Switching Denominations
A lot of familiar sensations asserted themselves in John Wick’s mind, like gunshots on a quiet day. That coppery taste in his mouth. The heaviness of his limbs as he dragged himself towards the fountain. His overworked heart after one too many shots of adrenaline, pumping away mindlessly. All the warning signs of impending death. And that was what it was. That was Winston sitting up ahead on the edge of the fountain, and he had broken Winston’s laws and Winston’s laws were Winston’s life. As far as John knew, every person in this park could be an assassin. The pretty redhead minding her own business a few meters to Winston’s left. The woman with the balloons. The old man feeding the pigeons. All of them.
“Jonathan.” Winston said, as Wick hauled himself in front of him.
“Winston,” he replied, “what am I looking at?” If he had some slim chance of survival still, maybe the answer would guide him to it. If he didn’t, it didn’t matter what he said anyway.
“The Camorra’s doubled Santino’s open contract; it’s gone international.” Winston said. Wick felt as though red dots were already crawling up his back. Fourteen million. An unheard-of sum.
“The High Table?” he asked, knowing the answer. Winston nodded.
“And the Continental?” he continued. Another pointless question.
“You killed a man on company grounds, Jonathan, you leave me no choice but to declare you excommunicado.” Every syllable of the final word cut deeper than the last. It was a death sentence. Wick’s heart sank as his doom was put into words.
“The doors of any service or provider in connection with the Continental are now closed to you. I am so sorry. Your life is now forfeit.” Winston sounded wistful, but not truly sad.
Time for daring. “Then why am I not dead?” John asked, expecting to be as soon as he finished his sentence.
“Because she deemed it not to be.” Winston said, with a hint of bitterness.
“She? Who is she?” John asked.
Winston turned his head towards the pretty redhead. “Ask her yourself.” he said, and watched as John sat down next to her, the dog lying down at his feet.
He wanted to ask “Why?”, but figured he’d live longer if he followed Winston’s advice. “Who are you?” he asked instead. She turned towards him and met his dull gaze. An assassin, Wick noted with no surprise. He could see it in her eyes- they belonged to a murderer.
“Until very recently my name was Catherine Nevsky. Recent events have forced me to break my cover,” She reached into her jacket, and Wick half expected her to pull a gun on him, but she took out a badge. She held it up to his face. Strategic… homeland… intervention… he’d seen it on a news broadcast once, after the Puente Antiguo hoax…
“SHIELD. You work for SHIELD.” He chuckled. It hurt. “You’re a spy. Why do you care about me?”
She put the badge away. “My real name is Natasha Romanoff. Some of the people you work with, and some of the people you’ve killed, are underworld legends. I’ve been watching them.”
Wick shook his head. “You shouldn’t have wasted your time. We don’t destabilize governments, we don’t bomb cities. There are rules. I can’t point you to any terrorists, if that’s what you want.”
She watched, expressionless. He trailed off, perceiving she wanted something else.
“What do you want?” he asked, resigned to playing her game.
“I’m here to tell you about the Avengers Initiative, John Wick. You’re not a man, you’re a myth. And the world is about to need heroes. I’ve been keeping tabs on assassins associated with Winston’s organization because my superiors believe, and for that matter, I believe, that there is room for killers in the defense of America and the world.” There was a certain intimacy to the last part of her speech. She gave voice to an unspoken connection between them. They murdered.
There were no more footsteps in the park. They’d all simply left as Wick sat down. They were waiting for an order, for open season on the boogeyman, for John Wick to be up for grabs.
“What are you offering me?” Wick asked.
“Communion.” Romanoff answered. “The people I work for are the right people. Here’s what I’m offering you: first, I’m offering you a chance to do the right thing. Second, I’m offering you amnesty for your many, many crimes. Third, I’m offering you a one-way ticket away from the middle of the largest congregation of assassins in world history, at a time when you have a fourteen million dollar bounty on your head.”
Wick looked at Winston. Winston shrugged.
He wiped some of the blood and sweat on his hand off on the front of his suit jacket, and reached for hers. Her hand was strong, her handshake practiced. She made a whispered phone call. There was the sound of a helicopter in the distance.
“Wait,” he said firmly. A flicker of alarm crossed her face.
“Can I bring my dog?”
She nodded.