Pomona Farm. Northwest Sector.
The farm was remote. Beautiful, private, but technologically primitive.
The previous owner had solved the water and power issues, even paving a road to the main gate. But cellular coverage was a disaster. Only a small patch in the northwest corner had a signal, leaving 80% of the property in a dead zone.
I need to install a private cell tower, Hunter thought as he sprinted across the fields. Maybe a satellite link.
He ran at full speed, his enhanced agility covering the distance in minutes. He reached the signal zone and pulled out a burner phone from his Inventory. He had a dozen of them, prepped for emergencies.
He punched in the number Perkins had whispered to him.
It was a strange sequence. Not a standard US area code.
Ring... Ring...
The line connected.
"Good evening," a smooth, cultured male voice answered. "How may we be of service?"
No company name. No introduction. Just polite, professional ambiguity.
Hunter paused, weighing his words.
"A woman named Perkins gave me this number," he said carefully. "She said if I had... complications... I should call you."
Silence on the other end.
Then, the voice returned, slightly more serious.
"Are you certain, sir? You should know that all services come with a price. To receive sanctuary, one must offer fealty."
Hunter's curiosity spiked.
When Perkins gave him the number, he assumed it was her agency's hotline. A way to buy them off. But Jane's confused reaction suggested otherwise. If even the Ace didn't know this number, it belonged to something bigger.
Something older.
"I'm certain," Hunter replied.
"Please hold."
The line went mute. Hunter strained his ears. He could hear faint, muffled voices in the background—someone reporting, cross-referencing. It sounded like a high-end concierge desk.
One minute and fifty seconds later.
"Mr. Hunter Sun," the voice returned, warm and welcoming. "We would be delighted to welcome you to the family."
Hunter froze.
They know my name?
He had used a burner phone. He hadn't introduced himself.
Wait. Perkins.
If they knew Perkins, they knew her current contract. They knew who she was hunting. It was simple deduction.
He relaxed slightly, but his guard remained up.
"The Continental is happy to offer you its services," the man continued smoothly. "The... minor inconveniences... you are currently experiencing will be resolved shortly. Consider the contract suspended."
"We have triangulated your location. An associate will be arriving soon to provide further orientation."
"As for Ms. Perkins," the voice added with a hint of steel, "we would ask that you extend professional courtesy. Please ensure her safety."
Click.
The line went dead.
Hunter stared at the phone, his mind racing.
The Continental.
It wasn't just a name. It couldn't be a coincidence.
John Wick.
He had already encountered The Italian Job, The Equalizer, Léon: The Professional, and Mr. & Mrs. Smith. He thought the world was built on the Fast & Furious chassis with some cameos.
But John Wick? That changed everything.
The High Table. The gold coins. The rules.
It was a global underworld with its own laws, currency, and armies. A society of assassins that operated right under the nose of civilization.
If the Continental was real, then he had just stepped into a much larger, much more dangerous world.
"Well," Hunter muttered, a thrill of excitement running through him. "Things just got interesting."
He pocketed the phone and turned back toward the farmhouse.
He had a guest to release. And a lot of questions to ask.
Read ahead with 100+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz