Chapter 26

"This what you call keeping a low profile, doll?" Fabbro said, holding up a tablet with a picture of the scene from yesterday. "Torching a car in the middle of a street?"

Rizzi winced. "Wouldn't have been my first choice, but stuff happened."

"'Stuff happened'? Oh really?"

"A Silver Mountain patrol caught sight of me," she said. "Bad luck."

"I don't pay you to have bad luck," Fabbro said, fiddling with the pin on his breast as he prowled around the penthouse room. "That was sloppy."

She didn't disagree with that.

"The hell were you doing that got their attention anyways?"

"Looking for that Silver Mountain contractor," Rizzi said. "I wasn't trying to make a scene, just get some information."

"What'd you learn?"

"That he wasn't in that group yesterday."

Fabbro rolled his pin in his fingers. "You aren't helping your case, doll."

"Trust me, getting into a vehicular firefight wasn't on my agenda either."

"And you got no word on this guy. What is he, a fuckin' ghost?"

"It's a big city, Marco. It's hardly a surprise that somebody could disappear for a while."

Fabbro scowled, etching lines across his face as he sat down and steepled his fingers before him. "Time's not my friend here, Rizzi. Winter is here. Shit's slow, everybody's hunkering down. You know how it works."

"I know. But I can't wave my hand and make him appear out of thin air."

He glowered at Rizzi like it was her fault she couldn't. "Maybe not. But there's other ways. Edmondo tells me they put a contract on you – you hit them again, you might get a response like when you went after Xiao Ma, huh?"

"You mean be bait," Rizzi said dryly.

"I don't care what you call it," said Fabbro. "Look, I get that moving around the city may be trickier come winter. And I'm not telling you to knock on their doors and announce yourself – though that might be easier if we actually knew where Shun kept himself, huh?"

"You just want me to kick some hornets' nests and see what stirs up?"

"Isn't that called reconnaissance?"

"It's only recon if you get meaningful information out of it. If you just get killed, it's called failure."

Fabbro grunted. "I'm not saying you should stick around at places and make like the Alamo, huh? But you hit some places, you let them know you're active, you're around. We see how they respond and go from there."

"That's… not particularly reassuring."

"Do I look like I care?" Fabbro said, scowling as he fiddled with his pin again. "You do your job. That's what matters."

"Yeah. I got it. So, what kind of targets did you have in mind?"

She left Fabbro's penthouse with a sour taste in her mouth – as it so often felt like these days. This whole affair had started her senses tingling; she'd seen jobs go sideways before when the people involved got too close.

Well, perhaps "too close" was an inaccurate term. There tended to be a certain amount of… call it investment when contracting assassinations, after all. Even the most callous hired murder tended to contain elements of self-interest. Few commissioned an assassin without something to gain from it. No, perhaps the term she was looking for was obsession.

The best contracts – the safest ones, at least – were those with a certain level of professional detachment. They were the ones offered by people who could see the big picture, who could keep their eye on a goal and not get sidetracked by details or shifting circumstances. Something unexpected come up? Fine, it happens. Things went sideways when people made it too personal. Like Viggo Tarasov: rumor had it that he'd basically settled things with John Wick – admittedly at gunpoint, but what could you do. Then he'd turned around, offed old Marcus, and taunted Wick about it. Susan had never met Wick, but from what she'd heard, that was akin to pumping a bear full of stims and then kicking its cubs in front of it.

Fabbro, she had the unfortunate feeling, seemed to be headed the same way. He'd always had a reputation for being hotheaded about things – that was one of the ways Viggo had been able to steer him around – and this conflict with the Silver Mountain brought out the worst of it. Or maybe he'd always viewed assets as disposable and she was only realizing it now that she was in the position.

Just keep things neat and sectioned. That had always worked for her – but then, she wasn't trying to manage an underworld war, was she? Rizzi sighed as she walked down the street, the cold front having broken into a mere hazy chill. Where had this latest bout of introspection come from? She got her bearings, pointed herself towards Chinatown, and kept moving.

Easing the apartment door open, Wu slipped in without a sound and scanned the entranceway. This place was a far cry from the upscale apartment the Silver Mountain had used to ambush Rizzi. But then, it wasn't like this place was Fabbro's personal residence.

The entrance led to one of those short little foyers common to many an apartment. The smell of pizza grease mingled with that of gun lube and solvents. "Jimmy, that you?"

Wu responded by moving forward into the living room. Three men sat around a central table in the living room, two boxes of pizza open between them. They wore winter coats instead of heating the room. He rushed in as they rose, shoving chairs back at the sight of an intruder in their midst.

He stepped in to meet the first man, jabbing two stiffened fingers into his throat while he used the man's body to shield himself from the others. No guns yet; they must not have been eager to start a shootout in the middle of an apartment complex either.

Instead the one on the left pulled a knife while the one on the right planted one hand on the table and vaulted over – only to tumble down cursing as Wu flipped one of the hot pizzas into his face. Slamming the first man's head into the table, Wu intercepted the knife-wielder with a kick and a parry, nearly getting his forearm slashed open in the process. He danced back a step as the man made a horizontal slash, then lunged back in and struck out at his wrist. The blow sent the knife hand out to the side and Wu hurled the man back with a kick to the chest.

He put the pizza-faced man down with an elbow blow to the back of the head as he rounded the table towards the knife-wielder. Snapping one hand across the knife-hand wrist and his other across the throat, Wu drove the man back another step.

Then he had to twist to avoid the blade as the man came back in with a tackle, wrapping his arms around Wu as he tried to plunge the knife home. Wu stopped the tip of the blade a hair's breadth from his neck, then wrenched at the man's wrist as they grappled. He got leverage on the arm and wrenched the man down with a floorboard shaking thud.

They rolled around, bashing into the table legs as they both wrestled for control of the knife. Wu wedged the blade of his hand up beneath his opponent's chin, forcing his head up and back. As the man grunted and shoved back he tucked his own head down, taking the blow on his shoulder to get control of the man's wrist. Wu snapped his free hand down into the crook of the man's elbow, which proved enough to collapse his arm – and drive the blade up through the bottom of the man's jaw.

The man gave one gurgling twitch and then fell still. Wu shoved the body aside and climbed to his feet with a groan, rubbing his calf where he'd banged it against the table. He listened for a moment to check if the brief struggle had drawn attention from any neighbors, but nothing indicated it had.

Wu made a brief circuit of the apartment. The info Xiao Ma had given him indicated this was one of the many places Fabbro kept a stash of weapons: it wasn't one of the larger ones, but hitting it would still be irritating to Fabbro. He found the weapons in the main closet; two racks of assault rifles and another dozen handguns with serial numbers filed off. Too many for him to cart away alone, but there was a way around that.

He nabbed one of the spare duffel bags in the room and set about methodically field-stripping the weapons with practiced swiftness, taking the rifles' firing pins and the pistols' slides and tossing them into the duffel bag. When he'd finished that he hefted the bag over his shoulder and slipped out of the apartment. The bag rustled with metal jingling together. Hauling it over to the garbage chute, Wu dumped the whole thing down and went on his way.

Checking in with Tiger Shun earned him another expected admonition to find Rizzi, to complete the contract, and so on. Elijah took it quietly and affably, nodding along with every point. After that he left, hit the streets again.

And the day after that.

And then the day after that he returned to the Continental late at night to find a note slipped under the door of his room.

"What'll you have?" Addy asked as she tucked several bottles back into position behind the bar.

Susan dithered for a moment, thinking it over. What was she in the mood for – and what might actually stump the Continental bartender? "How about… a Golden Dawn?"

Addy's smile practically lit up the bar. "Coming right up!"

Susan chuckled and threw her hands up. There was no winning. She leaned up against the bar as Addy rummaged around for the ingredients – juicing an orange, pouring spirits by eye, and retrieving a bottle of what she knew was handmade grenadine.

A man walked through the speakeasy space, drawing deferent nods and greetings everywhere he went. An older man, his gray-streaked dark hair framed a craggy face marked with lines. He held a book and pad in one hand. "Good evening, Miss Rizzi," said Winston, as he passed the bar towards his customary booth.

"Evening," said Susan, suddenly serious.

"And how are you?" His voice was a gravelly rumble against the electro-swing quartet going on the stage.

"Well enough. Enjoying the music."

"It is rather contemporary, isn't it?"

"You sound like you disapprove."

Winston's eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch. "Nothing so forceful. I merely bear a preference for, shall we say, the old-fashioned classics. Timeless, as one could put it."

Rizzi nodded politely; the truth was she'd always felt a touch uneasy speaking with Winston. Well, more than a touch. Oh, he was always congenial enough, but Continental Management never seemed like the proper small talk partner, any more than one made friends with a mountain range or tempest. You kept your distance from such forces of nature, lest they rolled over you without regard.

What he said next didn't exactly calm her nerves. "So, you've been busy."

Rizzi paused. "Haven't we all?"

Winston shrugged noncommittally as Addy arrived with her drink order. "A Golden Dawn, is it? Still trying to stump Addy, are you?"

"Haven't managed it yet, but I'll get her one of these days."

"The trick," he said, leaning against the bar like a chatty regular, "is ingredients that no longer exist." He nodded at the bartender. "Addy is quite the mixological sorceress, but resurrecting a bygone elixir can be beyond even her sometimes."

"That would be cheating," Susan said.

"So it would be, Miss Rizzi." Winston looked askance at her for a moment. "But then, many things in our world can only be attained by… shall we call it an overly flexible interpretation of the guidelines?"

"That seems a tad risky."

"Oh, very much so. Almost as risky as, say, becoming involved with another professional while under rivalling contracts."

Oh. Shit. How did he know? Susan took a quick sip of her drink to hide her shock, and tried to look innocent. It actually wasn't that surprising, if she thought about it; the Management of the Continental had always been far so deeply involved with the underworld of the city – and beyond – that sometimes it seemed nothing happened without their knowledge. But she'd never been on the receiving end of that uncanny omniscience. It wasn't particularly reassuring. "That, uh, that would indeed be risky," she said.

Winston nodded knowingly and gave her a little smile. "Have a pleasant evening, Miss Rizzi."

Susan watched him stroll off towards his booth and belatedly realized she was holding her breath. She blew it out slowly, shook her head once, and took another sip.

"He likes you, you know," said Addy.

"He does?" Susan said. "That's… kind of scary."

"Oh, Winston's not so bad. He's practically fluffy at times."

Susan stared at her for a moment. "You're kidding."

"I did say practically." Addy cocked her head to the side. "Look: you respect the Continental rules and you usually don't make trouble with your contracts. That gets you more credit than you think, Susan."

"That's not particularly reassuring."

"You worry too much."

"It keeps me alive," Susan said.

"It's debatable whether that's truly living."

She grimaced at Addy for a second, uncomfortable with how incisive that remark felt. She took another sip of her drink instead and savored the mix of flavors, the way the herbal notes of the gin and the tartness of the orange juice played off one another while peach and apple brandy notes brought it all together. Addy had knocked it out of the park – again. "I'm probably never going to bring up a drink you can't handle, will I? Hell, you probably make some of the ingredients that aren't around anymore."

The bartender smirked.

"I should probably just tell you to surprise me every time I'm here. Put my fate in your hands."

Addy quirked one eyebrow. "Now that doesn't sound like you at all. What happened to the iron lady who had control over everything in her life?"

"I don't know," Susan admitted. "Maybe I've spent the last couple of weeks getting shot at too much to care anymore."

"Or something else?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Of course you- Oh, gimme a few?" Addy nodded at Susan as another patron moved up to the bar. She stepped away, spoke briefly to the customer, and repeated the process of gathering the components for another of her alcoholic elixirs.

Susan looked around the speakeasy space again, searching the faces of those gathered there. Her gaze fell upon Winston, who now sat at his customary booth and looked deeply immersed in the codex before him. How much did he know – and how much did he care? Would he see it as an applicable case of the Continental's neutrality, or an abuse of it?

Shaking herself, she looked away and went back to watching the crowd. It seemed smaller than several weeks ago, which might have been a testament to the hardening winter or people moving on with the dissolution of Wick's contract. Those were the smart ones, she thought, the ones who had just moved on and not gotten entangled with shadow wars and rival contracts and-

"Who are you waiting for?" Addy asked when she returned from the other order.

"What makes you think-"

"You keep looking around the room," Addy said. "And not in that routine check sort of way."

Sometimes it was easy to forget the woman was the bartender for the Continental, undoubtedly well-versed in the ways of surviving their merciless world. "It's- Let's say an acquaintance." Because hell if she knew what their relationship was.

"Right." Addy's impish smile peeked out again. "I think I have an idea."

Susan covered her own smile with another sip of her drink. She thought back to their exchange several minutes ago. "Do you think people can change?"

"In some deep transformational sense?" Addy said, shrugging. "I'm not- Hmm. Who can say?"

"In this case, I'm thinking you," Susan said dryly.

Addy turned serious. "There was this guy, a while back. The cold, stoic type, you know. Hard as nails. Then he vanishes one day. Got out of the game."

"Okay."

"And then one day he appears again, out of the blue. But he was different, like I'd never seen him before."

"How so?" Susan tilted her head slightly; this seemed like something personal to the other woman. Something different. They chatted and teased and drank, but neither shared personal things. That just wasn't the way of their world.

"He was softened," Addy said, then shook her head. "No, not quite it. He'd never be soft. It was more like… he'd found something but then lost it. Like he'd been hurt in a way I wouldn't have thought possible before."

"You're saying he changed while he was gone."

"Or he got out because he changed. Of course, there's the fact that he came back into the fold, so if that's any indication, how much does anybody ever really change?"

"That's…" Susan shook her head. "I don't know if that's reassuring or depressing. Thanks, Addy."

"I fix drinks. I don't fix people."

She chuckled at that, raised her glass in a mock toast. "I won't argue with that." Susan tapped her fingertips against the glass stem. "Who was this person?"

"Oh, I'm sure you've heard of him," Addy said with another shake of her head. "But I'm not sure he'd appreciate his identity being handed out like that."

"Why? Are you in danger?"

"Not like that. I'm doing it for his sake. And no offense, Susan, but you shouldn't tangle with him. Leave it at that."

Susan stared back at her for a moment, intrigued despite the warning and running through a mental list. Addy couldn't be talking about-

"I think he's here."

"What?"

"Person you're waiting for?" Addy nodded over her shoulder.

Susan turned to see Elijah Wu moving through the crowd towards them, his dress shirt open at the collar without a tie. She felt a smile creep across her face of its own volition and fought it back. Down, girl.

"What's your poison?" Addy asked as he stepped up to the open spot beside Susan.

"That seems an unfortunate choice of words," Elijah said. "Let me get a… seems like something apple-based should be in season. How about a Jack Rose?"

"Good choice," said Addy. She bustled off, repeating her sequence of gathering drink components with experienced ease.

Elijah waited silently while Addy mixed up his drink, during which Susan looked him over – checking for any sign of his activities, she told herself. Addy slid the finished drink over atop a napkin. "Enjoy, you two," she said with a surreptitious wink at Susan before stepping back.

"Shall we find a table?" Susan said.

"That sounds good," Elijah said. He appeared to be enjoying the music as they wandered the place, selecting a table in what passed for a quiet corner of the speakeasy. "What did you want to see me about?" he asked once they'd sat down.

"How are you?" Susan said. Strange, how it had felt less awkward when they were just making love.

He gazed at her for a moment, eyebrows raised quizzically. "Still alive. You?"

"The same. Fabbro is growing impatient though."

"Ah." He spied his drink, set it down on the table. "Shun is getting like that as well."

"I don't know how long I can keep him from this," she admitted. "He really wants you dead."

"Story of my life." Elijah didn't seem particularly concerned. "Was there something you wanted me to do about that?"

"I'm not relying on you for a solution. I can handle this."

"How? By killing me when you grow bored?" he said, his tone light and teasing.

"Is that what you think of me?" Susan asked after a moment.

He sighed, reached across the table, and took her hand in his. "No. It isn't. It would be easier if that were the case, but I guess life's not that simple."

"It's not like we helped ourselves here."

"No, we didn't." Elijah leaned in closer. "Why did you leave me that note? You this'll only complicate things."

"Why did you come then?" she replied.

"Call it curiosity," he said. "Maybe of the morbid, self-destructive kind, but curiosity nonetheless."

"Oh, of course. And not because you're looking for somebody to warm your bed again?"

"Is that what you think of me?"

"I don't know," she replied. "Should I?"

"If you choose to," he said, "it isn't like I could stop you. You have that agency as a person."

Susan blinked at him. "That's oddly philosophical."

"If you say so. Just seems like a basic reality of the human condition to me." He took another sip of his drink and nodded appreciatively. "Why do you care what I think of you?"

"Do you really need that explained to you?"

"I might. It depends on what we're doing here, Susan. Why you asked me to meet you. Like you said, we've had our fun. Is there something else?"

She couldn't quite judge his voice. It wasn't scorn or dismissal, that much she knew. It might have been desire, or hope, or maybe she was just projecting. This shouldn't be so hard, she told herself. You've already slept with him. Multiple times. Maybe that was the problem. She'd been the one to call it a bit of fun; why should he think it had been anything but? "I wanted to see you."

He looked taken aback by that. "That's it? Really?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" she said, her voice low and thick.

He stared at her for a long moment, long enough that Susan almost felt like she'd rather be exchanging bullets with him than this. "I've learned to be wary of things I want to be true," he said quietly. "Wishful thinking is good at getting people killed."

"I- No, you're right." Susan made to shift back, open some distance.

Elijah reached out again and clasped her hand. "I want to believe it, Susan. I haven't stopped thinking about you the past days. I can't get you out of my mind – and I don't want to."

Really? A feeling like warm honey spread through her chest. "Are you just saying that to make me drop my guard?" she said, but even as she grinned Susan intertwined their fingers, reveling in the warmth of his hand, the feel of his calluses and fingertips against her skin.

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" Elijah said.

"I almost don't care," Susan said – and realized she was being honest.

Elijah brought her hand up and planted a kiss across her knuckles. "You know, I have a lot of regrets about the things I've done, the choices I've made."

"Like sleeping with me?"

He shook his head. "No, not that. Not ever. I regret the choices leading up to having a contract against you."

"Do you?" Susan said through a suddenly dry throat.

"Being around you makes me regret not being a better person," Elijah said. "You make me-"

"No." She shook her head in a savage twist. "Don't pull the tortured hitman routine with me. You don't get a monopoly on that. We both made the choices and did the things that led us here." A bitter laugh escaped from Susan. "So we wouldn't be here like this if we weren't so screwed up."

"Well, that brings up some unpleasant implications."

"Such as?" Susan asked, and sipped her drink.

"Such as maybe I don't deserve to-"

"What? Have me? Don't be a-"

"Have your affections, I meant. If the paths leading here had to be this way, perhaps we're-"

"There's no changing the things we've done," Susan said. "What's in the past will always be there."

"If there's some kind of a… cosmic balance or ledger, we both have some serious debts racked up," said Elijah.

"I know," she said quietly. "But maybe there's at least one good thing that can come from our choices."

His grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly, and she heard the hitch in his breath. "I wish things were different," Elijah said, his own voice barely above a whisper against the electronic, jazzy notes filling the air.

"I'm going to assume you're referring to the contracts."

"That is what I mean, yes. I wish things were different between us there."

"And-" Susan paused, barely believing she was talking about this, "what about the other thing?"

Elijah grinned, part-roguishly and part-sheepishly. "You mean the sex?"

"Yes, that."

"I- Could there be more?" he said. "Understand that I am in no way complaining about the sex itself. It's just…"

"You've had better?"

"What? No, I really haven't. I'm trying to say I enjoy being with you regardless. Just like this – here, now." Elijah sighed. "Look, there aren't many people I can talk to about what I do, who I am. And most of the others in this business? Forget it. That's like smearing yourself with chum and jumping into a pack of sharks."

Susan nodded. "Yeah, I get that."

"Yes you do," Elijah said. "You get it – you understand what it's like. And you understand me. When I'm with you, I feel like I'm with somebody I can trust."

"I know." Susan fought to slow her suddenly racing heart. "Like I can choose to be not alone when you're here."

He nodded. "You're dangerous, Susan."

"Care to elaborate on that?"

"It means you muddle things up. I don't know if I can remain objective about you."

"And that's not good for people like us," Susan said. So that was it, then. "You'll walk away?"

"From this?" He squeezed her fingers gently.

"You should."

"And what about you?"

Susan held her breath for a long moment. You should, she told herself. You really should. "I asked you to meet, so that says something about my objectivity, doesn't it?"

Elijah smiled, a slow curve of his mouth full of pain and quiet longing. "So what now?"

Susan downed the rest of her drink. "It may be a bad idea, but right now I plan to get another cocktail, invite you up to my room, and figure more things out tomorrow. You up for that?"

"I really shouldn't," he said, then finished off his own drink. "But let's start with another cocktail."

"And see where it goes?"

"See where it goes," Elijah said, standing and extending a hand towards her.

Arm-in-arm, they made their way through the speakeasy towards the bar. They passed Winston's booth a ways off. Susan noticed his clinical gaze and gave the older man a cordial nod, which he returned.

"Is that who I think it is?" Elijah asked, leaning in.

"Yes."

"You never told me you were on speaking terms with Continental Management."

"I really wasn't," Susan replied. "I didn't even think he knew who I was until tonight."

"Huh. Do you suppose that means anything?"

"I don't know. I mean, the Continental pretty much stays out of things until they directly impact the organization or its ways. I'm not sure where we fall in those categories."

"That isn't reassuring," Elijah said.

"No, it really isn't," she said. "Just keep your head down."

Addy had just finished up another order when they arrived at the bar. She gave them a smile that only partially revealed her exhaustion. "Another round?"

"I'll take what you're having," Elijah said to Susan. "You always seem to have interesting drinks."

"It's a game we play," Susan said. "I try to come up with a drink that stumps her. If I succeed it's on the house."

"You ever win?"

"Not yet."

"Care to try your luck again?" Addy asked, grinning.

Susan felt the smile creep across her face. "Surprise me."