Assault

Beta unbuckled his seatbelt and kicked the deformed car door hard.

With a clang, the twisted door sprang open. He raised his rifle, the red dot in the scope locked onto the receding Mercedes. He pulled the trigger repeatedly, and bullets splashed dazzling sparks against the Mercedes' shattered rear, but they all hit non-critical areas.

Accompanied by the screech of tires, the silver Mercedes executed a near-drift turn at the street corner, disappearing completely into the night.

Beta slowly lowered his smoking rifle, his knuckles white from the excessive force.

Beta took a deep breath to quell the rage churning in his chest and pulled out his phone, quickly dialing an encrypted number. The distinctive prompt tone of a Continental Hotel "cleaner" came from the receiver.

Beta pushed open the oak door of the Continental Hotel suite, the smell of blood hitting him like a wave.

John lay supine on the leather sofa, his shirt soaked through with blood, turning a dark crimson. The wound on his abdomen gaped grotesquely. The Continental Hotel's chief physician, wearing rubber gloves, was stitching him up under the mobile surgical lamp, the needle glinting coldly.

"Don't move," the doctor said, frowning as he pressed down on John's tensed abdominal muscles. "Another half-inch deeper with that glass, and your intestines would have been spilling out."

Beta leaned silently against the doorframe, watching the catgut weave between John's skin. With every needle prick, John's knuckles would whiten on the sofa's armrest, but his chiseled face remained utterly impassive.

Beta stared for a moment, then turned towards the bar in the corner of the suite. The clinking of crystal glasses and ice cubes was sharp in the quiet room. "Still think you're that invincible tough guy?"

He swirled the amber liquid, his tone laced with a hint of mockery.

The doctor, tidying his instruments, looked up and appraised the unfamiliar face. As a senior physician at the Continental Hotel, he had long learned to remain silent about his guests' identities. After all, here, even the most ordinary waiter understood the iron rule: "Don't ask what you shouldn't."

"The wound is closed," the doctor said, tossing his latex gloves into the medical waste bin. The metal instruments clinked crisply in the sterilization box. "But avoid strenuous activity."

He retrieved a small bottle with a red label from the bottom of the first-aid kit and placed it gently on the coffee table. "Take two pills in case of emergency. It blocks pain nerve transmission, but..."

The doctor paused. "It's highly addictive."

John stared at the bottle, silent. The neon lights outside flickered across his sharply defined face. The doctor finished tidying up, gave Beta a polite nod, and left.

Beta took a few sips of his drink and gently placed the glass on the table. "I need to see Manager Winston."

John nodded slightly. "He'll definitely know Viggo's whereabouts. Find Viggo, and we can expose Iosef."

"Mm," Beta replied concisely.

John tentatively tried to sit up. "Let's go see Winston."

Beta shook his head decisively. "No, I'm going alone."

He looked at John. "Do you think you're still the twenty-something John Wick? This is non-negotiable."

Beta drew the thick curtains of the room, blocking all light sources that might cast shadows on the windows. He dragged a floor lamp to the window, placing it right against the glass, and turned it on. As a sniper, he knew how to guard against fatal attacks from the shadows.

Beta suddenly heard the "beep" of a magnetic card swiping to open the suite door.

He immediately raised his index finger to his lips, gesturing for John to be silent, then darted into the shadows behind the door. With a soft click, the door was slowly pushed open.

John feigned sleep, lying motionless on the sofa.

The first thing to enter the room was a black handgun fitted with a silencer. Then, a woman with black hair cautiously stepped into the room. She wore a fitted leather jacket and tactical pants, her movements as light as a cat's.

Beta's gaze locked onto the handgun. Once the wielder had fully entered the room, he struck suddenly from behind the door.

His right hand clamped down on her gun-wielding right wrist and twisted, simultaneously lunging forward. A sharp knee strike landed precisely on her chest. His left hand chopped towards her wrist joint, and the handgun clattered to the floor. Before she could react, he had her arm raised high, hooking his left arm under her right armpit. With a crack, her right arm dislocated and hung limply.

Beta gave her no chance to counterattack. He followed up with a heavy hook punch to her abdomen. As she doubled over in pain, his right leg kicked her lower leg. As the attacker stumbled back, unable to stand, Beta swiftly swept her ankle, cleanly taking her down.

The entire takedown was fluid. Beta even had time to close the door, isolating the hallway.

Beta subdued the intruder, pressing his knee heavily into her lower back and gripping her neck with both hands. "As colleagues, you should know the consequences of a broken spine."

He leaned down and whispered in the female assassin's ear, "Can you explain why you're visiting this room so late? Lost?"

John walked closer, gun in hand, and recognized the female assassin in the light. "Perkins?"

The subdued Perkins' right arm hung uselessly, blood dripping from her nose onto her chin. Yet, she managed a strained smile. "Hi, John. Long time no see."

John crouched down. "How many gold coins did Viggo give you to make you break Continental Hotel rules and try to kill me?"

Perkins spat out the words with difficulty. "Four gold coins."

"Looks like my life is quite valuable."

Perkins flashed a bloody smile. "Viggo offered $2 million for your head."

John nodded slowly. "Where is Viggo now?"

"I don't know," Perkins was uncooperative.

Beta tightened his grip, and Perkins let out a sharp scream. Beta eased the pressure, and once she had caught her breath, he whispered in her ear, "The principle for professional killers is simple: kill or get paid. Do you want to spend the rest of your life half-paralyzed, Ms. Perkins?"

Fine beads of sweat broke out on Perkins' forehead, soaking her messy black hair. She tried to pry Beta's grip off with her left hand, but his arm didn't budge.

She gritted her teeth and repeated, "I really don't know."

The next second, more intense pain struck. Beta maintained the pressure for a full five seconds, Perkins' screams echoing through the suite. When the pressure was released again, she gasped for air like a beached fish, each breath pulling at her injured waist.

"Where is Viggo?"

Perkins finally broke. "There's an Orthodox church in Little Russia. Viggo's most important things are hidden there."

Her voice was intermittent, each word accompanied by pained gasps.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Beta said politely.