Mr. X scanned the letter, his expression unchanging.
The High Table's offer was straightforward: rescind asylum for John Wick in exchange for thirty million dollars. The letter detailed John's violations of Continental protocols, his excommunication, and the chaos he'd unleashed across New York. At the bottom, the inked signature of Marquis Vincent de Gramont, the Table's chosen executor, carried the weight of judgment.
Mr. X tossed the letter onto the conference table dismissively.
"John Wick is a member of the Fraternity now. He's under our protection." He met the messenger's eyes with cold finality. "Tell your Marquis to redirect that bounty onto me instead."
The messenger's professional composure cracked slightly. "Are you certain? Over one rogue assassin who violated the High Table's sacred rules, you're willing to fracture decades of peace between our organizations?"
Mr. X's voice remained level, but steel underlay every word. "Return to the Marquis with this message: if any assassin comes hunting John Wick under High Table orders, we will consider it an act of war against the Fraternity." He leaned forward. "If Gramont wants to spend the rest of his life hiding in a bunker, he's welcome to maintain that bounty."
The messenger stood silent for two seconds, processing the implications. This was beyond his authority to negotiate. He bowed stiffly and turned on his heel.
Mr. X watched him leave, then glanced back at the letter. His lip curled in contempt. Gramont. The fool doesn't realize he's already a dead man.
Continental Hotel, Casablanca
Sofia Al-Azwar turned the Dragon Ball over in her hands, watching light play across its glossy surface. The two stars embedded inside seemed to float in the orange sphere.
She'd found it by pure chance, a curiosity that turned out to be worth two million dollars according to Camorra's standing bounty. They called it a Dragon Ball, but she had no idea what it actually did. Decorative? Ceremonial? Some kind of underworld status symbol?
The answer would come to her eventually. John Wick held her Marker, a blood oath she was bound to honor. With the entire world hunting him, if he ever came to Morocco, he would have no choice but to seek her out. And when he did, she would finally have the chance to ask her questions.
Her phone buzzed. A text from one of her watchers at the docks: Wick spotted. Heading inland.
Sofia smiled and reached down to scratch behind the ears of the Belgian Malinois sitting alertly beside her chair.
"Looks like we're about to have a visitor."
Fraternity – Morocco Branch
The villa on the outskirts of Casablanca served as the Fraternity's regional headquarters, a compound disguised as a wealthy expatriate's residence, complete with high walls and discreet security.
Wesley paced in the operations room, barely containing his energy. "GOD, when do we move?"
Smith ignored the younger assassin's excitement and turned to Fox. "Status of our personnel?"
"Eighteen operatives currently stationed here in Morocco," Fox reported, consulting her tablet. "Twelve more en route from our Mediterranean cells. They'll arrive tomorrow."
Smith did the math. Thirty assassins plus himself, Wesley, and Fox made thirty-three total. More than sufficient for a surgical strike against the Elder's compound, assuming they could locate it.
"What about the body armor?" Smith asked. "The Continental's second-generation vests, have we successfully replicated them?"
Smith had been impressed by the Continental's latest equipment during their infiltration operations. The new armor used advanced composite materials woven into tailored suits, no bulk, excellent protection. When a bullet struck, the entire garment distributed the kinetic energy across its surface. The wearer only had to absorb the residual impact, which was survivable unless you took multiple hits to the same spot.
Standard plate carriers were too bulky for the Fraternity's surgical operations. But these? These were perfect.
"Reverse-engineering is complete," Fox confirmed. "The materials are expensive and sourcing them without raising flags takes time, so full deployment across all branches is months away. But every member of this assault team will be equipped with the new vests."
"Good." Smith nodded with satisfaction. Infiltrating Continental hotels had served dual purposes, gathering intelligence on High Table operations and acquiring their equipment designs. With the Fraternity's marksmanship and these vests, his people would be nearly unstoppable. A headshot would still kill, but body hits became survivable.
"As for timing," Smith continued, "we wait. The Elder hides in the desert with minimal contact to the outside world. Charging into open terrain against an entrenched position is tactically unsound. We need John Wick to get an audience with the Elder first. Once he's inside their compound, we'll have a fixed location." Smith's eyes gleamed. "Then we strike."
Wesley frowned. "You really think John can get a meeting with a High Table Elder? They're practically ghosts."
"John Wick is a legend in this world. The Elder will be curious, if nothing else. He might even try to recruit him." Smith smiled coldly. "And that curiosity will be his downfall."
Casablanca
John Wick moved through the city's crowded medina, heading toward the Continental. He'd made it less than half a mile when three figures emerged from an alley and blocked his path.
Assassins. Knives drawn. They spread out in a loose triangle, cutting off his escape routes.
John didn't wait for them to close in. He exploded forward, targeting the leftmost attacker. The man slashed at him, John swayed left, then right, reading the blade's trajectory and flowing around it like water. He caught the killer's wrist mid-strike, drove a fist into his face, and followed with an elbow that crumpled him.
The other two converged. John kicked the nearest one in the knee, bone crunched, and the man went down hard. He spun, grabbed the third attacker by the collar, and hurled him into the stone wall of the underpass.
The one he'd kicked struggled to his feet, knife raised for a desperate lunge. John seized his wrist, and they locked together in a contest of strength, blades inches from both their throats.
"Enough."
A voice cut through the struggle. A bald man stepped out of the shadows beneath the bridge, lighting a cigarette with casual indifference.
He approached the deadlocked fighters and exhaled smoke. "I'm afraid this gentleman is untouchable."
The assassin glared at the newcomer. "He's been excommunicated."
"And I'm told the manager has granted him clemency." The bald man's tone brooked no argument.
John stared at him in confusion. Clemency? Since when?
The bald man met his gaze and smiled slightly. "Mr. Wick, would you please accompany me?"
John released the assassin's wrist and handed back the knife he'd taken during their struggle. The bald man gestured toward the street, then turned his back on the three killers.
They'd walked three steps when John heard the scrape of steel on leather behind him.
The bald man spun and fired. The knife-throwing assassin dropped with a hole in his forehead.
The other two froze, staring at their dead companion.
The bald man holstered his weapon and turned back to John with the same pleasant smile. "Welcome to Casablanca, Mr. Wick."
"Thank you for the assist," John said carefully.
"Not at all. This way, please."
They walked deeper into the medina, leaving two living witnesses and one corpse behind in the shadows beneath the bridge.
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