would have given her work from the Hotel and Yellowflag fiascos. The conversation would only happen if she was present. And if she was, she would be working. He would have to focus on that.

Focus on the idea that she would have difficulty speaking while working, that her focus would not be on him, and that she would be looking for something he might not have. If he focused his mind on that, then he had a chance to convince her.

"Sawyer," he would address easily, to get her attention. He'd wait for her to turn, wait for her to remove her mask filter and cleaning gloves, before addressing her again. He had to focus on her and her systems. Focus on gaining her trust. "I have something to ask you."

She would do something else first, one of a few options. She may gather a weapon with him present, to take the bounty she had to know he was worth now. She may gather a radio or phone, in which case he'd have to shoot her. Or, she could wait for him to speak again. If he focused on her, he could tell what she would do and act as needed.

"You should not be here," she might start out with. Maybe attack him as well. He would be a risk and if she was seen as tainted or compromised, she could be killed. He had to focus on that. "Thet Triads or Hotel will kill me if they find out you were here." She wouldn't be wrong. She might name others as well. But they would be beyond John's focus if she did. He only concerned himself with the Hotel, Triads, and Cartel.

"I need to ask a question." Repetition would be important, to show the importance of his question. Cleaners were meant to ask very few. "Rock was able to help me, as you said. You may have something else I need." He couldn't' say it too quickly.

Cleaners asked few questions because they were cautious. Any job could be a trap. He had to focus on keeping Sawyer on good terms with him as he spoke. He had to focus on every action she took and made, to ensure that he wouldn't scare her.

"I need to know what the call-signs and codes are for the Cartel radios. If possible, where I can find their transport vehicle." He had to remember that she would hate to speak, with severed vocal cords and an external larynx box. She might hide herself behind her afro of purple hair, to hide what she was thinking. Her actions would make it obvious enough.

"I don't know it," would be her obvious first response. No one as ingrained into the nature of Raonapur would freely admit to having such important information. John knew that. "If I did know it, why would I tell you. I would risk being killed by the Cartel. They are not kind to women they kill." Her words would speak of experience as well.

She would have cleaned many bodies for them, the women and children the Cartel was known for treating as pack mules. Sexual assault, dismemberment, rubber collars, tongue cutting, and every other torture device they had devised. If he focused on what they did and what Sawyer was responsible for, it made sense she would be wary to wrong them.

John had to give a reason for her to take the risk.

"I'm going to takedown their main compound." Honesty mattered. It would no longer harm him if she spoke. By the time someone heard her, he would have either succeeded or failed, making it no difference. "If I do this, then they will leave Roanapur. I can as well. I need the radio codes to access their compound." At least get closer, he reminded himself he had to focus on how close he would get.

"I don't know them." Them now. She would let slip that she knew the codes through some word or action. He could see her tells from the way she spoke before. Unease created by her injury. Scratching her throat or the back of her neck. "I will not risk myself for something like that anyways. They give me good work. I would lose a client if I did help you." She wouldn't be wrong. It was why he had to give her something of great value to convince her to help him.

John would have to remind himself that she didn't know the code words of Continental contacts. It would save time if he spoke plainly to her. If they were in her place of work, it would be safe. No cleaner that lasted in the city of thieves would leave their main place of work vulnerable. It was important to save time, he had to focus on that.

"You killed Sawyer." A simple statement to get complete attention. Focus on him was focus on solving his issues, cooperation or not. "He was an old contact of mine in this city." He would stop then. Enough time for Sawyer to decide on what to do. She was talented enough to kill Sawyer, despite being a likely slave or contract for the man.

John could kill her, but he didn't want to. Not unless he gave her no other choice. But she would chose something else instead. A question that all cleaners ask a killer they didn't recognize.

"Are you here to kill me then?" She would be concerned for her life, as anyone in her position would be. Killers and cleaners always focused on their own life when they knew they were in a bad situation. Now was no different. John had to focus on making it appear just like that. "I have already hidden your gold." That was to make killing her seem less rewarding. John would follow it with an offer of his own.

"I don't intend to avenge Tom," the honest answer was necessary, but it wouldn't be believed. He had to offer something that Sawyer would want, or at least be curious about. Either was good enough for the timing that he had, that was the focus. "I intend to offer you his personal cache."

That would earn the girl's attention.

She was a member of the city of thieves, a horrible city like Roanapur. Where there were no laws amongst the killers, money mattered all the more. Because the more money you had, the more protection you could afford. She had protection for her job, but a single bad assignment, the wrong agreement could kill her, she knew this. Sawyer did as well.

He had told John once that he had the cache designed in case he was ever betrayed. Enough gold to leave town and possibly start a new life. More likely, it was there to give him enough of a head start to make cahsing him worthless, assuming he did nothing to anger the mob heads.

To John, hunted by the world of killers and Continentals across nations, no amount of money would keep him safe. It was a worthless thing to him. To Sawyer, a girl trying to survive in one of the darkest city on Earth, it would be worth a hundred times more than the gold he had paid her before. She would recognize that.

The question was if she would believe him.

"You are lying," she would begin, or threaten. "You would take that if it was real." Then it would be his turn to explain his reasoning.

"I'm being hunted by killers who have no need for wealth." If she didn't know who was chasing him, it wouldn't matter to tell her. Mr. Chang or Balalaika may tell her, if she survived long enough. "Money would do little for me now. I only need to escape. That is all."

But she still wouldn't be convinced. He had to speak more. He had to focus on what she wanted to hear. He had to think of the sex slavers he had killed in the Middle Eastern countries and the girls he had seen in the Russian dens. What did they want and Sawyer not already have?

The same thing she was emulating. Protection.

"I do not know what is in it aside from gold." That had to be present. "But it may have contacts that you could use, houses you could keep, or many other things. With Tom dead, and you his replacement, they are yours." Because they weren't worth anything to John. Especially if he couldn't even leave the city to find them.

What good was a safehouse to him when it wasn't safe to set foot outside of Roanapur?

Sawyer could use them. Sawyer could find them. Sawyer could benefit from them.

But first, and she would realize quickly, she had to be a benefit to him.

"… … … I may have codes for the next day." Her words would be an admission of aid. What she would say and where those benefits were he could not tell. That was the focus of the conversation. And if the conversation evolved as he thought it would, then he would obtain it.

He could afford to give up a case of gold to be able to march ten feet closer to the Cartel Compound.


John let out a long sigh as he finished the list in his head, confirming that with enough focus, the conversations would evolve in such a manner.

He had researched the compound of the Cartel, affirming Rock's information of the intel present, but risking the weight that it had.

He could speak to Yolanda about procuring an additional armament to make the breach easier, and allowing the takedown to commence.

He would call Rock and speak to him and Dutch of the use of Revy for distracting the Cartel through their barracks, offering the girl a fight.

He would attempt to speak to Sawyer and trade the information of Tom Sawyer's last stash of goods for information on the Cartel radios and cars.

Then, the following morning, he would breach the facility.

John stood from his seat, wrapping the rifle around his back and keeping his focus on the safehouse. In comparison to the beginning of his watch, it had hardly changed at all. The guards had shifted, but not their weaponry. Cars had driven out, but always returned, the doors remained shut, and, aside from the gate, John never saw them open.

It was a Cartel safehouse he was preparing to takedown, one holding valuable information to their network and something that would doubtlessly put him on yet another list for killers to chase. If he didn't die during the breach of the facility, Balalaika's men finding him, or any other number of ways he may have missed, then he would be gaining another tail after his head.

But, if he did succeed, he would also gain a way out of Roanapur. That was what was important. He had to focus on that. Remember that. He was leaving this city soon, and he couldn't forget it.

His shoes clicked as he moved towards the door of the apartment, stepping over the body of a pick-pocket as he did so. His lifted the knife from the body, pushing the blade down and putting it in his jacket pocket, bloodied still.

The door opened with a high squeak, the product of it not being cared for, no focus given to the home he had entered and left. A shame, but something beyond his focus now. For now, he had to focus on what to do next. It was an additional step to the takedown he had not thought of before, but realized now it was vital to the plan.

He had to see his dog. Hopefully Boa would be understanding and patient with him. He was a good man with a good job in an otherwise filthy city.

John would hate to have to kill him.


The city always did look its best at Twilight. Mr. Chang knew that from the experience of watching the sun set from a high rise. High up and away from all the terror that usually infested the streets of Roanapur. This high up, a good thirty floors in the air, it was impossible to tell if anyone was hurt until their blood started to stain the streets.

It made it easier to appreciate the night lights that started to flicker on as the shadows of night crept over the connected buildings of the dense city. As the stars dotted the sky and turned the dark alleyways into pitch-block covens, the neon signs of booze, sex, and music disguised every atrocity that otherwise ran across the harbor town.

He wouldn't admit it to even the richest member of his gang, but he preferred it that way. Being able to ignore all the horrible acts that ran through the city, even if for only a few hours a day.

Much as he loved running the Triads division out of Roanapur, there was still something about being a cop that stuck with him. Knowing that at one point in his life he was supposed to help protect the people, the innocent bystanders who were given snake-eyes on the roll and ended up between guns and grenades out on the city streets. Taking down the crooks who would pull the pins and triggers, trying to keep those little guys safe, it wasn't something you forgot with just an exchange of a metal badge.

It was engrained into him. No different than Balalaika's lust for war or Dutch's penchant for leadership, Mr. Chang wasn't going to forget about protecting the little guy just because he was a mob head now.

It just made the choices he made a little more bitter to swallow. Sell out the next shipment of ID stripped American rifles to insurgents, killing off a few factory workers to bring out the shipment for smuggling, small things that had to be done from orders up top.

At least when he was looking over the shit hole that was Roanapur at twilight, he could convince himself it wasn't such a bad place to be.

Too bad mother fucking John Wick had to burn that dream to cinders.

"Tch," Mr. Chang clicked as he felt the nub of his cigarette burn out. He grabbed it, flicking it to an ash tray as he fished for another fresh stick. No sooner was it in his mouth than did one of the lackeys behind him produce a small flame to burn. His mouth twisted, letting the end of the Marlboro burn under the heat.

Nicotine didn't do a lot compared to the hard-core drugs of the Cartel or his own division, but it sure tasted a heck of a lot better.

He kept his mind on that for a moment, just the taste of it. Really, just on anything that wasn't the idea of John Wick roaming through Roanapur. Running through the place with a bounty high enough to make the women drop to their knees. Sure he'd seen more cash all at once, but never so much being offered to the lucky bastard who pulled a trigger at the right man.

Then again, maybe lucky wasn't the word for it. Mr. Chang was having some extreme amount of difficulty remembering anyone who shot at the Babayaga of the Russian mob and lived to tell about it. Heck, anyone who lived long enough to realize they fucked up.

His head fell back, moving away from the night lights of Roanapur to the high ceiling of his suite. Even if it was pre-schoolish, he blamed John for ruining the sights. It was easy to forget that a woman was raped once a night and twice as many murders in the same amount of time. It was pretty damn easy to forget when you'd seen it for two decades in the town. It was even easier than that when he realized most of the men who fucked up on either side would get fucked by a bad deal in the future.

But John Wick. There was no fucking with John Wick.

There was being lucky enough to have him on your side, then there was praying to whatever god put the man on Earth to spare you. God or demon, it didn't matter.

When a man like John Wick rolled into town, the dead piled up. Even a decade later, that didn't seem to have changed.

"Why the fuck did you do it John?" Mr. Chang asked the ceiling, knowing he'd get about a straight answer from it as he would any of his men. "Fucking killed a dozen of her men, raided a warehouse, kidnapped Rocky, and shot my fucking car." Right in the order of best to worse.

Problem was, worse at the moment was the tension filled through the street. A tension thick and hard enough to make his usual sights of the city sour and lame. There was no way to enjoy a city skyline knowing that John wick was hiding out in it.

It was flat out impossible when he remembered that there was a war waiting to blow up because of it.

Balalaika had her men out on the streets, standing as decoys on corners with scouts and snipers up in the buildings. Her mesh work of data was probably running at its high capacity as she dug through every contact he had and built up raiding parties for any crevice the town kept for a decade. She'd be taking her lust out on the Babayaga, and worse yet, Mr. Chang didn't know who would win.

No, that wasn't the worst. The worst was that his men were out on the street as well.

A cop wouldn't let thugs and gangs roam the streets free and cheery. A mob boss wouldn't let the competition waltz down central avenue like they owned the place. So both sides of Mr. Chang told him to put his men out there, just about copying the Hotel's operations.

That meant putting his people in the line of fire of a blood thirsty woman and a man colder than the deepest pits of hell.

His hand rose and slipped under the frames of his thick black glasses, rubbing his bleary eyes. This was all just one giant mess he really wish wasn't tracked to his doorstep. Yet, here it was, and he'd be killed by the men behind him if he didn't step up and act. Too bad that just mean they were all more likely to die.

"What's going to happen? What's. Gonna. Happen?" Mr. Chang spoke to himself, rubbing his tired eyes. "Not going to be stupid enough to attack without a plan. But a plan involves contacts and you've got none left in this town Johnny." Maybe one or two, but none that would chose John over the Hotel or Triads. No one in Roanapur was stupid enough to chose one man over the gangs.

"Not gonna attack first then, but no where to run off to. Got the ports covered, got the roads watched, and walkin' through the jungle ain't gonna be easy when you're low on everything from bullets to food." He might last a day, but John wasn't the kind of guy to take action without having thought five steps ahead. Walking alone into the jungle? Only the truly stupid or screwed did that.

"Then what are ya gonna do? Gotta think of somethin' or you'll be just another slab of meat on the plate." Probably have to pay Sawyer triple her fee to truly make John completely unrecognizable. Last thing they needed was one member of the Continental sniffing his trail down here and finding out who offed him.

John Wick was bad enough. The totality of the killers of Continental all looking for a high payday? The city wouldn't survive. Literally.

"Then what? Then what are you gonna do?" Mr. Chang leaned forward as he asked himself the question again, elbows resting on his knees and eyes glued to the fabric floor. Really was a nice carpet, too. Freshly cleaned of the blood and brains that littered it a couple of days ago.

If things went south here, then it'd be someone else cleaning him up.

He had to think of what the Babayaga was doing, even just a hint of an idea. If he had something, then maybe he could get a little closer to John's plan. Two steps behind wasn't so bad when you had the city covered like a net. Five behind, that just meant that John could snag a boat and skip town before Mr. Chang gave the word to fire.

Time was important, and he just couldn't focus on it.

Too bad he wasn't John Wick. Focus was never an issue for a guy like that.

Middle of a fire fight, walking through a fire, trapped behind enemy lines, or doing the impossible in the cold hard capital of murder in the world, and John would still think of a plan to get out. A plan that'd involve him using his guns and brains to blow the enemies' away.

A scary fucker like that wouldn't get overwhelmed by the situation he was in. Mr. Chang knew he couldn't let it got to him either. The war wasn't on yet, and he could stop it, so long as someone, even if it wasn't him, nabbed John and got him either to the Continental or the Hotel. So long as one of them happened, the tension would end.

Too bad he couldn't count on miracles. He wasn't the kind of guy to make the impossible happen.

Once again, that honor fell to the fucking boogeyman himself.

"Fuck," Mr. Chang whispered out again. "Sometimes I really hate my job." And right now, he did. Mostly because knew what he had to do, at least until something broke.

Nothing. He could do nothing.

He would continue to say nothing and do nothing until something fucking bad happened. Until then, anything he did would be either pouring more gas on the grill or hovering a flame over an open bomb. Neither of those really appealed to him.

Especially not when he knew that a war in this town would kill a hell of a lot more people than his worst month back as a cop.

That was something he couldn't afford to happen.

"John Wick," he mumbled again. "I don't give a fuck what you do now, not so long as you get the fuck out of this city." Too bad he knew that was going to involve a hell of a lot more blood than he'd like to see.

He really did hate his job sometimes. Waiting sucked like a discount whore.