Chapter 5 – The Club
The night air over New York was damp, heavy with the faint scent of rain and exhaust. John's sedan rolled to a stop at the curb opposite a glowing monolith of glass and steel. Music pulsed faintly from within a low, steady thrum that vibrated through the street.
The Red Circle. Viggo's stronghold. A nightclub built like a fortress, cloaked as pleasure.
From his vantage, John watched the entrance. A pair of suited guards stood under the neon-lit awning, scanning every guest who passed through. Their eyes lingered more on posture than clothing the kind of scrutiny that marked professionals. No drunk stumbled into this place without being seen.
John's gaze shifted. Across the street, a delivery truck idled; in its reflection, he caught the angle of security cameras. He memorized them, one by one. Above the doors, at the corners of the building, hidden in the glow of signage. An invisible net.
He sat back, breathing slow. This wasn't the kind of place one simply walked into armed. The Continental's suit beneath his coat hugged his frame, Kevlar woven into its threads. His pistols rested snug at his sides. Extra magazines pressed against his ribs. Knives lay hidden in seams and cuffs.
Every piece of him was prepared.
But John Wick never rushed.
He waited. Watched. Counted.
Guests arrived in clusters bankers, models, men with cash to burn and girls on their arms. Bouncers frisked some, waved others through with practiced indifference. John noted the pattern: VIPs, always granted freer passage. That was his seam.
At last, he stepped from the sedan, his stride unhurried, his black suit catching only the faintest gleam of the streetlights.
As he approached the doors, one guard straightened, placing a hand out. John's eyes met his, steady, unreadable. He slipped a folded bill into the man's palm not currency, but something heavier. A gold Continental coin.
The guard stiffened, understanding instantly. His hand withdrew. His posture shifted from suspicion to something almost respectful.
"Enjoy your evening," the guard said, voice low.
John walked past, his silence the only acknowledgment.
Inside, the Red Circle opened like another world.
The bass hit first a relentless, pounding rhythm that shook the floor, made glasses tremble on trays. Colored lights cut through smoke and bodies. Hundreds of people moved as one organism, sweating, laughing, losing themselves in the chaos.
But John wasn't looking at them. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, every sense honed on the architecture.
Exits. Balconies. Stairwells. He traced each path in his mind, the way a predator mapped terrain. He slid between dancers, unseen, scanning the mezzanine where private booths overlooked the main floor. Guard placement. Lines of sight.
He saw them. Viggo's men eyes scanning, earpieces tucked, jackets too stiff with concealed weapons. Professional, but not invisible to him.
And then through the blur of light and motion he saw Iosef.
The boy sat at a booth on the second tier, flanked by two women who laughed too loud, too forced. A bottle of vodka gleamed on the table, half-empty. Around him, bodyguards lingered in the shadows, pretending to be part of the crowd.
Iosef leaned back, careless, smoke curling from a lit cigarette. His laugh was sharp, shrill, the laugh of someone convinced the world was his.
John's jaw tightened. For an instant, the noise of the club dimmed in his ears, replaced by the image of Daisy's small body, still and broken.
He slipped deeper into the crowd, unseen, circling toward the stairs that would bring him closer.
The hunt had begun.
The stairwell leading down to the bathhouse pulsed with muffled bass, the sound thickening with every step. Steam drifted up in lazy tendrils, carrying the faint scent of chlorine and expensive cologne.
John's shoes clicked softly against the tile as he entered the spa. Blue lights shimmered across the water, the surface rippling where half-dressed patrons lounged with drinks in hand. Guards lingered at the edges, some pretending to be guests, others too rigid to disguise their purpose.
John moved like a shadow between them.
Ahead, beyond the glass partitions and veils of steam, he saw Iosef. The boy stripped down to his undershirt, laughing too loud, splashing vodka into the pool as though it were his private kingdom. Two women floated at his side, draped in jewelry and giggles.
A guard leaned down to whisper in Iosef's ear. The boy waved him off, irritated, his arrogance filling the room more than the music did.
John slipped closer, weaving between pillars, his eyes never leaving the target. His breathing was calm. His hands, steady.
Then contact.
One of Viggo's men turned the corner, face-to-face with him. Recognition flashed in the guard's eyes, widening with sudden horror. His mouth opened
Too late.
John's pistol rose, silenced, the muzzle flashing once. The man collapsed soundlessly into the steam.
Another guard caught the motion. He reached for his earpiece John's knife was already in his throat, yanking him down into the shadows.
The dance had begun.
John advanced. Two more spotted him, weapons clearing their holsters. His shots cracked in rapid rhythm two to the chest, one to the head. Bodies folded into the mist.
The bathhouse erupted in chaos. Patrons screamed, scrambling out of the pools, slipping across wet tile as music thundered on obliviously overhead. Guards stormed in, guns drawn, their shouts drowned by bass and panic.
John moved among them with mechanical precision. His pistols barked in muffled bursts, every shot a kill. He slid behind pillars, reloading in smooth, practiced motions, never wasting a step.
One man rushed with a knife. John sidestepped, slammed him into the wall, drove his own blade upward under the chin. Another fired wild across the steam; John ducked, pivoted, put a bullet clean through the man's temple.
The floor grew slick with blood and water.
Iosef, wide-eyed now, scrambled out of the pool. His bravado was gone, replaced by raw terror. He shoved one of the women aside, dragging a towel around himself, screaming for his guards.
John's eyes locked on him through the haze. For a heartbeat, everything else vanished the pounding music, the screams, the gunfire. Only the boy remained.
Iosef froze. Their gazes met. Recognition dawned, and with it, fear so sharp it broke his face into a grimace.
"Baba Yaga…" he whispered, then bolted.
John surged forward, cutting through the last of the guards like a blade through cloth. One tried to grapple him, slammed against the tiled wall John reversed it, snapped the man's arm, and put a round in his chest before he hit the floor.
He pushed onward, into the main club where strobes split the darkness into violent flashes. Iosef shoved through dancers, half-dressed, dripping water, screaming for protection.
John followed, relentless.
The hunt was no longer quiet. It was war.
The doors burst open, and John stepped from the mist of the bathhouse into the thundering chaos of the dance floor.
The room was a cathedral of light and sound strobe beams cutting across hundreds of writhing bodies, basslines pounding hard enough to rattle ribs. The crowd was a blur of sweat and movement, oblivious at first to the man in the black suit moving against the current.
Then the gunfire began.
A guard spotted him, pistol half-raised. John fired once clean through the man's eye. The strobe froze his fall in jagged flashes of red and white, then swallowed him into darkness.
Another came charging from the mezzanine. John turned, two quick shots to the chest, one to the head. He kept moving, unbroken, flowing like water between panicked dancers who now scattered, screams rising above the music.
Iosef shoved through them ahead, pale and frantic, his towel slipping loose as he clawed his way toward the far stairs. His guards tried to form a wall around him.
John tore through it.
He moved with lethal rhythm pistol snapping up, bodies dropping. One man grabbed at him from the side; John pivoted, slammed an elbow into his jaw, spun him into another guard's line of fire, then shot both through the skull.
Blood sprayed across neon-lit faces. Patrons screamed, some ducking low, others running for the exits. The music didn't stop. The DJ, too terrified or too oblivious, kept the beat alive while men died in the strobing dark.
A bigger man barreled at him, shotgun pumping. John dropped low, slid across the wet floor, and fired upward. The first round took the man in the thigh, the second through his chin. His body collapsed backward, weapon clattering to the ground.
John didn't hesitate he scooped the shotgun up, chambered it, and turned.
BOOM.
A guard on the stairs exploded backward, chest ripped open.
BOOM.
Another fell, tumbling into the dancers below.
The crowd surged in panic now, a living tide rushing for the doors. The air filled with shrieks, the acrid sting of gunpowder, the copper smell of blood.
But John wasn't distracted. His eyes locked only on Iosef scrambling, shoving past his own men, clambering up the stairwell toward the VIP level.
A bodyguard stepped into John's path, spraying bullets wild. Sparks flew from the steel railing. John darted sideways, returned two rounds one in the chest, one in the head. The man crumpled, blocking the stairs.
John stepped over him and ascended.
Above, Iosef stumbled onto the mezzanine, slipping on blood, his bare feet slapping against the floor. He cast a single glance back. His eyes met John's again, and the sheer terror there was almost enough to make him fall.
Then he ran harder, screaming for help.
Guards poured out of the shadows, a half-dozen this time, weapons already drawn.
John shifted the shotgun to his shoulder. The bass throbbed. The lights flashed.
And he fired into them.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Each blast was final, tearing men from their feet, flinging them into walls, railings, glass.
When the weapon clicked empty, John discarded it without thought. He drew his pistols once more, advancing through the wreckage of Viggo's empire, every step taking him closer to the boy.
Iosef disappeared through a back corridor, his scream trailing into the dark.
John followed, relentless.
The throb of the dance floor dimmed as John pushed into the service corridors. The walls were bare concrete, the lights buzzing overhead in cold strips. His shoes left bloody prints on the floor, trailing the path of men he'd already killed.
Ahead, he caught the sound of frantic footfalls lighter, clumsier. Iosef.
Guards materialized from side hallways, drawn by the chaos. John moved faster, cutting them down in the narrow spaces. Each shot cracked sharp in the enclosed concrete, echoing like thunder. One man fell across a doorway, another slammed against the wall, leaving a red smear as he slid down.
John reloaded on the move, his motions mechanical, his breath steady even as his body burned with exertion. He was close. He could feel it.
A heavy steel door banged open ahead, and cold night air rushed in. John shoved through, emerging into the Red Circle's underground garage.
The place stretched vast and echoing, filled with black SUVs and polished sports cars gleaming under fluorescent light. Engines roared to life Iosef's escape.
The boy sprinted across the concrete, yanking a car door open with shaking hands. Guards poured out from the shadows, a last desperate shield.
John raised his pistol.
The first went down instantly, a neat hole between his eyes. The second lunged, firing wildly John ducked behind a pillar, returned two shots to the chest, one to the skull.
Another rushed from the left, shotgun blasting. Pellets tore chips from the concrete where John had stood a second earlier. He pivoted, knife flashing, and buried the blade under the man's ribs, twisting before shoving him aside.
But in that instant, another guard got behind him.
The muzzle flash lit the garage.
Pain exploded across John's side. He staggered, the impact like a hammer against his ribs. His suit absorbed some, but not enough. His breath caught, hot blood spreading under the Kevlar weave.
He dropped behind a black SUV, gritting his teeth. The guard rounded the hood, too eager. John waited, silent, then swung low, firing upward. The shot tore through the man's throat. He collapsed, choking on his own blood.
John leaned against the car, breathing hard. His hand pressed against the wound, warm liquid seeping between his fingers.
Across the garage, Iosef's engine revved. The boy fumbled with the wheel, eyes wide, face pale as ash. Their gazes met once more predator and prey.
John raised his pistol, steady despite the agony burning in his side.
He fired.
The round shattered glass, tore through the headrest missed.
Iosef screamed, slammed his foot on the gas, and the car roared toward the exit. Tires squealed, the sound reverberating through the cavernous garage.
John staggered forward, gun still raised, firing again and again. Sparks flew from the fleeing car's frame, but it didn't stop.
The SUV disappeared up the ramp, leaving only the echo of its engine and the stink of burned rubber.
John stood in the aftermath, chest heaving, blood soaking his suit. Bodies lay strewn across the concrete, silent testimony to the storm he had unleashed.
But the boy still lived.
And that meant it wasn't over.