Abram Tarasov sat in the passenger seat of a dark, evergreen 1973 Ford Gran Torino, glancing at his gold Rolex. A quiet storm had drifted past the city. Now the streets were slick in rain and resurfaced oil, refracting the spectrum of colors across their inky surfaces beneath the city lights.
The time read a quarter past two a.m., but Abram was not tired, no. He was far too anxious to be tired.
However, as the younger brother of the feared Viggo Tarasov, Abram liked to think he had some sway in certain . . . matters. If not, addressing the kingpin of the Continental would certainly clear that up.
"Alright," he rasped, reaching for the door handle. He knew his life was not endangered upon the hotel's premises; nonetheless, it did not prevent a deep sense of unease and uncertainty from stirring within him, to be inside a building teeming with ruthless killers.
Upon entering the Continental, Abram gave himself a moment to admire its impressive, tasteful decor, to soak in its uniquely exclusive ambiance. Though not his first time to visit the New York underworld's famed and hallowed assassins' sanctuary, Abram was not immune to its charms, and found its worldly ambience pleasant.
Dressed in a charcoal gray suit, his canary yellow tie stood out against an even darker button up. His Italian dress shoes clipped against the marble floor as Abram approached the front desk where Charon politely awaited him.
"Good evening, Mr. Tarasov," the concierge greeted, tilting his dark-skinned chin as he curiously regarded the man. "I do not have you listed as a guest. How may I be of service to you this fine evening?"
Abram smacked his lips in thought, then narrowed his pale eyes curiously, "Is the manager in?"
"The manager is always in."
"May I see him?"
Frankly, Abram wasn't sure how to go about executing his decision. Calling Winston was not as personal as Abram would like. He wanted to see the man, and gauge his response when he informed him of his newly developed endeavors.
"Shall I announce you, Sir?" Charon inquired.
Impatient, the Russian nodded fervently with a terse smile.
"Very well," The Concierge intoned, before picking up the phone; though Abram stood directly before Charon, he could not make out the soft words the man murmured into the phone.
"Of course, Sir." Charon murmured into the phone before he quietly returned the receiver to its cradle. Turning his attention to the man before him, Charon inclined his head slightly, waiting.
The Russian blanched ever so slightly. Reaching into his pocket, he removed two coins, and pondered the images representing peace and violence on one surface, upon the flip side is emblazoned a lion and shield. He muttered softly in Russian beneath his breath, as if his sincere words can infuse the underground's currency with his intentions.
Abram slid the golden coins across the counter towards the Hotel manager. It glinted brightly, winking in the light before disappearing beneath the man's hand.
"Thank you, Sir." Charon stepped away from the desk, towards a cleverly hidden doorway just beyond the end of the counter. At his touch, the door slid away to reveal an elevator. Pulling the wrought iron door aside, the concierge stepped inside and gestured for Abram to join him.
"This way, please."
Once the gate was secured, they steadily descended several floors; the lower they went, the more pronounced a heavy, rhythmic thud became.
Music.
He expected the percussions and throbbing bass to shake the door frame, or at least rattle the buttons, but it didn't. Even from the lobby, it couldn't be heard.
A soft and final ding occurred and the door slid away, revealing a dark, bustling interior of the hotel's subterranean speakeasy.
The nightclub was brimming with gyrating bodies, flickering strobe lights, and heavy techno music in sync with the churn that followed it.
Charon gestured for Abram to step inside.
Smirking to himself, Abram thought it a shame to be here on business. He certainly wanted to shuffle his way across the dance floor.
Charon led Abram to Winston, who was seated at the furthest end, well within view of the bar, and the striking, tattooed brunette who tended it. Winston looked up from his ledger; after a moment's beat, the cryptic smile upon the Manager's face caused Abram to feel a shade more anxious and rather outnumbered; this was Winston's domain.
Removing his reading glasses, the kingpin folded the earpieces and gently placed them atop the table.
"Well . . . if it isn't Mr. Abram Tarasov," Winston spoke first with a chuckle. "Do sit down."
"Thank you." Abram muttered.
Abram flared his coat tails out, lest he sit upon them, before easing himself onto the cushion.
"Thank you." Winston dismissed his manager with a meaningful glance. Charon inclined his head in acknowledgement before disappearing into the writhing crowd.
"Good evening, Winston." Abram replied, auspicious in concealing his nervousness.
Winston took a sip of his drink. Setting it gently down, he laced his fingers together.
Under narrowed eyes, he inquired. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
Abram's tongue felt heavy and dry like wrought iron in his mouth, but he spoke through it.
"I'm looking for John Wick."
Impassive, Winston smiled benignly. "Get in line; many men and women are looking for Mr. Wick."
"No," Abram shook his head, "Not like that. I don't want to kill him."
Winston raised his eyebrows; his gaze, both sharp and skeptical, bored into Abram's eyes, clearly unconvinced of his claims. "You're not the first person to utter those words within the last twenty-four hours, Mr. Tarasov."
"Yes," the younger Tarasov sighed, frustrated at having not thoroughly thought the concept through. "I figured such. But I feel a sense of responsibility. It's my fault," he further explained. "Well, not mine alone, but the Tarasov name."
"Not entirely," Winston interjected. "There were a great number of subjects responsible."
"John came to my shop to reclaim his car. He―" Abram pursed his lips, pausing for severity, "slaughtered the majority of my men, smashed into my cars, ran over everything."
Winston sagely nodded, unfazed by the declaration. "Yes, that sounds like Jonathan," the kingpin concurred.
"I stayed in my office," Abram continued, "I listened to everything from up there. The chaos and the violence he brought with. And when it stopped, he came to me."
"Indeed," Winston's brow quirked up with mild interest. "I am quite surprised to see you here now."
"So am I!" Abram exclaimed in hushed tones. "Can you believe it? He killed my brother. My nephew, and destroyed my shop, but spared my life." He huffed a laugh bordering hysteria.
"Go on," Winston instructed.
Sighing, Abram deliberated.
"I―hmm―had a moment when he left. He offered me a truce, to end it all like civilized men, and then, he left."
"Congratulations; not many people can say that."
Deliberating further, Abram groomed his graying beard as he mulled over his next words. He met Winston's unwavering gaze and held it.
"I know you favor John; you gave him a grace period―to flee, to get out as fast as he could. You spared him, like he spared me."
Winston narrowed his eyes, familiar with the parlance and the inevitable request.
Abram leaned in, the lamplight overhead throwing his face in harsh relief against the shadows of the booth, illuminating his bright blue eyes.
"Help me find John Wick."
Hidden amidst the dense corn stalks, Kennedy maintained a low-profile. Tucked into his cheek was a butterscotch hard candy, which he idly tongued from one side of his mouth to the other.
As a car drove by he brought his head down, covering the outer scope's lens with his hand. The car continued on passed the dug out; the same dark colored El Camino that'd driven by a few times before.
Somewhere, also heavily camouflaged, were two cohorts unseen among the tall stalks.
They were ghosts, much like Kennedy, hiding beneath the warm nightfall.
Kennedy reflected fondly at what led him here. He was always willing to get a little rough and wild.
Several days earlier, while admiring Wick's Mustang, John claimed a good friend of his recently restored the vehicle and then personally delivered it himself. He also mentioned the man, named Aurelio, covered his tracks before making the trip.
"We shouldn't have anything to worry about." John had assured.
Trust but verify, Ronald Reagan always said.
To put Kennedy's own mind at ease, and taking the opportunity to see Wick's car up close and personal, he inspected the vehicle from front bumper to exhaust pipes. He checked beneath the seats, pulled panels free and inspected their compartments. He even looked behind glass surfaces and between the wheel wells.
Of course, with no surprise, his efforts were handsomely rewarded.
Just as he inspected the undercarriage, he discovered a questionable, bulky item fashioned around its drive shaft, which he had cut free and examined. With his legs sticking out from beneath the car, Kennedy peeled apart the wadded layers of stubborn tape to reveal a burner phone. A cheap flip phone with enough fortitude and battery life to live through a nuclear war. Aurelio had completely missed it.
After, he alerted John and Caldron, he checked the devices information, but no contacts were found. Not even exchanged text messages.
John took the device and headed west in a last ditch attempt to prolong the inevitable. He'd left the cell phone in an empty silo at the furthest outskirts of town, in an effort to bide some time to formulate an action plan. They wondered if his gambit would really work, if the GPS would lure anyone this far, and more importantly—if their ruse was believable. Kennedy reckoned not. If he were walking up with two dollar signs for eyeballs, even he would see the silo as a trap. Whether the hunters were clever or not depended on their actions, and how fast Kennedy could to take them down.
Kennedy, McKinley and Ayrie followed John's directions, which led them to the derelict silo nearly an hour westward. A stretch of road lost to farmland and postal codes.
After the sunset, in time Kennedy realized John's predictions were correct; like a beacon, people were unerringly drawn to the device's location.
Well, not people, just one vehicle so far.
Once more, the car turned around, coming to a slow crawl as they surveilled the empty silo for the fourth time.
They were scouting the place out, Kennedy knew. Lifting his head, he looked out into the shadowy stalks for any indication of Ayrie or McKinley. He found nothing; they were well concealed from the headlights.
He shifted to a more comfortable stance in his prone position, legs splayed, feet flat. Both elbows propped while he rested his chin against Caldron's new Armalite's stock. Fortunately, he didn't have to beg Caldron to use it; the man insisted.
Headlights washed over his unseen position before they went out. The car rolled quietly into the pullout, parking three hundred yards away from the silo. A good sprinting distance―if they could outrun a .300 Winchester Magnum at 1,500 yards.
He lowered his head, flipping down the NODs, the night-vision optic device strapped to his head into place, before eyeing his targets through the scope. The night turned brilliant green.
Killing the engine, two dark-clad men got out. Exchanging quiet words, they moved forward.
Kennedy watched their hands disappear into the folds of their clothing, producing―what could only be―weapons.
Using hand signals, they quietly migrated closer.
He followed them in his sights, waiting for them to draw open the silo door and reveal its empty contents.
Parting, one man took to the right, the other left. Kennedy could even see them counting before they threw it open. The darkness yawned before them but something must have startled them, because both started firing at once.
Gun flashes erupted, the sound of their tandem pop, pop, pop! firing filled the empty farm land.
Through the tall corn stalks from the left, a hulking shadow emerged; Ayrie and in tandem was McKinley coming in for the take down. Both men sported armored chest plates; Ayrie's Ranger green assembly proudly displayed a Texas patch, and McKinley wore his coyote tan plate carrier with a patch saying, 'We do bad things to bad people.'
Albeit, Kennedy, more daring than his companions, wore only his ghillie suit and a chest rig for storing extra ammo, magazines and candy. And some undies, but no kevlar.
Maintaining his sights as the men sprang back outside, realizing it was a ruse, Kennedy should have taken the shot, but he didn't. In a matter of seconds, he realized they were more useful alive than dead. Perhaps they could tell them how they found their way to Texas. Better yet, how many more where trailing behind?
Ayrie caught and placed the man on the left in a debilitating rear-choke hold. McKinley closed in, striking the second man with quick pistol whip from the right. The man's head bucked back before dropping like dead weight. Meanwhile Ayrie bumped along the outer walls of the silo as the first assailant fought against him.
It was useless; the hold was too great and the ten seconds between breaking free or passing out came and went. The man slumped in Ayrie's arms.
Kennedy smiled, lifting his head. He pushed up to his knees; releasing the small magazine and freeing the chambered round, he dropped the bullet into a compartment of his chest rig as he dragged a black duffle bag to his side; swiftly, he disassembled the weapon. Packing it all neatly away, he stood, emerging from the shadowy corn stalks in a complete ghillie suit and protruding NODs. He flipped them up, grinning with the butterscotch disc still stowed in his cheek.
Both men were patted down, their cell phones taken before they are hogtied and tossed into the trunk of their El Camino.
"I'm afraid I can't." Winston uttered solemnly. "John is nowhere to be found."
Abram scoffed, relieved to finally be able to confide in another.
"I don't believe that."
"It's true," Winston replied, unruffled. "Even if I knew the man's whereabouts, I cannot trust that what you say is true, nor would I reveal his location."
So Abram was right; there was favoritism within the assassins' ranks. Even if Winston knew, which Abram had no doubt he did, the kingpin wouldn't share such information.
"What about his contract? Can you call it off?"
"Unfortunately, no." Winston took another sip of his drink. "The only man who can do that is dead, thanks to your friend―Mr. Wick. You must understand, Mr. Tarasov; John knew what he was doing. He knew the rules and he deliberately broke them. I had no choice."
There was something fleeting in the Manager's shrewd eyes that flickered―something calculating, before the expression became disturbingly cold and indifferent.
Winston lifted a hand, gesturing towards the bartender. "I did enjoy this discussion. You're a brave man, Abram, but like your brother. Would you care for a drink while you're here?"
"No," Abram said curtly, anxiously tapping his fingers against the table's surface. He was deeply disappointed and frustrated his efforts to do right by John Wick ended in vain.
If Winston could not . . . or would not assist him, Abram wasn't sure how to aid the disavowed hitman or if he even could...
"Oh, but I insist." Winston blandly urged, fixing the Russian with an inscrutable expression.
Abram held the Manager's intimidating gaze before conceding, "Sure, I'll have a drink."
The Russian took the opportunity to stand. Winston gestured a parting salute with his drink as Abram turned away.
It was useless coming here. He could have called if that was the only result of his petition. He'd been so worried Winston would have his endeavors misconstrued, or worse, threatening. His nerves were for naught.
Abram Tarasov fervently hoped that somehow, some way―an agreement could be formed between the Tarasov's and Wick.
Slipping his hands into his custom-made pockets, Abram ambled towards the bar where the tattooed brunette stood pouring drinks. Seeing him approach, she awaited him, her lips were painted darkly, either red or black, Abram couldn't tell in such a poor lighting. He opted for red, it was seductive and he pictured himself smothering her with kisses, smearing the crimson against her pale skin.
A wry, knowing smile graced her patrician features in the blue neon lights that traced the bar. When he finally made it to the counter, she leaned towards him and spoke loudly to be heard over the pulsing music.
"What can I get for you?"
He thought for a moment, considering his options; he decided to live dangerously and break away from his customary drink, very much like the reason he was at the Continental.
"A rum and Coke, please."
She turned away and, in short order, brought his drink. Setting the beverage down before him, Abram reached for his wallet. One drink, no more. Then it was high time for him to get home and go to sleep.
"It's on the house," the bartender gave him a flirtatious wink. Abram smiled, unsure and rather too shy to do anything else. Women were far more complex than crime and cold, hard cash.
With the pounding of the music surrounding him, he took a sip, not seeing the last white fragments dissolve into the carbonated bubbles. He sat the glass against the counter and eyed the dance floor over his shoulder.
"What brings you in tonight?" the bartender's delicate tenor drifted over the music.
The Russian glanced back. Was she speaking to him?
She was.
After consideration, he replied. "I'm looking for someone." Dropping his gaze onto the neon lights reflecting across the smooth bar, an ice cube slipped free and drifted to the surface of his drink.
"Must be quite the type if you're here." She extended her hand. "Name's Addy."
Abram eyed the gesture before reciprocating the handshake, "Tarasov."
"Tarasov?" She tilted her head with subtle recognition.
He blinked.
"I've heard that name before."
Abram took another swig, "Perhaps."
Who knew what kind of ill-name Viggo made of himself, and thus Abram, therein the Continental Hotel. Abram should have told her his first name and left the Tarasov part out.
Canting his shoulders, he rested an elbow against the bar and brought his eyes back towards the dancers following the melodic tempo.
"Not many men rock a yellow tie," she added. "I like it."
He took stock of his circumstances; Addy was still trying to hold a conversation with him. If Abram wasn't reeling from the slight transgression at finding Wick and if Addy wasn't so painfully beautiful, he wouldn't mind the small talk.
He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes and gave her a nod.
The early morning light streamed inside. Amidst the quiet dawn spilling into her room, Logan woke to find herself alone. An impression of John's body awaited her side. Rolling over, she pressed her face into the sheets and inhaled deeply, searching for a hint of his stay next to her. A faint fragrance greeted her and she fought to smile.
Outside, a mockingbird repeated its insistent rasps, scolds and trills, unable to decide what reprise to welcome the day with.
Blinking away the sleep, her eyes focused, adjusting to the morning glow. Lifting her head, she eyed the clock on her nightstand, vaguely reading the hour before the polished tungsten ensnared her once again.
John's wedding ring had been left on the nightstand in the exact place she'd found it. Her intentions were to ignore the silver band until its rightful owner came for it.
It appeared he had a different plan for the piece of jewelry.
Reflecting memories unfurled from the previous night and she found it difficult to smile in victory; it felt more like defeat if anything. It seemed her damaged pride wasn't too scorned to have a heated make out session with the prized bull: John Wick.
Unfortunately, she tasted the bourbon on his lips and smelled its sharp scent along his breath as it washed over her. Had it any sway in his actions, she didn't think so. There was no sign of a heady, liquor fueled haze that she could detect. Furthermore, John didn't paw at her roughly or cause further harm with carnal need; quite the opposite. Had it not been for Logan injuring herself . . . who knows what that passionate encounter would have led to. Tilting her head as she examined the ring, she realized John had not acted drunk or clumsily . . . always in control of himself. What he did was not out of clouded judgment or lowered inhibitions. So where did that put his wife?
And what could be said about Logan? She'd angered herself with conviction and defiance once her father broke the news, just to throw herself into John's arms the second she could.
Grumbling, she rubbed away the sleep with her knuckles.
Footsteps dropped her hands as she looked towards the door. John's dog flew past the threshold. He jumped, flying through the air and landing onto the bed. His tail wagged with such fervor, it shook the entire bed.
Warily, Logan lifted herself up on her elbows, cautiously pulling her legs from the animal's stocky, restless limbs, just as John entered her bedroom.
Fully dressed with his hair combed back, Logan's stomach plummeted, suddenly quite aware she was still abed, complete with mussed hair. She thought about drawing the covers up and shielding herself. Of course, the eager dog made that impossible as he trampled and pranced around the foot of her bed, attempting to entice her to play with him.
"Kennedy has something for us," John spoke with a cool regard.
Eyeing him quietly as the sleep wore off, she wondered what she should have expected. John was not emotive. What went on in his head only he knew. Logan could only go off what his expression told her, which was perpetually taciturn.
Approaching her, John came to her bedside and helped her stand.
Her leg protested a little, but she found much of the pain had significantly decreased.
"I got it," her morning voice croaked. John stepped away, keeping a watchful eye on her as she moved towards the bathroom door.
When she emerged, together, they made it downstairs, around the banister and towards an empty bedroom she used for storage.
Upon entering, the first thing she saw were two men tied to their chairs with black bags placed over her heads.
Kennedy was directly behind them, fashioning thick curtains across the only window and blotting out the coming dawn. Thick, black tarp was spread across the floor, protecting the wood from what Logan could only imagine. He looked over his shoulder and grinned.
"Well, good mornin'!"
Logan came to a halt, eyeing the scene before her with a furrowed brow. She glanced at John for an explanation, but he gave none.
"Good morning, " she murmured. "What is this?"
"'Member that tracker I found?"
"...Yes."
"Well, it worked. These couple of fellas came by looking for some quick cash." Kennedy kicked the closest man to him in the leg, startling him. "Thought I'd bring them home for good ol' southern hospitality."
Kennedy bent down and plucked up a large worn duffel bag from the floor. The same ones utilized in the armed forces. He tossed it to her and John's feet, the contents spilling open to reveal plies, zipties, a blowtorch, and a folded knife set. Alongside of variety of other tortuous items.
Kennedy propped his hands akimbo and grinned. "Whaddya say?"
Hello, all! I'd like to apologize, of course, for this unforeseen delay. It was completely accidental. I had to move to Austin (of all places...) for a job and now that I'm here, somewhat established with a set schedule, I can continue writing FFA. Thank you for the concerns and inquiries pertaining to the continuation. It's still happening. I haven't given up.
Thank you for the reviews/read! Have a Happy Easter for those celebrating!