Chapter 11: John Wick
Ethan hung up the phone and slowly closed his eyes.
Those damn rats — they had to be the S.H.I.E.L.D. team that had been surveilling him earlier.
It only deepened his distaste for S.H.I.E.L.D. He made a mental note: if there was a next time, he wouldn't mind making their lives a little more difficult.
Ethan glanced at the clock on the restaurant wall. Almost dinner rush. Time to open up.
"Pietro, go prep the ingredients. We're about to be on the clock."
"Yo, Ethan — I'm not eating in tonight. Hitting up the bar next door. Ladies' night." Wade cut in before anyone could respond.
"I really need to hire a cook," Ethan muttered under his breath. "Doing everything myself is killing me. And a server, too. Otherwise I'm gonna work myself into an early grave."
· · ·
Night fell, and the empty Lucky Dragon slowly came to life.
"Ethan, my man — the usual. General Tso's, pan-fried dumplings, Yangzhou fried rice."
That was Butler, a regular. A human smuggler who operated out of Hell's Kitchen.
Tonight he had two shy-looking young Asian women with him.
Ethan brought the dishes out, wiped his hands on his apron, and looked the two girls over. "So — you brought two more to pay their respects?"
"Fresh off the boat. I told 'em they could leave, but they insisted on staying. Said they came here to make money." Butler spoke between bites, chopsticks working steadily. "So I brought 'em to meet you. Everyone knows — in Hell's Kitchen, you're the only one who'll let them do business in peace."
"Fine. Take them over to Ginny's. No big deal." Ethan waved it off.
Butler nodded at the two women. They'd clearly been briefed beforehand.
They dug through their bags and pulled out a collection of crumpled bills — less than a thousand dollars between them — and held it out to Ethan.
"Keep it. Spend it on yourselves. Do I look like I need pocket change?" Ethan waved them off.
The two girls acted like they hadn't heard him and kept shoving the money forward.
"Just take it," Butler said, popping a piece of General Tso's into his mouth. "Every other block charges. You're the only one who doesn't, and that makes people talk. Besides — if you don't take it, these girls won't feel safe. Think of it as doing them a favor."
"Alright, alright. I'll take it — but I'm holding it for you. When you've saved enough and you're ready to leave Hell's Kitchen, come find me." He pocketed the cash and waved them toward the food. "Eat. Come on, eat up. Want anything else? I'll make it."
Ethan tucked the money away and motioned for them to dig in.
He was still chatting with the two girls when a figure walked over from the direction of the apartment building.
"Well, well — if it isn't Old Marcus! Rare sighting at the restaurant. I thought you hated Chinese food?" Pietro called out with a grin.
Ethan heard Pietro and looked up, pausing his conversation.
"It's not rent day yet, is it? What's up, Marcus?"
Marcus found a seat near the counter and sat down. His expression was grave. "Ethan. I need your help."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. He'd already noticed it — the faint smell of alcohol and blood clinging to the old man.
"Talk to me. What kind of trouble is so big that even the Continental can't handle it, and you've gotta come bother your humble little landlord?"
Marcus was a man pushing sixty — and one of the Continental Hotel's assassins.
When Ethan had first met him, he'd thought Marcus was the Green Goblin. Turned out the man just happened to look exactly like him.
Marcus had ended up in Ethan's building after an accident left him half-dead and Ethan pulled him through. He'd been living there quietly ever since — kept to himself, rarely came or went.
The Continental was essentially a one-stop shop for the underworld. Pay the right price and they'd handle intelligence, contract kills, personal security — you name it.
Of course, they didn't deal in dollars. They used gold coins.
Roughly eighty percent of the assassins in New York were registered members of the Continental.
It was the gathering place for killers.
Sure, plenty of other assassin organizations operated out there, but none of them could hold a candle to the Continental. And the reason was simple: behind the Continental stood something bigger — the High Table.
"It's like this," Marcus said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "I've got an old friend. He's gotten into some trouble. Assassins are after him, and he made it here to find me. He just needs a place to lay low for a few days."
Ethan's eyes went wide. "Don't tell me — the past few days, the High Table and the Hand have been tearing Hell's Kitchen apart looking for someone. Please tell me that's not your friend."
Marcus winced and gave a sheepish nod.
Ethan stared him down. "And you are not about to tell me this friend of yours is currently upstairs in my building."
Say no. Just say no.
Marcus slowly nodded again.
"Goddammit, Marcus. You brought that kind of heat to my doorstep?" Ethan rubbed his face. "I'm raising your rent. I'm raising it through the goddamn roof."
"So what did your friend do to piss off the entire underworld? And why isn't he holed up at the Continental instead of hiding out in my little walk-up?"
The situation was already here. All Ethan could do was ask questions.
"My friend's name is John Wick. He's an assassin — an old colleague of mine. As for why he ended up here, I haven't gotten the full story yet. He took a bullet and he's been unconscious since he arrived. I came down to tell you the second I could." Marcus spoke quickly, like he was afraid Ethan would cut him off.
John Wick.
The name rang a bell. Ethan was pretty sure he'd seen it in a movie in his past life.
Then again, it had been over twenty years since he'd transmigrated. Even with his sharp mind and excellent memory, he couldn't remember everything.
"Your friend," Ethan said slowly. "He wouldn't happen to have a center part, would he?"
Marcus nodded.
"And he really likes dogs?"
Marcus nodded again, like a bobblehead that had lost its off switch.
"Last question. Does your friend go by a nickname — something like Baba Yaga?"
Nod.
That settled it. The man upstairs was the protagonist of that action movie franchise — the one about a retired hitman and a very unfortunate series of events.
Pietro's eyes lit up. "Wait — the Baba Yaga? The guy who wiped out an entire Russian crime syndicate over a dog? That's awesome."
"So… Ethan." Marcus leaned forward, hope and anxiety fighting for control of his face. "You'll help us, right? If it's too much, I'll move him out right now. I won't drag you into this."
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. Marcus watched him, waiting.
Then Ethan untied his apron.
"Where exactly are you gonna go? If the High Table's sending assassins, your friend clearly pissed off someone at the top. You can't just walk this off.
"As for dragging me into it — the moment you brought him through my door, he became one of mine. That's how this works.
"Marcus, you're my tenant. For your sake, I'll go take a look at the guy.
"Besides—" Ethan tossed the apron onto the counter. "We could use a security guard for the lobby."
"Isn't this going to be too much trouble? We're talking about the High Table." Marcus shifted uncomfortably.
Ethan rolled his eyes. "You already brought the guy here, and now you're asking if it's trouble? I don't care if it's the High Table or the Low Table — this is Hell's Kitchen. Let's go upstairs."