Starbursts and Assassins (John Wick)

Chapter four: The Hunter

It's not long before a string of cursed insults leaves my lips.

"And just who the fuck are you, old man, huh?" I spit, writhing in Wick's arms like a wet worm.

The man, standing still in the middle of this huge, impossibly filled library, smirks. He watches me, seething in the arms of a madman, and finds it amusing. I try not to lose it, try to keep all the pieces together as I watch this man, whom I've never seen before, walk to the coffee table and place his drink on it.

"How did you find her, John?" the man asks, directing his gaze to my captor.

Despite the rage and the fear crawling in me like thick, choking smoke, I laugh. "Hold up," I giggle, breathlessly looking from "John" to the other weirdo. "Your name is John Wick?"

John's jaw clenches. "What's so funny about that?" he growls.

I stifle a laugh behind my free hand, leaning away from his grasp. He turns his black gaze to the other man, who is patiently waiting for us to end our little turmoil.

"She's a contract," John says in a simple, dark tone. I frown. Contract? "But she... she can't..." he trails off.

"Die?" the other man supplies, and my head snaps up, eyes meeting his across the vast expanse of space. He offers a wide, warm smile. A shiver races down my spine.

"Who the hell are you people?" I grit between clenched teeth, fighting against John's impossible grip. "How does this asshole – " and I jerk towards John " – know where I work, and how do you know my name and how I can't fucking die!?" At this point, I'm hysterical and I know it, but I don't care.

"I'm Winston," he answers simply, opening his arms as if greeting a long dead friend. "And this here, this place John brought you to, is the Continental. I'd say you're lucky to be here - no business can be carried out on Continental grounds, but – ah well, you don't need luck now, do you, Ophelia?"

I stare back from under my lashes, fixating on his dark, unkept brows. I'm about to say something sharp when John cuts me off.

"Why was she a contract when she can't be killed?" he demands, pushing me forward, down the few steps, onto the old carpet Winston stands on. Up close, the old man has more wrinkles, texturized skin, which reveals a softer, safer side of him.

Winston smiles again – that irritatingly soft, warm smile. "Because they wanted to find her."

"They?" I spit. The grip John has on my bicep is for sure leaving a bruise, and I am so sick and tired of being manhandled, so I rear my free wrist back and punch him hard in the shoulder. He gives me a quick, sharp glare, but keeps his hold.

Winston nods, seemingly unbothered by my attempt to punch John. "The High Table," he answers. "I'm guessing they've come to terms with your existence and what to do with it."

"So why put a contract?" John insists. "Why not go and find her themselves?"

Winston smiles wider. "They put the contract a few months past," he replies. "Harold Martins picked it up. Tried to kill her at work, but by the looks of it, failed."

I perk up. The weirdo with his gun near his pecker was called Harold Martins? "That guy works for you?" I demand. "Is he the guy who tried to shoot me?"

"Yes."

My eyes widen, mouth falling ajar. "B-but – "

"They didn't want to kill you, Ophelia," Winston interrupts. "They wanted to find you. And after Harold failed, and you left in such a hurry, they needed a hunter."