Chapter 7 – The Safehouse
The office stank of smoke and expensive vodka.
Viggo Tarasov paced behind his desk, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, its ash spilling carelessly across polished wood. His men lined the walls, tense and silent, their eyes fixed on the floor. None dared breathe too loudly.
Perkins stood in the center, shoulders squared, jaw tight, but the faintest sheen of sweat betrayed her.
"You had him," Viggo said at last, voice low and venomous. He didn't look at her he stared at the city through the wide window, lights smeared like streaks of fire. "You were in his room. With a gun. Inches away."
Perkins swallowed. "Harry intervened. Wick"
Viggo spun on her, his eyes blazing. "Wick is still breathing because you failed." He jabbed the cigar at her, ash scattering onto the carpet. "Do you have the slightest idea what you've unleashed? That dog…" He spat the word, his accent sharpening. "…will not stop. Not until my son is in the ground."
Perkins held her ground, but her hands curled into fists at her sides. "The contract still stands. Others will take it. Wick won't last."
Viggo laughed bitterly, pacing again. "Others? Do you even understand who John Wick is? Iosef killed his dog. Stole his car. That is all. And now…" He flung the cigar into a crystal ashtray, sparks snapping. "…now my son has inherited the wrath of the man I once called Baba Yaga."
The room grew colder with the weight of the name.
Perkins's lips pressed tight. She knew the legend. They all did.
Viggo stepped closer, looming over her, the smell of smoke and anger radiating off him. "You broke the rules of the Continental. You failed me. And you dare stand here as if I owe you?"
For a moment, it seemed he might strike her. His hand even twitched. But instead, he turned sharply to his men.
"Double it," he barked. "Two million for Wick. Open it wide. Every contract killer in this city, every rat looking for a payday they all take their shot."
A murmur of unease rippled through the room.
Perkins lifted her chin, seizing the sliver of leverage she had left. "And me?"
Viggo turned slowly, his face unreadable, then smiled a thin, cruel thing. "You'll have your chance, Perkins. One more. Fail me again…"
He leaned close, his whisper a blade. "…and I'll make what Wick will do to you look merciful."
Perkins held his gaze, her teeth clenched, but she nodded.
Viggo waved her off with a flick of his hand. She turned, heels sharp against the floor, disappearing into the hallway.
As the door shut, Viggo exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. His voice dropped, meant only for himself.
"God help us all."
The growl of engines filled Aurelio's garage. Sparks spit from a welding torch in the corner, showering the concrete with orange light. Grease, metal, and gasoline thickened the air, clinging to every breath.
Aurelio leaned over a stripped-down chassis, his hands black with oil, his shirt sleeves rolled high. He was a man who carried calm the way others carried weapons solid, immovable, unshaken by the chaos of the world he worked in.
The sound of heavy doors opening drew his eyes.
A line of black SUVs slid into the garage, tires squealing, headlights cutting through the haze. They stopped in a predatory row. Viggo Tarasov stepped out of the first, a storm cloud in a tailored suit, his men pouring out behind him.
The hum of the garage stilled. Even the torches sputtered into silence.
Aurelio straightened, wiping his hands on a rag, watching as Viggo approached.
"Mr. Tarasov," he said evenly. "This is a surprise."
Viggo didn't smile. He circled the shop slowly, eyeing the cars, the tools, the stacks of spare parts. His men fanned out, their presence heavy.
"Do you know what I find fascinating, Aurelio?" Viggo's voice was deceptively soft. "Respect. How it moves through this city like currency. You've built a reputation here. A good one. But sometimes, respect… can be misplaced."
Aurelio tossed the rag onto the workbench, unflinching. "If this is about the Mustang, it wasn't misplaced. That car belonged to John Wick."
Viggo's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. "You speak his name like it's holy."
Aurelio didn't blink. "Man pays respect, he gets it back. That's the way it works."
Viggo's jaw tightened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Aurelio heard. "My son came to you with that car. You struck him. You refused him. You embarrassed him."
"You're right," Aurelio said, his tone calm, almost conversational. "I struck him. Because he stole John Wick's car. Because he killed John Wick's dog. That's not disrespect, Viggo. That's justice."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Viggo's men shifted uneasily, waiting for the order to paint the garage red.
Viggo stared at Aurelio for a long time, his expression unreadable, a storm struggling to break through his control. Finally, he leaned back, exhaling slowly through his nose.
"You're either brave," he said at last, "or very, very stupid."
Aurelio shrugged. "Maybe both."
Viggo studied him another moment, then signaled his men with a flick of his hand. Reluctantly, they pulled back, climbing into the SUVs again.
Before leaving, Viggo paused in the doorway, casting his voice across the echoing garage.
"You think Wick will protect you, Aurelio? He won't. He can't even protect himself."
Aurelio met his gaze, steady as stone. "The difference between you and him, Viggo?" He leaned against the workbench, his voice firm. "He doesn't need to say a word for people to follow him."
Viggo's eyes darkened, but he didn't reply. He turned sharply, climbing into his SUV.
Engines roared. Tires squealed. In seconds, the convoy was gone, swallowed by the city night.
The garage quieted again, the smell of gasoline and metal settling heavy in the air.
Aurelio reached for the rag, wiping his hands slowly, his face calm. But his eyes lingered on the empty doorway, knowing a storm was coming and knowing exactly which man would weather it.
The safehouse was a converted warehouse, all concrete and steel, its perimeter lit in stark pools of floodlight. Armed guards smoked by the entrance, rifles slung carelessly over their shoulders. Inside, the place was layered with men dozens of them Viggo's best.
It didn't matter.
John Wick was already there.
He moved like a shadow along the perimeter fence, his black suit blending with the night. Every step was measured, silent, his breathing even. He scaled the fence, landing in a crouch, his silenced pistol already drawn.
The first guard didn't even see him. A quick snap of John's arm, a suppressed phut of gunfire, and the man dropped, eyes wide in shock before the darkness swallowed him.
John caught the body, lowering it quietly to the concrete. His expression never changed.
He slipped inside through a side door, the muffled thud of bass-heavy music leaking from deeper within. The warehouse smelled of oil, dust, and gunpowder Viggo's men lived here, and it showed.
Two more guards strolled down a catwalk above, laughing, trading smokes. John didn't look up he was already moving. Two shots, precise and economical, punched through their chests. They toppled soundlessly, their cigarettes tumbling in arcs of glowing ember.
John advanced deeper.
In the main floor, rows of crates and stacked pallets formed a maze of steel shadows. Men lounged at tables, playing cards, cleaning rifles. A television flickered in the corner, volume low.
John was on them before the first even reached for his gun.
A silenced round took the closest in the throat. John pivoted, catching another man's wrist as he swung a knife, twisting it until bone cracked, then slammed the knife back into his chest. He shot two more in a blur, bullets whispering through the air.
The last one scrambled for an AK. John closed the distance in three strides, parried the muzzle aside, and shoved the barrel under the man's chin. A single round detonated, spraying red across the crates.
Silence followed, broken only by the television droning faintly about a late-night soccer match.
John adjusted his grip on his pistol, checking corners, ears sharp for the slightest sound. His face was set, cold, surgical.
On the mezzanine above, heavier footsteps thundered. Viggo's reinforcements.
Automatic fire ripped through the warehouse, muzzle flashes strobing the dark. John ducked behind a pallet, wood splintering above his head. He waited for a break, then rolled out, firing in tight bursts one, two, three men collapsing. He vaulted a table, took cover behind a column, reloaded in a heartbeat.
His movements were mechanical, unbroken violence as a language only he spoke fluently.
As the last body fell, the warehouse fell still again, the smell of cordite hanging thick.
John stepped over the dead, eyes narrowed, scanning for his quarry.
No Iosef.
But footsteps approached, heavier, slower, deliberate.
John tightened his grip on the pistol.
Kirill.
The echo of heavy boots filled the warehouse.
From the far end of the catwalk, Kirill descended the stairs, his frame filling the shadows. Broad-shouldered, built like a wall of iron, he carried no gun just the certainty of his own strength. His hands curled into fists as he stepped onto the concrete, eyes locked on John with cold detachment.
"Wick," he rumbled, his accent thick. "Viggo sends his regards."
John raised his pistol, but Kirill was already moving, closing the gap with shocking speed. His hand shot out, wrenching the weapon away, slamming John back against a steel column.
The pistol clattered across the floor, forgotten.
Kirill's fist drove into John's ribs like a sledgehammer. Pain exploded through him, breath leaving in a grunt. John retaliated with a sharp elbow, catching Kirill's jaw, then drove a knee into his gut.
It was like striking stone.
Kirill absorbed it, snarled, and headbutted John. Stars burst across his vision as he staggered back. Kirill charged, tackling him through a stack of crates. Wood shattered, debris raining around them.
They hit the floor hard.
John scrambled up first, snatching a shard of broken crate, swinging it across Kirill's face. Blood streaked, but the man barely flinched. He countered with a crushing bear hug, lifting John off the ground, squeezing the air from his lungs.
John's hand darted to his belt knife. He flicked it open and jammed it into Kirill's thigh.
The giant roared, dropping him.
John hit the ground rolling, snatched his pistol from the floor, aimed Kirill's boot came down, kicking it from his grip again.
They slammed together once more, fists and elbows trading in a blur, each strike landing with bone-shaking force. Kirill caught John by the throat, slammed him against the column again, tightening until John's vision narrowed to a tunnel.
John clawed, twisted, then drove a thumb savagely into Kirill's eye.
The grip loosened just enough. John wrenched free, grabbed Kirill's arm, and flipped him over his shoulder. The enforcer crashed hard, the warehouse floor vibrating.
Before Kirill could rise, John was on him knife pressed tight under his jaw. His chest heaved, eyes burning with cold fury.
"Where is Iosef?"
Kirill sneered through clenched teeth. Blood trickled from his mouth. "You think Viggo will let you walk away?"
John pressed harder, the blade nicking skin. "Where?"
A pause. Then, a guttural chuckle. "Club under Viggo's protection. You won't get him."
John's expression didn't change. "Watch me."
He slammed Kirill's head back into the floor once, hard until the man went limp.
Silence returned, broken only by John's labored breathing. He rose slowly, retrieving his pistol, sliding the knife back into its sheath.
The safehouse was a graveyard now.
And John Wick had his next destination.