Chapter Text
Winston liked to say he found all kinds of people in all kinds of places. Or better yet, that they found him.
John met him on the job too, and quickly came to know the recklessness of the manager in the last five years. When you ran the business Winston ran —and had as many enemies as friends— it was inevitable that one day either of those categories would send someone to kill you.
John rushed to the Continental as soon as he heard, taking a private flight to get there faster, throwing away money he'd been saving for months.
And there John was, breathless and broke, while Winston, for a man who was almost assassinated, looked rather well put together. He nodded to John with a smile that told the hitman he was expected, sipping bourbon in an armchair with only a tiny piece of bandage on his temple.
“Sniper,” he explained, pouring John a glass that went untouched. “I'm alright. No need to worry.”
John wasn't worried; he was angry. Angry he wasn't there, angry someone would even try it. The price on whoever was stupid enough to attempt on the manager of a Continental would have been astronomical to begin with, attracting all kinds of unprofessional people. He could already sense the Underworld buzzing, rumors spreading like an oil leak.
“Is he dead?” John asked.
And he wished Winston would just give him the job personally —only to him, no other distractions in the way.
Winston's smile thinned, “No.”
He peered up at John with unrest, as if he knew the only reason the sniper was still alive was that John Wick wasn't there when it happened. After calmly finishing his drink, Winston stood up.
“Walk with me,” he invited him.
He led them to a suite. Four rooms with an amazing view from the top floor — a place for the elites, one that not even John had ever visited before. Four emissaries were bickering in the living room. They turned abruptly to Winston, seemingly relieved to see John with him.
“Finally made up your mind?” a woman asked, blonde hair framing her stern glare, “Ready to end this madness?”
The whole room echoed her sentiment, but Winston didn’t seem preoccupied with it.
“Johnathan is here as a friend, not on a contract,” he said.
With a last pointed look at John, Winston turned to his guests, sitting on an unoccupied armchair in the center of the room. John shuffled silently to his side, the heavy looks of the emissaries on him. They were watching like they saw an unexplored opportunity in him, and John was really starting to suspect his friendship with the manager might have got him in trouble again.
A shuffling sound came from the adjacent room, so low it went unnoticed by everyone— everyone except John. Someone was in there, someone wounded and dangerous. Someone definitely not welcome into that room, if the locked door was any indication.
John began putting together the pieces, focusing on the solid presence of a gun in the holster under his armpit.
Whether he would have to use it was all in Winston's hands.
A man with a thick Italian accent spoke next, “Winston,” his icy blue eyes flashed with warning towards the locked door, “she killed on continental grounds.”
“Attempted to kill,” Winston clarified pedantically. “Had she succeeded, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale.”
A second man stood up, bald head and tattoos lining his neck, “Rules are rules. She is—”
“An outsider,” Winston interrupted, “unaware of our world and our conventions. To her, the Continental Hotel was just that— a hotel. She didn’t know any better.” He continued, leaning back casually. Anyone else in this position wouldn’t have dared to speak so bluntly to an emissary, but Winston had experience and unwavering loyalty at his side. He knew the warning looks he received were all for show. “Have you been in this life so long you forgot what it’s like to live on the other side?”
The room fell into uncomfortable silence, filled with a common thought no one was brave enough to voice. Nobody remembered the other side. If you were like John, there wasn’t another side to begin with. That privilege was reserved to people like Winston— mediators between the two worlds, treading on the edge of the Underworld like modern-day Charons.
The blond woman spoke again, breaking the silence, “What would you have us do? Let her go?”
“The opposite, actually,” Winston pondered, “I am asking you to give her a chance. Let her work for me.”
Everyone startled, even John’s eyes snapped to him. It was unheard of. It was just mad, and the outrage was immediate.
Spitting their protests and indignation in different languages, the emissaries jumped from their seats, throwing their hands around with accusatory gestures. Winston didn’t comment on it, didn't even try to diffuse the situation, and John’s unrest only grew when the nervous energy only grew in the room.
“She failed,” a voice breached through the noise.
One of the emissaries, the only one that hadn’t spoken yet, stood up for the first time, smoothing down the wrinkles on her satin red dress. Winston gazed at her, blinking his doubt in reverent silence.
“You said she failed to kill you,” the woman clarified, looking at her colleagues pointedly. “What use could she have?”
Anticipation tingled in the air, the entire room waiting on Winston’s next words like the second coming. Even John, who was usually way more focused on his general surroundings, found himself staring down at the exchange with bated breath.
“I’ve been of service to the High Table for well over twenty years. This is the first attempt at my life that gets noticed,” Winston stated simply, and the woman’s eyes narrowed. “I think that deserves a reward.”
A pause.
“I agree,” she said.
She wasn’t being complimentary to Winston’s opinion; she was merely exposing her own, and in doing so, it was like she had just revealed a universal truth, an absolute. John observed quietly as the rest of the room withered down, submitting without so much as a side glance to the imposing presence.
When the woman sat back down, and the other emissaries followed, John knew she was something different from them, that she spoke for a higher hierarchy. And when she suggested to put the matter to a vote, he wasn't surprised to see everyone siding with her, despite their previous grievances.
The sniper was going to live, and Winston got entrusted with the responsibility. And although his old friend smiled up at him like they were sharing a victory, John wasn’t sure this had been worth the headache in the first place.
Winston stood up only after the emissaries had left, fishing a key from his breast pocket. He told John to follow, shook his head when the hitman reached for his gun, and opened the locked door.
The shadowy figure stuck out like a sore thumb in the white, clean room. She scuttled behind the bed, her third-grade mimetic jacket torn and battered. Hair, blood, and tactical paint stuck to her face. Whoever caught her hadn't gone easy on her.
She looked at them with untamed fury, full of murderous energy and flashing eyes. A wild thing, untouched by the Underworld’s discipline. She saw John, and her form hunched, as if she knew he was a threat. She had instincts, John pondered, closing the door behind him. It was probably the only reason she had managed to stay alive until now.
Winston's voice was calm as he explained the situation. With his hands folded behind his back, he slowly approached her, waiting for her clipped answers and small nods of understanding.
She ratted out who had hired her with no hesitation. Out there, without their rules and honor systems in the way, there was no insurance for the client. Only money reigned, and if survival was on the line, no amount of cash could buy giving up on it.
It wasn't uncommon for outside hitmen to switch sides once they got caught. It wasn't even because they were all greedy assholes with no loyalty, but if you failed to kill someone and that someone offered you a chance to make up for it by working for free, if you had a brain, you said yes.
Rose—her name was Rose—was no professional. John could smell it from a mile away. She seemed rather proud of it too, and told Winston straight up.
“I'm not a killer, I'm a sniper. I shoot, that's all I do. And I'm fucking good at it.”
Winston laughed one of his polite laughs and offered her a room at the Continental.
She was no professional, but apparently she had a brain; without another word she nodded in acceptance.
As soon as they were alone in the elevator, Winston spoke up.
“I want you to check on her,” he said, and John's eyes narrowed, “make sure she understands how we operate.”
“I'm not a babysitter.”
“No, you're my insurance,” Winston interjected, deep blue eyes boring into him with purpose. “She fails, the Table will be on my neck.”
John paused, taking in his words, reading between the lines. It was always like this with Winston; he could never bring himself to say the nasty part, always sugarcoated it.
“You want me to kill her?” he asked, and Winston's eyes fell to the floor.
“If she is as good as she says, you won't have to.” Winston sensed his doubt and added, “She has it, John.” They reached the lobby, and John turned to him as he said, “She just needs guidance. I can see it.”
John didn’t. But whatever he was thinking, he didn't dare say it out loud.
In the days leading up to her first job John became the woman’s worst nightmare.
Save for her room, he followed her everywhere: In the corridors, on the ceiling, in the garage. She often wandered around, mapping the hotel, probably looking for the best escape point.
John made sure she knew she was being watched, never dropped his gaze whenever it met hers. The alarmed way she initially looked at him steadily morphed into annoyance, and eventually defiance, but John didn't care for it. She had to know that if she tried anything, he would’ve been there to prevent it.
The second day she talked to Charon at the front desk. John eavesdropped on his customary explanation of how coins worked, and was a little taken aback when the concierge lent her three coins without so much as a polite nod.
“No guarantee you’ll get them back,” John had told him in private that evening, and Charon had chortled quietly.
On the third day, she made a quick spin while walking down the hall and rammed into his shoulder. John instincts sparked, and he almost went to grab her, muscles tensing up with the prospect of a fight. But in the end she just kept on walking, and John let his hands relax at his side as he grumbled, going back to be her personal shadow.
The morning of the job she left her room one hour earlier than instructed, and when she looked up she found John sitting on a chair on the opposite side of her door. He didn’t sleep, hardly did recently with all her wandering. John often wondered why Winston couldn’t just get her chipped and call it a day.
He squared her down and she rolled her eyes. She was still in her pajamas, or whatever she thought qualified for it, padding barefoot on the corridor's carpet with the air of someone who just woke up with an intrusive thought.
“Rifle is in my car,” she mumbled. The first words she ever spoke to him.
John was unmoved, “It’s full of rifles in the armory.”
“I want mine.”
And with that she slammed the door shut.
Fifteen minutes later she was out again, same shirt but different pants, tucked inside a pair of old boots. She strolled down the corridor, not bothering to wait on John.
“You drive,” she said once in the garage, like she had any other choice.
Her car wasn’t, in fact, a car.
Just outside a coffee shop, sandwiched between two buildings. A light blue van, Chevrolet, forty years old at least judging by the rust growing under the body and around the tires. There was a green scratched off sticker on the side, the logo for some sport’s team John didn’t watch.
John parked right in front of it, feeling sorry for the poor thing as his mustang stared right into its busted headlights. It could’ve been a beautiful vintage piece if its owner had treated it with half the love John reserved to his own car.
It was unlocked, Rose had to simply jiggle the handle to get the sliding door open. It usually wouldn’t have worried John, he doubted anyone would rob something that looked like that on the outside. But one was never too careful with vehicles in New York, especially if said vehicles packed a damn sniper rifle in it.
She jumped in, rummaging around. By the amount of garbage that spilled out as she made her way inside, John distractedly considered she must had been living in there for a while, but his trail of thought was cut short. She turned around, fishing out a fifty inches rifle like it wasn’t a big deal.
It was all wood tones, gunmetal finishes and real leather straps. A non-standard issue, probably custom too. That alone must’ve been worth more than the van and everything else in it combined. John was so distracted looking he forgot he was supposed to stay alert, at least to make sure she didn’t shoot him in the face with it.
Luckily, the only thing she did was slide back into the seat, rifle resting between her knees.
The job wasn't a big deal. Winston had purposefully chosen an easy target. Someone he had to deal with, yes, but ultimately a nobody. If John didn't know any better, he would've said the manager was being considerate. In reality, John knew he just wanted this to be as foolproof as possible. Winston was a man of many virtues, but one thing he didn't like was being wrong.
They arrived at the appointed spot; the ceiling of an abandoned building looking out into the residential area. She set up the post, laid down on the warm cement, and got into position. John followed, lying beside her with the air of someone that’d rather be anywhere else. Ten minutes in, the target appeared in John's binoculars, standing on his porch with a cigarette between his lips. Seven minutes later, he was still alive, and after eight and a half minutes, he re-entered the house.
And in all that time, Rose hadn't shot.
“Hush,” she hissed suddenly.
John frowned, “What?”
“You're breathing too loud.”
She sounded like she was accusing him of sabotage, justifying her incompetence, and it took all of John's self-control not to call Winston then and there and tell him he had been wrong all along
The stakeout took a lot. No movement for at least twenty minutes, all the while Rose didn't do anything to hide her evident discomfort with John's presence. When he received a call from Winston, and answered with only a few strategic words — “Yeah.” and “Not yet.” and “I'll let you know.”— even then, that seemed to annoy her.
She clearly wasn't used to work with others, that was about the only thing they had in common.
Thirty minutes later, John started to consider the idea that he might have had to make the trip back on his own. Winston had been clear: if she failed, his neck was on the line. And if John had to choose between a no-good punk girl who tried to kill his friend, and said friend... well, there wasn't really a discussion to be had there.
Forty minutes in, John gave her one last chance. “This is taking too long,” he warned.
Scoffing, she shifted further away. “Can't shoot through a wall.”
“Could've taken the shot one hour ago, on the porch.”
Suddenly, she turned, breaking her shooting stance for the first time since they had arrived. “If I need your opinion, I'll ask,” she snapped.
Looking at his reflection in her eyes, John could swear he saw the veins on his neck snap.
She turned to the scope, and he turned to the binoculars. Two minutes later, the target got out of the house, climbed into his car, and drove off.
Still, she didn’t shoot.
With an aggravated huff, John rose to his feet without a word. He made a point of waiting after cocking the gun, a courtesy, just because Winston apparently cared. He knew she noticed, saw the slight twitch in her movement when he did, but other than that, she didn’t turn, didn’t run. And maybe she was new to the Underworld, maybe she didn’t know any better when she tried to off Winston, but she wasn’t born yesterday; she must’ve known there would be consequences to her actions.
She had an attitude, she had instincts, but she lacked what got him this far: discipline. And for that, John felt little empathy.
He took a half step forward, finger steady on the trigger—
“Wait,” she breathed.
Not scared, not pleading, not even looking at him. And that gave him pause.
He couldn’t see her eyes, but he could sense the sharp focus within them, could see how shallow her breaths were, how her aim moved up steadily, almost mechanically. And then, as a gust of wind passed by, she took the shot.
John snapped his head towards the suburbs, spotted the target’s house, and went back to the binoculars.
A woman was rushing out onto the porch, hand on her chest. Just behind her, a girl, twelve years old tops, was following. Up in his line of sight, following the road that led from the driveway to the main street, John noticed the inky black marks of tires swerving on the tarmac. There, a mile from the house, the target’s car had just crashed against a tree. It was a gnarly accident. If the bullet didn’t kill him, the impact most certainly did.
John took his eyes off the scene, gun still tight in his hand. When he looked at her, Rose wasn't lying down anymore; she was standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder. She held the rifle at her side, and John didn’t know how it was possible, but she somehow managed to make that beast of a gun look just the perfect size for her hands. She was absently looking at the smoke slowly rising from the car above the city skyline.
On the other side of the suburbs, an ambulance was already on its way, sirens blaring, and they took it as their cue to cut and run.
She tossed the rifle in the back, and John made the mental note to remind her to buy a damn case for it.
“I don’t kill parents right in front of children,” she said later, “that shit scars you.”
And although John acknowledged it with a hum, his mind was somewhere else.
“I'm not a killer, I'm a sniper. I shoot, that's all I do. And I'm fucking good at it.”
John spied her from the corner of his eye; a band shirt she slept in, boots older than he was, the aloof expression of someone who had no idea of what she just did. And yet, back on that roof, none of that had mattered.
When she made to prop a foot up on the dashboard, John readily slapped down her shin.
And maybe, John pondered as she grumbled her annoyance, maybe discipline didn’t matter either.