John took the photograph and slipped it into his jacket. "I'll retrieve the Dragon Ball from her."
He hesitated, then continued carefully. "I still have friends in the business. People who've chafed under the High Table's rule for years. If we're overthrowing the entire system..." He met Smith's eyes. "Some of them might be willing to help. Or at least stay out of our way when the shooting starts."
Smith nodded. John's decades as a legendary assassin had built him a network of contacts, killers who respected him, operators who owed him favors, people who'd welcome a change in management.
"I appreciate the initiative, but we don't have time for extensive recruitment." Smith tapped the Casablanca files. "Once we locate the Elder in Morocco, we move immediately. The element of surprise is critical."
He leaned forward. "After the Casablanca operation, you can reach out to your trusted contacts. Give them the option to join us or withdraw from the conflict zones before we strike. But for now, focus on the mission at hand."
"Understood."
Smith's expression grew serious. "After you obtain Sofia's Dragon Ball, head directly into the Moroccan desert. Look for Canis Minor in the night sky, follow Orion's constellation to the brightest star."
John listened intently as Smith outlined what sounded more like a death march than a plan.
"Walk until you're near death. Then keep walking. When you're down to your last breath, the Elder may reveal himself. Or he may not." Smith's tone was matter-of-fact. "It depends entirely on whether he deems you worthy of an audience."
"Sounds like a pleasant trip," John said dryly.
"I'll have Wesley arrange transport to Casablanca through our channels. Discrete and untraceable." Smith stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Three days, John. Be ready."
John rose and headed for the door, his mind already cataloging what he'd need for a desert trek and a confrontation with Sofia.
The Bowery
The Bowery King stood among his lieutenants when Olla approached, his expression carefully neutral.
"Sir. An Adjudicator wishes to see you."
The King's jaw tightened. He'd hoped providing John Wick with a weapon would slip beneath the High Table's notice, a single gun, untraceable, a professional courtesy between old associates. Apparently, someone had talked.
His eyes swept across his gathered men, searching for signs of betrayal. Who had reported him? Which one of these bastards had sold him out?
"Put her on the roof," he said finally. "With the birds."
The rooftop pigeon loft was the King's sanctuary, rows of coops housing hundreds of birds, their soft cooing a constant backdrop. He stood beneath an umbrella, rain pattering against the fabric, and waited.
Olla emerged from the stairwell with the Adjudicator in tow.
The King spread his arms in welcome, forcing a jovial tone. "Welcome to my mission control center! My operational nerve center, my information superhighway!" He gestured grandly at the coops. "From here, I control the whispers of the streets and the secrets of the world."
The Adjudicator surveyed the scene with barely concealed disdain. "With pigeons?"
"You see rats with wings." The King tapped his temple. "I see the internet. No IP addresses, no electronic footprints. Can't track it, can't hack it, can't trace it back to me."
"Does it make you sick?" the Adjudicator asked flatly. "The smell?"
The King's confident smile faltered. He glanced at the rows of birds, then back at her. "I wouldn't recommend eating them."
He straightened, reasserting his authority. "What do you want?"
The Adjudicator lifted her chin, looking down at him despite their similar heights. "I want to see where it didn't happen."
The King frowned. "Where what didn't happen?"
"Where you didn't kill John Wick," she said, enunciating each word with surgical precision.
The King's expression hardened. "Contracts are suggestions, not commands. I chose not to pursue Wick. That's within my rights."
The Adjudicator handed her umbrella to Olla and opened her briefcase. She withdrew a pistol and held it up for inspection.
"You gave John Wick this weapon. Seven rounds. Knowing he intended to use it against a member of the High Table." She turned the gun slowly, letting the light catch the engraving. "This exact firearm, in fact. We recovered it from the Continental."
She returned the weapon to her briefcase and stepped closer, invading his personal space.
"You gave John Wick seven bullets. The High Table gives you seven days."
The King stared at her. "Seven days for what?"
"To settle your affairs. Find new homes for your birds." Her tone remained emotionless. "In seven days, you abdicate your position."
For a moment, the King was too shocked to respond. Then laughter burst from his throat, harsh, disbelieving.
"Abdicate?" He laughed harder, the sound echoing across the rooftop. He threw his umbrella down, rain immediately soaking his shoulders. "Baby, do you understand what the Bowery is? Do you comprehend what happens if I just, "
He snapped his fingers.
", wave my hand? Nobody sits on my throne. I am the throne. I am the Bowery!" His voice rose to a shout. "I'm everything you don't want to meet when you're walking home at night. The Bowery is mine. Mine alone!"
The Adjudicator regarded him with the same cold detachment she might show a mildly interesting insect.
"Don't make the mistake of believing you exist outside the rules. No one does."
She turned and walked toward the stairs.
"Seven days."
The Bowery King stood in the rain, watching her disappear, his empire suddenly feeling far more fragile than it had an hour ago.
Continental Hotel – Winston's Office
Winston paced behind his desk, mind racing through increasingly limited options.
Seven days. The Adjudicator had given him seven days before his successor would be named and he'd lose everything, the hotel, his position, possibly his life.
He could beg the High Table's Elders for clemency, but Winston had no direct connections to those shadowy figures. Despite managing the New York Continental for four decades, he'd never spoken to a single Elder. That was by design, middle management never met the board of directors.
He could approach the Fraternity, but that path led nowhere useful. They wouldn't accept a hospitality manager who'd spent his career providing neutral ground for killers. Even if they did, the Continental would become isolated from the underworld it served. Without the High Table's backing, without the rules that granted it sanctuary status, the hotel would lose its purpose entirely.
Which left only one viable strategy: misdirection.
If the Adjudicator and the Fraternity were too busy confronting each other, she wouldn't have time to focus on Winston's succession. The conflict would buy him the weeks or months he needed to build connections, call in favors, and maneuver his way back into the High Table's good graces.
It was a dangerous gamble. But sitting still meant certain defeat.
Winston picked up his phone and dialed a number he'd acquired through careful inquiry. The line clicked open.
"Mr. Smith. This is Winston."
Smith's voice carried mild surprise. "Winston. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"The High Table has sent an Adjudicator to New York. She's investigating John Wick's excommunication." Winston kept his tone measured, helpful. "It won't take her long to discover that you're the one who sheltered him. I thought you should have advance warning. She'll likely come for you soon."
He ended the call before Smith could ask uncomfortable questions.
Then Winston straightened his tie, checked his reflection in the window, and headed for room 217.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~