John Wick: - Chapter 26: Henry's Past (Part 1) (Patreon)

“Lin.”

Winston seemed to know exactly what Nate wanted to ask.

“You want to know about him?”

“Of course.”

Winston studied Nate for a moment, as though deciding whether he was qualified to hear what came next.

Charon stepped out from behind the front desk carrying a tray with two whiskey glasses and an unopened bottle of Macallan.

He set the tray on a small, dark round table in the lobby and poured the amber liquor into the glasses with a soft splash.

Winston walked over, picked up one of the glasses, and sat down on the sofa. He slowly turned the glass in his hand, leaving thin trails of whiskey along its sides.

Nate hesitated for a moment before taking a seat as well.

He didn't touch the drink.

He waited.

“How long have you known him?” Winston suddenly asked.

“More than ten years,” Nate said. “He's my adoptive father.”

Winston nodded.

“Then the Henry you've known is simply an old man with a bad back who has trouble getting around.”

“But not tonight,” Nate said.

“Certainly not tonight.”

Winston smiled. There was pride in that smile, but regret as well.

“What you saw tonight was the real Henry.”

He didn't continue immediately.

Instead, he raised his glass and took a sip.

Charon came over and stood silently behind Winston, almost like a statue.

“Do you know about the High Table?” Winston asked, abruptly changing the subject.

Nate nodded.

He'd watched the movies countless times. Even after five films and a television series, the High Table had remained a rather vague concept.

Winston's expression grew serious.

“The High Table has twelve seats, representing twelve powers from different countries. Together, they control more than ninety percent of the world's underground order. The criminal world, legitimate society, and nearly every level in between that you can imagine has people connected to the High Table.”

“The Continental is merely one piece on the High Table's board. An important piece, certainly, but still only a piece. Whatever decisions are made, those beneath the Table have no right to protest. The consequences of defiance are severe.”

“And you should also know that the seats at the High Table aren't permanent.”

Winston continued.

“Twelve chairs, occupied by twelve people. But those people grow old. They die. They get replaced. The old leave, and the new take their places.”

“Over the last three hundred years, the people sitting in those chairs have changed more times than anyone can count.”

“But there was one seat...”

Winston paused.

He set his glass on the table and lightly tapped the surface twice with his index finger. Then he straightened in his seat and lowered his voice.

“More than thirty years ago, Henry sat in it.”

“He was that powerful?” Nate blurted, his voice coming out far louder than he'd intended. “Then why...?”

“Thirty-three years ago,” Winston began quietly, “there was a name that became forbidden within the High Table's sphere of influence.”

“Because that name reminded everyone of one thing.”

“The hitman who once terrified the entire European continent was still alive.”

“His codename was The Ghost.”

“Not because he could actually disappear, but because when he killed someone, the people around his target never noticed anything was wrong.”

“He could complete an assignment inside a heavily guarded ballroom, under the eyes of more than a hundred bodyguards, then casually walk out while holding a glass of champagne.”

“Only after he was long gone would the target collapse, as though a ghost had come to claim them.”

Winston slowly ran a finger around the rim of his glass.

“Do you know what was most remarkable about him?”

“He spent five years at the New York Continental and completed sixty-seven assignments. The FBI, CIA, Interpol. Not one of them ever realized there was anything unusual about him.”

“Aren't we outside the reach of the law?” Nate asked, sensing something strange about that statement.

“To an extent, yes. But everything we do, who we kill and whether those killings follow the rules, is recorded.”

“Then couldn't they just check the bounty records?”

Winston said nothing.

He merely looked up at Nate and gave him an unreadable smile.

Nate stared back at him.

“You mean if Henry didn't want them to find anything, they couldn't?”

Winston nodded.

Nate swallowed.

Memories of all the years he'd spent with Henry surfaced in his mind.

Every morning, Henry went to the park to exercise. In the afternoons, he played chess with a few other old men near the entrance to the alley. At night, he'd watch an episode of some television show before going to bed.

He had always seemed like an ordinary old man.

But then there were those four gunshots tonight.

Four shots with almost unbelievable precision.

“He really sat at the High Table?” Nate asked.

Winston nodded.

He picked up the bottle and poured himself a little more whiskey, then added a small amount to Nate's glass as well.

The amber liquid gleamed darkly beneath the lights.

“Not for long. Only half a day.”

“But he did sit there.”

“The High Table has rules. There are twelve seats. When the holder of one of those seats dies, the position normally passes down through that family's bloodline.”

“But a vacant seat can also be taken.”

“If you're an outsider and want to claim a family's seat, there is only one condition.”

“Kill every direct member of that family.”

“If you're still alive afterward, the seat becomes yours.”

“Henry's final assignment was the assassination of the man who held the Seventh Seat of the High Table at the time.”

“He was seventy-three years old, protected by one hundred and twenty-two elite security personnel, and lived in a converted ancient castle. The underground bunker beneath it was capable of surviving a nuclear strike.”

Winston lifted his glass but didn't drink.

“The man had held the seat for nineteen years. Everyone assumed he would die in that chair.”

“Henry spent three months gathering intelligence. He learned the man's daily routine, memorized the schedules of every member of the security detail, and even infiltrated the castle's kitchen staff, where he spent more than a month working as a cook.”

“You heard me correctly.”

“A man competing for a seat at the High Table spent nearly two months cooking in his target's kitchen.”

“And on the night he acted, only three people died inside that castle.”

“One was one of the High Table's top security officers.”

“Another was the old man's most favored son.”

“And the third was the old man himself, the holder of the Seventh Seat.”

“No gunshots. No collateral damage.”

“By morning, none of the three ever woke up again. Nothing was left at the scene that could be traced back to Henry.”

“It wasn't until forty-eight hours later that the outside world learned he was responsible.”

“You might wonder why it took that long.”

“Because during those forty-eight hours, Henry eliminated every direct member of that family.”

“Afterward, he had a letter delivered to each of the remaining eleven members of the High Table.”

“Every letter contained the same sentence.”

“The Seventh Seat is empty. I'm coming to take it.”

Nate picked up the whiskey and took a large swallow.

The liquor burned down his throat.

Only then did he notice that his palms were covered in sweat.

Something still didn't add up.

“If Henry was that capable, then how did he end up tied to a chair tonight? That doesn't make sense.”

Winston's expression turned reflective.

“I don't know.”

“Perhaps he's simply gotten old. Perhaps his injuries have caught up with him. Or perhaps, under those circumstances, there was no way for him to protect his daughter and fight at the same time.”

“But whatever the reason...”

A genuine smile slowly appeared on Winston's face.

“I'm glad he came back.”

“Very glad.”