CHAPTER 22: THE BABA YAGA
The Continental lobby felt different tonight.
Same marble floors. Same crystal chandeliers. Same well-dressed killers nursing expensive drinks. But the energy had shifted—electric, dangerous, the kind of tension that preceded violence on a massive scale.
I crossed the threshold and immediately understood why.
Every conversation stopped mid-syllable as I entered. Eyes tracked me for a heartbeat—assessing, categorizing, dismissing. Not a threat. Just another face. The whispers resumed before I reached the bar.
"—impossible task. He completed the impossible task for Viggo. That's how he got out."
"Heard he killed three men in a bar with a pencil. A fucking pencil."
"Iosef's dead already. Just doesn't know it yet."
The Ledger hummed at the edges of my consciousness, feeding me data I hadn't requested. Bounty postings. Contract withdrawals. The entire network of obligations and debts that bound this world together, all of it rippling with the aftershocks of one name.
John Wick.
I found an empty stool at the bar. The bartender—same man who'd served me three weeks ago on that first Thursday with Elena—poured whiskey without being asked.
"Busy night," I said.
His expression remained professionally neutral. "Unusual circumstances."
Understatement of the century.
A cluster of men in expensive suits huddled near the fireplace. Eastern European accents, harsh consonants. Tarasov people, probably. They looked like men waiting for an execution—their own.
Near the window, a Japanese woman sat alone, cleaning a knife with methodical precision. Her eyes never left the door. Preparing. Calculating.
At a corner table, two men I didn't recognize were arguing in hushed tones. One kept shaking his head. The other kept pointing at his phone. Money changing hands. Bets being placed.
They're betting on how long Viggo survives.
The Ledger pulsed with new information.
[BOUNTY POSTED: JOHN WICK] [VALUE: $2,000,000] [ISSUER: VIGGO TARASOV] [ACCEPTANCE: 7 CONTRACTORS] [NOTE: HIGH-VALUE TARGET. BONUS REWARDS AVAILABLE.]
Seven contractors had accepted the bounty. Seven professionals who thought two million dollars was worth going head-to-head with the Baba Yaga.
Seven dead men walking.
I sipped my whiskey and watched the Ledger track their movements. Three were already en route to known Tarasov locations. Two were gathering intelligence. One was purchasing weapons. The seventh had gone dark—probably having second thoughts.
Smart man. The others would learn.
Elena found me twenty minutes later.
She slid onto the stool beside mine, and I noticed immediately that something was wrong. The professional composure she wore like armor had cracked. Her hands weren't quite steady as she ordered vodka.
"You heard," she said. Not a question.
"Hard to miss."
"Then you know to stay away." Her voice dropped, urgent and quiet. "Don't take any contracts connected to Tarasov. Don't accept the Wick bounty. Don't even look at this situation, Matt."
I turned to face her. In the three weeks of Thursday drinks, I'd never seen Elena frightened. Cautious, yes. Calculating, always. But this was different. This was a woman who understood exactly what was coming.
"I wasn't planning to."
"I mean it." She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "You're new. You don't understand what John Wick is. The stories people tell—they're not exaggerations. They're understatements."
Through the Ledger, I watched another contractor accept the bounty. Eight now. Eight fools.
"I've heard the stories."
"Hearing isn't knowing." Elena's eyes were dark, troubled. "I was here when he retired. I was here when he completed the impossible task for Viggo. The body count... it wasn't just soldiers. It was everyone. Anyone who got in his way. Anyone who looked at him wrong. He dismantled an entire organization in three days."
I know, I wanted to say. I've seen the movie.
Instead, I nodded. "I'll stay clear."
"Promise me."
The intensity in her voice caught me off guard. Elena had been an investment—her words, not mine. Someone she thought might become interesting. But this felt like something more. Something personal.
"I promise."
She held my gaze for a long moment, searching for truth. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her. The grip on my wrist loosened.
"Good." She picked up her vodka, drained half of it in one swallow. "Because the people who don't stay clear are going to die. All of them."
The Continental's usual predators looked nervous.
That was the thing that struck me most, sitting there nursing my whiskey while the Ledger fed me real-time updates on the unfolding chaos. These were professional killers. Men and women who dealt death as casually as accountants dealt with spreadsheets. They'd seen violence. They'd committed violence.
And they were scared.
Not the obvious kind of fear—no one was trembling or fleeing. But I could see it in the small tells. The way conversations died when certain topics arose. The extra glances toward the door. The unusual number of weapons being cleaned, checked, double-checked.
When killers fear a killer, you know you're dealing with something special.
The Ledger updated again.
[TARASOV ORGANIZATION: ACTIVE CASUALTIES - 4] [BOUNTY HUNTERS: ACTIVE CASUALTIES - 1] [JOHN WICK: STATUS - ACTIVE]
Four Tarasov soldiers dead. One bounty hunter dead. And the night was young.
I thought about the Russian men by the fireplace. Their tight voices, their desperate eyes. They knew what was coming. Some of them wouldn't survive the week.
A dark part of me—the part that had grown stronger with each contract completed—saw opportunity in their fear. Dead men didn't need their money. Dead organizations didn't need their assets. The Tarasov collapse would leave resources scattered like debris after a storm.
Vulture thinking. But vultures survive.
Elena had excused herself earlier, citing work. The truth, I suspected, was that she couldn't bear to watch. Some of the people in this room were her colleagues. Her contacts. Maybe even her friends. And she knew most of them wouldn't see next week.
I ordered another whiskey.
The bartender poured. His hand shook slightly—the first crack in his professional facade I'd witnessed.
"Long night?" I asked.
"Longer before it's done." He glanced toward the Tarasov cluster. "Some of them have been here for hours. Afraid to leave. Afraid to stay."
"Is the Continental safe?"
"Rules are rules." But his voice lacked conviction. "No business on Continental grounds. Even for John Wick."
Even for John Wick. As if the Baba Yaga needed the caveat. As if the rules might not apply to a man who'd killed his way out of retirement over a dead puppy.
I finished my drink.
The Ledger hummed.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION: HIGH-VALUE TARGET AVAILABLE] [JOHN WICK - BOUNTY: $2,000,000] [BONUS REWARDS: 500 BLOOD COINS] [ACCEPT?]
The offer hung in my consciousness, pulsing with potential. Two million dollars. Five hundred Blood Coins. More money and advancement than I'd earned in a month of careful work.
All I had to do was kill John Wick.
I declined.
The System registered my choice without comment. No disappointment, no pressure. Just acknowledgment. [TARGET DECLINED. BOUNTY REMAINS ACTIVE.]
Some opportunities aren't worth taking.
I left the Continental as the clock struck midnight. Behind me, the whispers continued. Ahead of me, somewhere in the city, John Wick was digging up concrete. Retrieving the weapons he'd buried. Preparing to destroy everyone who'd taken his peace from him.
The war was beginning.
I intended to profit from the aftermath.
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