The Attack

Beta tore off his seat belt and kicked hard at the warped car door.

With a clang, the twisted door sprang open. He raised his rifle, the red dot in his scope fixed firmly on the Mercedes-Benz speeding away. He squeezed the trigger again and again. Bullets sparked brightly against the wrecked rear of the Mercedes-Benz, but unfortunately, they all hit nonessential parts.

With the screech of tires, the silver Mercedes-Benz made a sharp turn at the street corner, nearly drifting, then vanished into the night.

Beta slowly lowered his smoking rifle, his knuckles white from gripping it too tightly.

Beta took a deep breath, tamping down the fury churning in his chest, then pulled out his phone and quickly dialed an encrypted number. The receiver played the distinctive alert tone of the Continental Hotel's "cleaners."

Beta pushed open the oak door to the Continental Hotel suite, and the smell of blood hit him.

John lay on his back on the leather sofa, his shirt soaked dark red with blood, the wound in his abdomen gaping grotesquely. The Continental Hotel's chief physician wore rubber gloves, a suture needle glinting beneath the mobile surgical lamp.

"Don't move." The doctor pressed down on John's tensed abdomen with a frown. "If that glass had gone half an inch deeper, it would've spilled your guts."

Beta leaned silently against the doorframe, watching the catgut pass through John's skin. Each time the needle pierced flesh, John's knuckles whitened on the armrest, but his angular face showed not the slightest reaction.

Beta watched for a moment, then turned toward the bar in the corner of the suite. The clink of a crystal glass against ice rang out sharply in the quiet room. "Still think you're that invulnerable tough guy?"

He swirled the amber liquid, his tone tinged with amusement.

The doctor, who was putting away his instruments, glanced up and sized up the unfamiliar face. As a senior physician at the Continental Hotel, he had long since learned to keep his clients' identities confidential. After all, even the most ordinary waiter here understood the ironclad rule: "Don't ask what you shouldn't."

"The wound's been stitched up." The doctor tossed his latex gloves into the medical waste bin. The metal instruments clinked in the sterilization tray. "But be sure to avoid strenuous activity."

He took a bottle with a red label from the bottom of the first-aid kit and set it gently on the coffee table. "Take these in an emergency, two at a time. They block the transmission of pain signals, but..."

The doctor paused. "They're highly addictive."

John stared silently at the bottle. The neon lights outside flickered across his sharply defined face. The doctor finished tidying the room, nodded politely to Beta, and left.

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

John nodded slightly. "He'll know where Viggo is. Find Viggo, and we can track down Iosef."

"Yeah," Beta replied curtly.

John cautiously tried to get up. "Let's go find Winston."

Beta shook his head decisively. "Wrong. I'm going alone."

He looked at John. "Do you think you're still John Wick in his twenties? There's no arguing about this."

Beta drew the heavy curtains across the windows and turned off every light that might cast a silhouette against the glass. He dragged a floor lamp over to the window and switched it on, pressing it close to the glass. As a killer skilled in sniping, he knew well how to guard against a fatal shot from the darkness.

Beta suddenly heard the suite door beep as someone swiped a keycard.

He immediately raised a finger to his lips, signaling John to stay quiet, then slipped into the shadows behind the door. With a soft click, the door slowly swung open.

John pretended to be asleep, lying perfectly still on the sofa.

The first thing to enter the room was a black pistol fitted with a silencer. Then a black-haired woman cautiously stepped inside. She wore a fitted leather jacket and tactical pants, and moved as lightly as a cat.

Beta's gaze locked onto the pistol. The moment its wielder had fully entered the room, he struck from behind the door.

His right hand seized the woman's gun-holding wrist and twisted it as he stepped out. A sharp knee strike landed squarely in her chest. His left hand chopped down on her wrist, and the pistol hit the floor. Before she could react, he raised her arm high and slipped his left arm beneath her right armpit. With a sharp crack, the woman's right arm was dislocated and went limp.

Beta gave her no chance to fight back. He followed with a heavy hook to her abdomen. As she doubled over in pain, he kicked her shin with his right leg. When the attacker staggered backward, losing her balance, Beta swiftly swept her ankle and brought her down cleanly.

The takedown flowed so smoothly that Beta even had time to shut the door behind him, sealing off the hallway.

Beta subdued the intruder, pressing his knee hard into her lower back and gripping her by the neck. "As a fellow professional, you should understand what happens when a spine breaks."

He leaned down and whispered in the female assassin's ear, "Care to explain why you're visiting this room in the middle of the night? Lost?"

John approached with a gun in hand. In the light, he recognized the female assassin. "Perkins?"

Perkins's right arm hung limp, and blood dripped from her nose down her chin, but she still managed a strained smile. "Hi, John. Long time no see."

John crouched down. "How many gold coins did Viggo offer you to break the Continental Hotel's rules and kill me?"

Perkins struggled to get the words out. "Four gold coins."

"Guess my life's worth a lot."

Perkins forced a bloody smile. "Viggo offered two million dollars for your head."

John slowly nodded. "Where is Viggo now?"

"I don't know." Perkins refused to cooperate.

Beta tightened his hold, and Perkins let out a piercing scream. He eased the pressure and, when she had caught her breath a little, whispered in her ear, "A professional killer's code is simple: kill or make money. Do you want to spend the rest of your life paralyzed, Ms. Perkins?"

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Perkins's forehead and dampened her disheveled black hair. She tried to pry Beta's arm loose with her left hand, but his arm didn't budge.

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

The next moment, even more intense pain surged through her. Beta kept up the pressure for a full five seconds, and Perkins's screams echoed through the suite. When he finally eased up again, she gulped for air like a fish stranded on shore, each breath tugging at her injured lower back.

"Where is Viggo?"

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

Her voice came in fits and starts, every word punctuated by a painful gasp.

"Thanks for your cooperation," Beta said politely.