Fraternity Headquarters – The Next Day
The conference room bore the scars of last night's assault, bullet holes patched with fresh plaster, scorch marks on the walls where grenades had detonated. But the Fraternity's core leadership gathered as if nothing had happened, ready to assess and plan.
Fox stood at the head of the table with a tablet, her tone clinical. "All wounded personnel are receiving wax bath treatment. However, due to higher casualty rates from the Paris and Italy teams, we've exceeded recovery room capacity. We've improvised by converting several bathtubs into makeshift treatment stations. Not ideal, but functional."
Smith nodded and turned his attention to Cross and the Gunsmith. "Paris?"
Cross leaned back in his chair. "Gramont's headquarters fell without significant resistance. Actually easier than anticipated, his elite forces weren't present." He paused meaningfully. "Chidi's strike team never showed. We eliminated everyone in the building at the time of assault, but time constraints prevented a complete purge. Some Gramont family members were outside Paris when we hit."
Smith's expression remained neutral. "We requested total bloodline elimination, but we're not miracle workers. Families don't conveniently gather in one location for extermination." He gestured toward Cross. "Disposition?"
"I tasked the Paris cell with identifying and eliminating the stragglers before I departed. They're hunting as we speak."
"Good." Smith shifted his attention. "Italy?"
The Gunsmith's weathered face creased with satisfaction. "The Camorra offered token resistance at best. John Wick's previous operations had already gutted them. The leadership was in chaos, arguing over succession when we breached. Pure coincidence, but we capitalized." He smiled coldly. "The entire direct bloodline was conveniently assembled for a family council. We wiped them out in one engagement."
"Excellent work." Smith allowed himself a slight smile. "My team located the desert Elder through John Wick's infiltration and eliminated his entire headquarters staff.
He let that sink in before continuing. "Eliminate three or four more Elders and their supporting families, and the High Table collapses under its own weight. No central authority, no unity, no organization." His voice hardened with conviction. "After a brief recovery period, we press the attack. We sweep this malignant tumor into history's trash heap."
The room erupted in applause. Smith waited for it to subside.
"I noticed damage to the main gate and the castle walls when we returned. What happened here while we were deployed?"
Mr. X straightened. "The High Table sent a messenger the day after you departed, GOD. He wanted to negotiate regarding John Wick's asylum. I refused. Last night, High Table enforcers assaulted the facility, multiple teams, well-equipped. We repelled them, but not without losses."
Smith's jaw tightened. "Do we have photos of the attackers?"
Mr. X slid several images across the table, post-mortem shots of the assault team.
Smith studied the faces. One looked remarkably like an Asian action star he vaguely remembered from his previous life's movies. The other matched intelligence photos. "Cross, these are Gramont's people. His elite unit."
He tossed the photos to Cross, who examined them and grunted. "That explains their absence from Paris. I was concerned this team might keep the Gramont bloodline alive through sheer competence. Good to know they're eliminated."
Smith stood, surveying his assembled commanders. "Three days. We move again once the wounded have recovered. Dismissed."
As the others filed out, Smith caught John Wick's eye. The man had been standing guard outside the conference room throughout the meeting.
"John. My office."
John followed silently, his expression unreadable.
Inside, Smith retrieved a bottle of Chivas Regal 1983 from his private collection and poured two glasses. He raised his. "To successful operations."
John clinked glasses and downed the whiskey in one swallow, then set the glass down and waited.
Smith settled into his chair, studying John over the rim of his own glass. "How many Dragon Balls have you collected?"
John opened the case he'd been carrying. Four orange spheres gleamed against dark velvet, one star, two stars, three stars, four stars. "Four. I need three more for the complete set."
Smith closed his eyes briefly, extending his senses through the supernatural connection to the Dragon Balls. Three more signatures pulsed in his awareness, distant, but clear. "I can give you the locations of the remaining three. You need to collect them immediately."
"I'm assigning Puar to accompany you. With him, your survival odds increase substantially." Smith's tone grew more serious. "The world's about to become significantly less peaceful, John."
John frowned. "We've declared war on the High Table. Shouldn't I be here fighting alongside the Fraternity instead of hunting artifacts?"
"That's exactly why you need to collect them now." Smith leaned forward. "The faster you gather all seven, the sooner we can prevent other forces from interfering."
He paused, then delivered the news he'd been holding. "John, Winston died last night. High Table judgment. They executed him for violating their rules, specifically, for helping you. His head is currently on display in the Continental's lobby."
John's face went blank. For several seconds, he didn't breathe. "Why?" His voice came out raw.
"He was ordered to abdicate his position as Continental manager. He refused and resisted. The High Table's enforcers overwhelmed his forces." Smith kept his tone neutral, factual. "Zero personally carried out the execution."
John said nothing. His jaw worked silently.
"John Wick." Smith's voice cut through the silence. "Has your resolve changed? Your wish?"
John looked up, meeting Smith's eyes. Two seconds of charged silence stretched between them.
"Fuck the High Table." John's voice was steel wrapped in broken glass. "Helen is everything. My wish hasn't changed. It will never change."
Smith nodded with satisfaction. "Then listen carefully. The remaining three Dragon Balls are located in Osaka, Hong Kong, and Russia."
He pulled up files on his tablet. "The Russian ball is currently held by Ivan Vanko. The Hong Kong ball belongs to Xu Xialing. I'll have complete intelligence dossiers compiled and sent to you within the hour."
Smith stood, walking to the window overlooking the factory floor. "Bring those three Dragon Balls back as soon as possible and make your wish come true."
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