Over the past five years, during each of the twice-yearly cash pickups, Sunday would proactively contact John Wick.
And if Wick ever needed help, he could directly call a number that would instantly connect him to Sunday.
Seven years ago, when William hadn't fully risen to power yet, John Wick's authority within Sunday's systems was higher even than that of White Ghost, who was purely an assassin.
And because John Wick had never made mistakes or caused trouble, William had never revoked his access.
Thus, Sunday's familiar voice flowed smoothly into John Wick's ear.
"Yes, Mr. Wick."
Hearing Sunday's voice, John Wick exhaled in relief.
"Help me find Iosef Tarasov."
Glancing around his dusty underground armory, Wick added,
"If possible, I need a full set of new gear."
"Please hold, Mr. Wick."
Only two seconds later, Sunday responded,
"Your Mustang is currently in a basement chop shop in Queens, New York.
According to my data, this facility belongs to Abram Tarasov.
As for the new equipment, I must request permission from Mr. Devonshire."
Abram—Viggo Tarasov's younger brother—officially managed a large chunk of New York's taxi business, but in truth, he was the uncrowned king of the city's underground information network.
At that moment, Abram saw his nephew Iosef pull up in a 1969 Mustang, accompanied by two small-time thugs.
His first thought was: Nothing good can come of this.
As he approached and saw the Mustang's license plate clearly, Abram's face darkened.
He grabbed Iosef by the collar, growling,
"Where the hell did you steal this car from, you little shit?"
"Jesus, you've lost your mind, Uncle!" Iosef shouted, struggling.
"Shut up, you idiot!" Abram bellowed, grabbing Iosef's face and shaking him furiously, spraying spit everywhere.
"I said—where did you get this car?!"
Feeling humiliated and angry, Iosef shoved Abram away.
But before he could say another word, Abram decked him with a punch.
Not satisfied, Abram stomped on Iosef's ribs a few times while snarling,
"You dare raise a hand to me?!"
The two thugs with Iosef rushed forward to intervene—only to freeze when a dozen guns were suddenly pointed at them by Abram's men.
Terrified, the taller thug quickly blurted out,
"We stole it! We stole the car from some rich guy!"
"Stole it?"
Abram paused, narrowing his eyes.
"Where? Didn't you run into the owner?"
"No, no! We just broke into his place, took the car, and left!"
They had originally planned to brag about killing the owner, but seeing Abram's terrifying face, they clammed up instantly.
But Abram was no fool. One look at their guilty expressions and he knew they were lying.
Without hesitation, he grabbed a gun from one of his men and shot the thug who had been moving suspiciously.
Bang!
Lying on the ground, Iosef watched in horror as his companion collapsed, blood pooling from a chest wound—and wet himself in terror.
The surviving thug immediately dropped to his knees, screaming,
"Don't kill me! I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"
"The rich guy—we ambushed him! Beat him to death with bats!"
"Dead...?"
Hearing this, Abram felt a jolt of excitement—then a deep, nagging disbelief.
Could John Wick—the boogeyman—really have been killed by a few street punks?
Unlike his brother Viggo, Abram had actually seen William in person once, at the Continental Hotel.
And after that meeting, he hadn't told Viggo anything—obviously harboring his own ambitions.
For years, Abram had been quietly hoping Viggo would fall.
Each year, he handed over William's tribute money to Viggo, fueling Viggo's greed while keeping his own hands clean.
If William hadn't risen to power so quickly—going from needing tribute to barely caring about it—maybe Abram's patience would have paid off.
But it was too late.
Now, whether John Wick was dead or not, this situation presented Abram with a golden opportunity.
If Wick was alive, he would definitely seek revenge.
If he was dead—even better.
William would surely show up to settle the score, and when that happened, there was no way Viggo would survive.
Abram kicked Iosef hard in the shoulder.
"Get the hell out of my sight! Crawl if you have to! If I ever see you again, you're sleeping with the fish in the Hudson!"
Terrified, Iosef scrambled to his feet and fled with the remaining thug, thankful just to be alive.
As they ran out of the factory, they narrowly avoided Sunday's surveillance network—purely by accident.
Less than an hour later, as Abram was still plotting how to distance himself from the disaster, one of his men rushed in:
"Boss! John Wick's here!"
"Fuck! I knew it! That useless son of Viggo's is pure trash."
Despite cursing, Abram quickly stood up and went to the entrance to personally welcome John Wick.
Seeing Wick, bloodstained but very much alive, Abram's heart skipped a beat—but his mind raced with delight.
Waving his men away, Abram approached his desk, picked up the keys to the Mustang, and tossed them to Wick.
"Your nephew brought your car here, trying to sell it.
But the moment I saw the license plate, I kept it safe for you.
Now, it's back where it belongs.
As for your other losses... maybe we can sit down and talk about compensation?"
John Wick's icy face finally softened a little when he caught the familiar set of keys.
But when Abram mentioned "talking about compensation," Wick lifted his head and asked coldly,
"That piece of trash didn't tell you what else he did?"
"Ah... well..."
Abram stiffened, quickly pouring two glasses of whiskey and handing one to Wick.
"He—he said they ambushed you.
Killed you.
Then stole your car."
He took a nervous sip of his own drink.
"But hey, clearly he was lying. You're standing right here."
"Hmph."
Seeing that his beloved car was unharmed—and that Abram genuinely seemed out of the loop—Wick downed the whiskey in one gulp.
He fixed his burning gaze on Abram and said,
"Iosef didn't just steal my car.
He killed my dog."
Abram paled.
John Wick's voice was low, deadly serious:
"Tell Viggo—no matter where he hides that piece of trash,
I'll find him.
And I'll personally snap his neck."
______
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