Alcohol

John Wick arrived sooner than Charley had expected.

The black Cadillac Escalade drove into the factory, its tires making a faint scraping sound against the concrete floor.

The door opened, and John Wick stepped out. He wore a simple white T-shirt under a suit jacket, dark jeans, and a pair of brown sneakers.

Charley cleared his throat and stepped forward to greet him. "Hey, John. I heard about Helen. I'm sorry."

He paused, trying to ease the tension. "Your son came back recently, didn't he? How's his business overseas?"

John didn't answer. He walked over to Charley's "office" and sat down in the slightly worn chair.

He picked up the glass on the desk and asked, "Where's the car? Who did it?"

Charley pursed his lips and sat across from John. "It was Viggo's son, Iosef."

He swallowed. "That kid drove over here. I told him it was your car, and he was scared out of his mind. He drove off, and I don't know where he went."

John's gaze darkened slightly. His voice was low and clear. "Iosef? Viggo's son?"

Charley nodded. "Yeah. Viggo's son, Iosef."

He picked up the bottle and poured a drink into John's empty glass. The amber liquid swirled gently. "What are you going to do?"

John lifted the glass and took a sip. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he gently set the glass on the hood of the Lincoln Continental. Metal clinked against glass.

"Good whiskey," he said flatly, then stood to leave.

Charley watched him go and couldn't help calling after him. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

John opened the Cadillac's door, then paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Tell Viggo I was here."

With that, he slid into the driver's seat. The door slammed shut.

The engine growled, and the massive black SUV slowly backed out of the garage. Its tires rolled over the ground, kicking up a faint cloud of dust. In moments, the vehicle had vanished into the night, leaving Charley standing there in silence, staring at the empty factory entrance.

Charley gripped the bottle and, after a long moment, forced out a curse through clenched teeth. "Fuck."

Silence fell over the factory, broken only by the wind occasionally stirring above the metal roof. Charley's men shut the open factory doors, then silently dispersed, waiting for their boss's next order.

Charley set the bottle on the hood, pulled out his phone, and swiped his thumb across the screen a few times before calling Viggo.

A few seconds later, the call connected. Viggo's low voice came through. "What is it?"

"John Wick was here."

"Mm-hmm?" Viggo's reply gave nothing away.

Charley took a deep breath. "He knows who did it, and he knows who has the car. He came here looking for it, but Iosef already drove off with it. He told me to let you know he was here."

There was a two-second silence on the other end. Viggo's voice remained even. "Mm-hmm. Got it."

The call ended. Charley watched the screen gradually darken and managed a helpless smile. He shook his head, slipped the phone back into his pocket, and glanced around the empty factory.

The bottle on the hood reflected the overhead lights. Condensation slowly trickled down its sides. Charley picked it up and took a swig, the liquor burning his throat.

He knew a storm was coming.

The black Audi A8 slowly pulled up in front of the New York Continental Hotel, its tires making a faint scraping sound against the pavement.

The door opened, and Beta stepped out. He had completely changed his appearance; his carefully crafted disguise made him look like any wealthy businessman who frequented upscale establishments.

The valet respectfully accepted the car keys he handed over.

As far as everyone knew, John's son was just an ordinary businessman who had refused to inherit his father's career as an assassin and instead chosen to run a high-end collectibles business in Europe. This carefully constructed identity was his most important disguise: a respectable man with no ties to the underworld.

Except for a very few people he trusted with his life, no one in the world knew his real name or background. Whenever he appeared in public, he had to ensure that this identity remained airtight. It was the foundation of his survival.

Beta entered the Continental Hotel lobby, his polished shoes striking the marble floor with measured steps.

The bald Black receptionist looked up. His gaze lingered briefly on the businessman, who appeared to be in his early thirties, before a professional smile appeared on his face. "Welcome to the New York Continental."

His words abruptly stopped as a gold coin appeared on the black marble counter.

The receptionist looked up and took another measure of his guest. The impeccably tailored suit, the perfectly groomed hair, the refined elegance in every gesture—all of it belonged to high society. There was no hint of the underworld about him.

"How may I assist you, sir?" The receptionist discreetly tucked the coin away.

Beta took out another coin and gently slid it toward the receptionist. "Arrange a car for me, and book me a sommelier."

"It will be my pleasure." The receptionist bowed slightly.

The elevator descended smoothly to the basement level. With a soft ding, the metal doors slid open.

A vast space opened up before Beta. This was no ordinary wine cellar, but a striking domed chamber.

Beneath the classical stone arches, the walls that should have been lined with wine had been transformed into rows of illuminated display cases. Fine firearms were arranged against scarlet velvet, their metal surfaces gleaming coldly under the soft spotlights.

Behind the transparent glass bar at the center, a man in a crisp sommelier's uniform bowed slightly. A silver tie pin adorned the collar of his spotless white shirt, and his black waistcoat accentuated his erect posture. His long fingers rested lightly on the edge of the bar.

"Good evening, sir." The sommelier's voice was clear. "What can I get for you?"

His gaze was calm and professional, as if this were just an ordinary wine cellar, not an underground arms shop.

Beta's eyes slowly swept across the weapon displays. "I need something that can penetrate a concrete wall. Something big."

The bartender nodded knowingly. "It seems you prefer a high-proof selection."

He turned with elegant poise, as if selecting a vintage wine. "Allow me to recommend a new specialty, a rare offering from the Far East."

As the velvet curtain was gently drawn aside, the bartender removed a sleek, black anti-materiel rifle from a specially designed display case. He laid it carefully on the glass counter, as if handling a top-shelf wine.

"The M99 Semi-Automatic, a masterpiece from Eastern Military Industry." His voice took on the air of a wine connoisseur. "Gas-operated, for an unprecedented shooting experience. Chambered in 12.7×108mm Russian ammunition, with a ten-round magazine, an 800-millimeter cold-hammer-forged barrel, and a rotating bolt."

The bartender leaned forward slightly. "Perfect for situations involving multiple targets. Just twelve kilograms, yet packed with an intoxicating level of destructive power."

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