Under a blue moon I saw you
So soon you'll take me
Up in your arms
Too late to beg you or cancel it
Though I know it must be the killing time
Unwillingly mine
-The Killing Moon, Roman Remains
Hours had passed as the sun rose and fell beyond the black horizon.
Head slumped forward, the captive's face was a road map of cuts, bruises, and swollen beyond recognition. Crimson drool drooped thick and long from split lips. The poor man's dark hair wet from perspiration and blood. Though Kennedy imagined the pain unbearable, he still refused to talk. Kennedy was just starting. A dial up in pain was in order. Eventually, he would spill. They always did.
Leaning against the wall, Kennedy grimaced as he scrutinized a bloody pair of pliers. The mouth gag had already been removed. Four molars with bloody tissue clung to their long nerve roots lay scattered on the plastic covered side table. The young man still maintained his silence. Perhaps the blood running to the back of his throat inhibited him to some extent.
"The longer you hold out, the worse it's gonna get." Kennedy chuckled as he sat the tools aside. Shaking his head, he almost felt sorry for the man. All the fingernails on had been removed, but there were always toes next. In truth, Kennedy's favorite part had yet to come: his coveted knife collection.
The door drew open and, just as silently, a shadow slipped in.
The toppled lamp Kennedy fashioned as a spot light glared directly onto his captive while its shadows threw a sinister portrait across John Wick's face.
At the sound, the man glanced up, visibly flinching at the sight alone.
"Oh, God...," he trembled, a bloody lip quivering.
Kennedy cocked his head, eyes narrowing at the evident discovery. Did John Wick terrify him?
"I know you." Wick muttered, shutting the door quietly.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the surface, reflecting for a moment. "You're Aurelio's nephew, Desmond."
"Please," Desmond attempted weakly, his desperate plea cracking with palpable fear. "We thought you were already dead, I swear! I never would have come here if I'd known! Please!" He sucked in a deep breath, choking on the blood and spit. "Please, God, don't hurt me!"
John narrowed his dark gaze. A muscle ticked in his jaw while he contemplated. Looking over the battered kid towards Kennedy, he asked, "What's left?"Kennedy shrugged nonchalantly, "Knives. A blow torch? Funny, he hasn't said shit until you came in."
A moment passed. One that could have been quiet if not for Desmond's incoherent blubbering and pathetic pleas.
John glanced down towards a box set aside. He nudged it with his boot and something alive scurried about inside. Kneeling, he yanked the lid free, reached in and produced a large rat. Dangling by its a long, pink, hairless tail, it pawed and squeaked through the open air.
Shocked into silence, Desmond was transfixed on the rodent. An expression of revulsion and rising fear warped across his face, turning his complexion a sick pallor. Eyes wide with panic, he watched its pointed face sniff around anxiously, thrashing against the force that held him. John pulled Desmond's shirt up, exposing his abdomen. He knew where this was going and became wild and desperate, struggling to escape his confines, to pull away from Wick's reach.
"PLEASE!" Desmond shrieked, becoming manic with fear. "I DIDN'T KNOW! I SWEAR! PLEASE! FUCK! IT WAS ALL MARSHALL'S IDEA!"
Carefully, John dropped the rodent inside a metal bucket, then brought the opening against their guest's lower torso. Calmly securing it to the man's stomach, despite his wishes, with duct tape, John ignored the shrill pleas and cries as he picked up a blowtorch.
Undeterred, John straightened, looking down as Desmond hunched forward, pulling and thrashing against his chair.
"Let's try this again," he spoke with a dread calm. "Who's the other kid? And who else knows you're down here?"
Panic reigned as Desmond struggled to breathe, to think, so bargain for his life. Each breath was an effort grating his lungs, coming to brink hyperventilation. John and Kennedy watched quietly as fear consumed the young man's senses.
Desmond previous composure with Kennedy had fallen aside. Beneath the rowdy man driven with greed was still a sobbing young boy. It was something John could not ignore. Aurelio was his friend. And though a large part of John knew killing Desmond could solve a world of problems here and now, he couldn't. For Aurelio, at least.
Picking up the blowtorch, John studied it intently before he twisted the gas tank's nozzle and soft hissing funneled into the hose.
John ignited the end then adjusted the flame.
The dim room filled with an otherworldly glow as the small blue flame hissed.
The air in the man's lungs went out and he squeezed his eyes shut and his body locked up.
"PLEASE!" Desmond screamed until his lungs collapsed. He heaved a breath and sobbed, hanging his head so low it almost rested against the bucket.
"Who else knows, Desmond?" John asked.
Desmond shook his head, still weeping like a child. "I-I don't know! I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry! I swear! I won't tell anyone!"
Slowly and deliberately, he moved the blowtorch around the vessel.
Inside the bowl, the rat's frantic scrabbling went from one end towards the other, and then towards the man's sweating flesh. Within the metal container, the rodent squeaked and scurried, clawing against all surfaces of his containment.
Gritting, his teeth, the man lurched forward in his confining chair, sucking in his abdomen as the rat frantically found purchase of giving flesh. His efforts to preserve his dignity waned the longer John held the flame to this bucket and the more determined the rat became. A distinct, pungent odor filled the air when Desmond soiled himself.
Chuckling, Kennedy wrinkled his nose with distaste, glad the flooring was protected with plastic sheeting.
Outside, over the granite hills, the night could not hear the man scream.
"Good morning, Mr. Tarasov."
Groggily, Abram came to at the rather familiar tenor.
Slowly, he realized he was not in his bed or even in his house, for that matter. As soon as his mind cleared enough to register discomfort and a stagnant aroma of dust and mildew, he knew he'd been drugged.
An acute ache reigned his body having endured an uncomfortable position for hours - hunched forward, and tightly bound, unable to move his limbs. A vertigo clung to his head, swimming his vision as he slowly woke.
Abram's neck and shoulders also ached. His arms were cinched behind him, secured to the backrest of his imprisoning chair, positioned in the middle of a vast areal a warehouse. Zip ties pinched and cut into the soft flesh of his wrists. He tried kicking his legs out and standing, but he found his ankles also trussed securely to the chair. Shaking his head to clear it of the cobwebs clouding his mind, he winced and worked his tongue to rid the sour taste from his mouth.
Squinting, his eyes adjusted slowly to his surroundings.
Glaring sunlight penetrated an old, broken warehouse window, and bore directly into his eyes with the harsh intensity of a spotlight. Turning his head, Abram looked in the direction of the voice that woke him.
Winston.
"What-," Abram groaned, coughing as his head spun and throbbed painfully. How did he manage to slip a drug into his liquor? The Russian tried to recall the night before, but found the effort drawing blank.
Everything but the pretty brunette.
"Where am I?" he croaked through a parched throat.
The opulently dressed man came a relaxed standstill before him.
"Somewhere," he said casually, while re-adjusting the silk scarf draped along his shoulders.
Slowly glancing around, Abram took in the abandoned building that reeked of mildew. Thick dust motes floated by, lit by the morning rays shining through broken window panes. Four men flanked Winston's side, silently awaiting their orders. Their guns, fitted with suppressors, rested at the low-ready.
"Winston," Abram grimaced as his headache swelled, his voice a rough discord. "Why am I here?"
Winston glanced at his henchmen then turned his icy eyes towards the bound Russian. "You know why you're here."
No, not really. Abram thought.
"You're looking for John Wick, are you not?" the kingpin elaborated with a derisive snort.
Blinking, Abram coughed again, unsure how to answer. There was a pain behind his eyes he tried to shake clear, but only succeeded at rattling his throbbing head.
He was looking for John, but why did they drug him and take him here? Was Winston looking for the Baba Yaga, as well? Wasn't Winston's network of cohorts stretching as far and wide as the endless horizon? Once again, Abram was the younger brother. A sub-par version of the infamous and revered Viggo. If Winston wanted something, Abram was not the man to take it from.
"Why do you care about Mr. Wick?" Abram shot back flatly. "You're the one who threw him to the wolves to begin with."
I love Jonathan like a son, and I will do what I must to help him.
"You know so little, Mr. Tarasov." Winston replied with quiet voice.
With a look, the Manager made a subtle motion of his hand. A hard blow struck Abram's head and caused the chair to rock onto two legs.
Dazed, a ringing filled his ears and small lights blotted his vision. The henchman calmly withdrew to his original position while the chair righted itself onto all four legs.
Abram squeezed his eyes shut, waiting at the paint that sliced through his head. Winston's voice came again.
"What I did was out of necessity, not cruelty or entertainment." He went on, "If I had pardoned him, do you have any idea what level of mutiny would have occurred?"
Staunched, Abram shook his head carefully, glaring into his lap.
"Sheer and utter madness," Winston intoned. "We live by a code. We have rules that must be followed, whether you're a high-standing man like Wick, or a lowly nuisance like yourself, Mr. Tarasov. Without them, we would be savages."
Abram lifted his head, eyeing him. The insult was not lost to his ears, but now it was clear. Winston was either disposing of or deterring any subject bold enough to step into the Continental with intent on finding Wick. Abram knew the rules just as well. Did drugging him on Continental ground constitute as business?
"I'm not trying to kill him, Winston," Abram explained, licking his dry lips. "I want to help him."
The kingpin's sardonic laughter echoed hollowly in the building as he gestured once again. Another swift blow was delivered, unerringly planted precisely where the initial strike landed. The unforgiving wallop made Abram's ears ring again. This time the chair toppled over, throwing Abram across the unforgiving concrete with a sharp grunt. Clouds of dust rose up, swirling about him, drifting through the cool dawn. Sighing, Abram sagged along the cold concrete, relieved when the pressure biting into his shoulders had eased.
Winston's polished shoe tips appeared in his wavering view.
"As I said before, a great number of subjects are hunting Jonathan down. Pity, really." Winston paused, reflecting fondly. "Men like John Wick are legends, relics even, and should be preserved."
Abram craned his neck up just as the cold tip of a silencer was pressed firmly to his forehead.
Fear crawled into his chest, sinking its teeth upon his heart as he squeezed his eyes shut. "I swear," he gasped. "I'm trying to help Wick! I want him on my side," he worked his lungs, sucking in the dust and stagnant air. "Killing me is only a disadvantage at saving your friend."
The truth was out now.
Abram did not want to help John because he spared him his life or that he felt bad. Not at all. In the end, he was still a Tarasov.
He wanted John Wick for intimidation, protection, and power through fear. Abram knew how the underground felt about Wick, for he felt the same. If his resources were applied carefully, he could slowly turn the tide that ruled New York. If things went favorably, he could hold his own spot at the High Table with Wick at his side.
Another blow wracked his skull, derailing his thoughts.
Stunned, Abram slumped, resting his head against the dusty concrete.
He muttered a prayer in his mother tongue and prepared to die.
As suddenly as they appeared, the two young men held hostage in her home were gone. Work kept her mind busy from wondering their whereabouts and what Kennedy and John unleashed upon them was also a mystery. Logan considered the logistics of such affairs. Were they dead? Where did the bodies go? And at some point, certainly someone would come looking for them if they had been killed. A loved one or family member, perhaps. They were young, from what she could tell, too young to be propelled into a shadowy profession of crime and blood money. Where were their parents?
As for Kennedy and Caldron, she rarely saw them. If more men were joining the cause, there wasn't any indication. And if events at the corn field kept both men and their cohorts in constant engagement, she was still the last to know. It wasn't as if John willingly shared any insight and she certainly had no intentions of asking. If they wanted her help, they knew where to find her.
Eventually, however, she knew a more challenging subject made an appearance. If Kennedy and his crew were disposing of every encounter in the west, it was only a matter of time before a more seasoned vet caught wind. What if the bounty for Wick's life increased? Was that even possible? Plus, the cell's battery life would soon die and their diversion would be lost. Then back to scouring Texas entirely.
Then what?
Where did that place future assaults? Would they hone in on her house? Kennedy's? McKinley's? Morgan's? Adam's? Who was safe and who wasn't? As the thoughts continued to unravel at an alarming pace, Logan feared they'd allowed too many people to get involved. She never wanted a large gathering. It was too risky. Someone could slip up and mention John's whereabouts or worse, come for John themselves. Though, Caldron trusted every man in the operation, Logan did not.
There had to be more to it than killing every soul out for Wick. Their answers, more specifically John's, did not reside in the Lone Start state. If their intentions were to kill every man, woman and child that came for Wick's head, there simply wasn't enough resources for the lot of them. Caldron, Kennedy, even John. They were not an unstoppable army. Even Logan knew Caldron was getting old.
Moreover, though Ryder estate was off the grid, without internet, cable, even managing their own septic systems, it wasn't fool proof. It was large and positioned like a beacon atop of precipice over the steep rolling hill county. Austin and San Antonio were not far. And like any other city, they were replete of crime and its cohorts looking to cash in. Who knew what neighbors lied in waiting for Wick?
By now, John had resumed his usual taciturn brooding. After the two lads were separated, interrogated and who knew what else, he and Kennedy spoke for hours. Also, given his decision to move on without further mention of their short-lived heavy-petting, Logan had no other option but to respect his wishes and follow suit. In truth, she preferred it, considering her own indecision at whether she loathed or liked John. Pretending it had never happened settled the issue.
Leave the man alone.