It was the ultimate game of chance and he was the best at it. He had played it more than a thousand times and had always won. Usually it was for loyalty and large sums of money, but once he had played for higher stakes . . . his freedom. Freedom and the chance to be with the love of his life, Helen. To the surprise of everyone John Wick had managed to beat the house and walk away from the world of mafias, assassins, darkness and death. Now Helen was gone, the puppy she had given him was dead and the home they had shared was destroyed. He was now deeper into the seedy underbelly of gangland and hitmen than he had ever imagined with every gun pointed at him.
Every assassin wanted the head of John Wick, not only for the reward but for the bragging right and to mount his famous face as a trophy on their wall. Even the most seemingly benign person on the street was a butcher at heart. They had followed him to this warehouse where he was now fighting to survive and get out. Bullets were flying, not just from his own guns but from the myriad of attackers before him. More shots were fired, this time from his own gun. Another came at him, there were hard blows and pain, but John forced himself to swallow it and stay focused. This was only one battle in a difficult war. He had to win it. If he could stay alive then there was someone to remember Helen and at the end there would be freedom again.
Somewhere in the midst of the chaos, John began to notice that there was someone else there helping him. He had no time to see exactly who it was, but he had noticed a form on the other side of the building also embroiled in this battle. They two seemed to be fighting for their lives, guns firing into the once who had been sent to kill. Like himself, when a magazine went empty, they snatched up a new weapon from one of the corpses lying around. Were they friend or foe? Were they just picking off lesser assassins in hopes of getting to him, the bigger prize? They were getting closer and the other hitmen were nearly all dead. There were only two left between them. Firing a shot into his latest assailant he heard the stranger do the same. Ready to finish this he whirled around, his finger ready to pull the trigger, only to find the barrel of a gun pointed right between his dark eyes. At the end of his was a set of steel, cold blue eyes that he knew only too well.
"Elisa," he said coolly.
"John," she answered.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was being followed," she responded. "You?"
"Same," he replied in explanation. "Are you going to put your gun down?"
"Nope. You?"
"No." The two stared at each other unwavering for a few seconds before John finally asked what was foremost on his mind. "Are you here to kill me?"
This had been a difficult thing to ask. The last time they had met there had been a show of trust, agreements made and promises. Unfortunately he also knew that things could change in an instant. If it meant protecting her son then it was not unreasonable to believe this childhood friend and one time lover would betray him. He wanted to believe he would not do the same, but for Helen . . . he could not answer that question.
"Maybe." Elisa finally answered. "Am I your target?" The same questions and doubts were swirling through her head, needing an answer.
"No," he told her. It was not strange for him to find himself with a gun pointed at his face, but this was the first time his childhood friend was on the other end holding it. "If you want me dead then shoot already."
This was a true gamble. He had never known Elisa Drake, the infamous 'Azhdaya' to miss a shot she wanted. If she accepted, then he died, no second chances. She wasn't pulling that trigger though and that was strange. There was obvious anger and distrust in her cold blue eyes and yet she still didn't fire a shot. If it were anyone else he would have charged forward and knocked the gun from their hands, but with her, he knew he'd never make it that far.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" she growled. John didn't answer, only stared at her emotionless. He had done a lot of things over his lifetime, some good, but mostly bad. She would have to be more specific. "I should kill you right here and now." He dropped his gun then stepped forward and pressed his forehead against the muzzle of her weapon as he extended his arms in surrender.
"Do what you have to."
They stood staring at each other. No blinking and their breath soft, steady with every beat of their hearts never rising about their resting rates. Death was nothing to them and if it was Baba Yaga's time then he would rather it be at the hands of Elisa Drake than anyone else. As for her, a part of her longed to pull that trigger, end the war, silence her own fears. She couldn't do it though. Looking into his dark eyes all she could see was the boy who once protected her, the only man she trusted, her one time lover.
"Sukin syn! [Son of a bitch!]," she hissed, trying to contain her rage. "Derzhis podalsze ot menia, djon. Derzhis, chert vozmi, podalsze. [Stay the fuck out of my sight, John. stay the fuck away.]"
Instantly she reholstered her gun then turned and walked away into the shadows of the warehouse. John stood there watching until she had disappeared. He could only guess at the source of her rage but it seemed the most likely. A single impulsive act that he had thought would save him from his situation and perhaps save her from hers. He needed to talk to her, but how . . . and would she let him?