The Northwest Field.
Hunter pocketed the phone, staring out at the darkening horizon.
The Continental.
It was real. The words echoed in his mind, triggering a cascade of memories from his previous life.
John Wick.
He remembered the movie vividly. A retired assassin, the Baba Yaga, dragged back into the life because a punk kid killed his dog and stole his car. It was a simple premise that unfolded into a vast, intricate mythology.
The Elder in the desert. The Adjudicators. The High Table. The Continental Hotels.
It was a world governed by rules, currency, and blood.
Hunter had questions. Was this the exact universe? Or a parallel version?
In the movies, the High Table (High Table) consisted of 12 seats, representing the most powerful criminal organizations in the world—the Camorra, the Yakuza, the Bratva, the Triads, etc. They controlled everything from the shadows, maintaining order through the Continental network.
If he was now part of this world... the stakes had just skyrocketed.
He wasn't dealing with petty street gangs like Toretto's crew or corrupt DEA agents like Stansfield anymore. He was dealing with a global superpower.
Hunter took a deep breath. His Intelligence (40) allowed him to recall every detail of the movies with perfect clarity. He remembered the rules:
1.No business on Continental grounds.
2.Honor every Marker.
He walked back toward the farmhouse, his mind racing.
He needed to be ready. If the Continental was sending an "associate" to meet him, it meant he was being vetted.
The Farmhouse.
Hunter pushed open the door.
He wasn't surprised by what he saw.
Perkins was no longer on the cross. She was sitting on the sofa, her leg bandaged with strips of torn cloth. She looked relaxed, almost arrogant, her arms spread wide across the back of the couch.
She hadn't freed Jane.
The Ace assassin was still bound to the wooden frame, glaring at Perkins with a mix of fury and confusion.
"You're back," Perkins drawled, not bothering to get up. "How did the call go?"
Hunter looked at her, and suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.
Perkins.
Tall. Dark hair. Greedy. Rule-breaker.
Ms. Perkins.
From the first John Wick movie. The assassin who tried to kill John inside the Continental for a $2 million bounty and was executed for violating the rules.
"I remember you," Hunter thought, his eyes narrowing. "You're the one who gets executed by Harry and his crew."
It made sense now. Perkins and Jane were both elite assassins, likely freelancers or contractors who picked up jobs from the same network. In this timeline, they had been hired by the same client (the Hospital owners) to take him out.
"It went well," Hunter replied smoothly, walking into the room. "They accepted the referral."
He glanced at Jane.
"Why is she still up there?"
Perkins smirked. "Insurance. Besides, she's annoying."
Hunter chuckled. "Fair enough."
He walked over to Perkins, looming over her.
"So, Ms. Perkins. You introduced me to the High Table. Does that mean I owe you a favor? Or do you owe me your life?"
Perkins' smirk faltered slightly. She looked at his eyes—cold, calculating, and amused—and remembered the waterboarding.
"Let's call it even," she said cautiously. "You get protection. I get to walk away."
Hunter smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"We'll see what the Associate has to say about that."
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