The Farmhouse.
"It seems the Continental is exactly what I thought it was," Hunter mused, watching Perkins.
If this was truly the world of John Wick, then Perkins was a known quantity. Dangerous, greedy, but ultimately useful. She had provided the key to unlock a new level of power.
"I keep my promises," Hunter said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. "You can go."
Perkins' face lit up with a triumphant grin. She had gambled on his curiosity, and she had won.
"Hey, don't be so cold," she purred, shifting closer to him on the sofa.
She looked up at him, her smile sugary sweet but her eyes calculating.
"You called the number, Hunter. You know what that means. You're in now. And since I brought you in, our fates are tied."
"Just remember," she added, her voice dropping to a whisper. "With that woman listening, I can't say much. But you're one of us now."
Hunter glanced at Jane, who was still tied to the cross, listening intently.
He didn't trust Perkins. She was a snake. But in the world of the High Table, alliances were transactional. If Perkins thought she could use him, she wouldn't stab him in the back... yet.
"Get out," Hunter repeated, his tone flat.
Perkins pouted theatrically but didn't push her luck. She grabbed her coat, limping slightly on her injured leg.
She didn't even look at Jane.
No "sorry," no "goodbye." Just the cold indifference of a professional cutting ties with a failed partner.
Hunter watched her leave, listening until her uneven footsteps faded into the night.
Then, he turned his attention to the remaining captive.
Jane Smith. The Ace. The wife.
She glared at him, her chest heaving with silent rage. But Hunter noticed something else—her right arm was stiff. Her fingers were curled unnaturally.
Trying to escape?
"Don't bother with the tricks," Hunter said calmly, walking over to the sofa Perkins had vacated. "You're not leaving tonight."
"But," he continued, sitting down and crossing his legs. "You should thank your 'partner.' She solved a problem for me. So, I won't kill you today either."
"Who are you?" Jane demanded, finally breaking her silence. "What did she tell you?"
Hunter smiled, ignoring the question.
"This is the third time you've tried to kill me, Mrs. Smith. The death penalty is waived, but the punishment is mandatory."
Jane stiffened. She saw the look in his eyes—that familiar, predatory hunger she had seen in the hotel room. She knew exactly what "punishment" meant.
Her right hand, which she had secretly freed from the zip tie moments ago, froze.
"Mrs. Smith," Hunter said, his voice dripping with irony. "I advise you to rest. I know your hand is free. I know you're planning to jump me."
"But understand this: If you attack me again, that's strike four. And I can't guarantee you'll leave this farm alive tomorrow."
Jane's face went pale.
He knew. He had seen through her entire plan without even looking.
She slumped against the wood, her spirit finally breaking. She couldn't fight him. She couldn't outsmart him. And she couldn't run.
Silently, she undid the rest of her restraints and stepped down from the cross. She walked over to the sofa opposite him and sat down, crossing her long legs.
"What do you want?" she asked coldly.
Hunter didn't speak. He simply held up three fingers.
Jane's eye twitched. She wanted to curse him. She wanted to scream. But she stayed silent.
She leaned back, closing her eyes in resignation.
Fine.
Hunter smirked. But he didn't move.
The night was young. And the guests hadn't all arrived yet.
Whup-whup-whup-whup.
The rhythmic thrum of rotor blades cut through the silence.
Hunter looked toward the window. A helicopter was circling the farm, its searchlight sweeping across the fields.
It hovered for a moment before descending toward the open space near the barn.
Hunter stood up, buttoning his jacket.
"Right on time," he murmured.
The Continental had arrived.
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