John Wick - Chapter 140: Three-Way Battle (Patreon)

47 stood in the motel bathroom, struggling a little as he peeled off his bloodstained white shirt.

The tap was running, and a white towel lay in the sink. The hot water had been on long enough to fog the mirror completely. 47 wiped a clear patch with his hand and looked at his face. The blood had dried. It belonged to his enemies.

He caught the fingertips of his left glove between his teeth and pulled it off. An ugly wound ran along his forearm, the flesh torn open and the blood already clotted.

He tossed his shirt into the trash can beside the bed, then noticed part of it hanging over the rim. Frowning, he walked over and pushed the exposed fabric all the way inside.

Back in the bathroom, he used the warm towel to clean the blood from his face and arm. Then he fetched the first-aid kit from the bed, disinfected and bandaged the wound, and carefully returned every unused item to its proper place.

He dressed in the fresh white shirt, suit, and tie he'd prepared in advance. He always seemed to wear the same outfit. Once he'd finished, he planted both hands on the sink and studied his handsome, expressionless reflection.

He was surprised by how badly he'd been hurt. He couldn't remember the last time he'd suffered injuries this serious.

This had been a miserable outing. Even the barcode on the back of his head had been cut, and he'd already covered the wound with a Band-Aid.

Not long after leaving the café, a vehicle full of armed men had come straight at him and opened fire. Taking them all down had been difficult enough. Then he'd had to escape the police.

He'd seized a car by the roadside and taken an enormous detour to reach the motel. He must have killed more than forty people along the way. So much for being a silent assassin. He was turning into a berserker.

Had Diana betrayed him? He couldn't believe it. They'd worked together flawlessly for so many years that the very idea went against his instincts.

Still, he took his laptop from his briefcase. He'd barely begun opening it when a rifle cracked outside, followed by the sharp rush of something tearing through the air.

47 dived beneath the bed. But the explosion he expected never came.

He knew weapons well enough to recognize both sounds. An AWM and an RPG. Someone was attacking the motel, but was somebody else providing covering fire?

The AWM continued to fire in an even rhythm. That puzzled him. He always worked alone. Who was helping him now?

He could think about that later. Diana had arranged this safe house, and now someone was attacking it. Whatever he wanted to believe, the facts suggested that he'd been betrayed.

A flicker of anger stirred inside him. Without changing expression, 47 opened the room's freezer, took out his two 1911 Silverballers, and headed for the back door.

...

Half a minute earlier, Nate had watched the nuns in high heels quicken their pace toward the motel through his AWM's scope.

Something was wrong. He remembered the cutscene, though it had been years since he'd watched it. Had there really been this many of them? He could have sworn there were only seven or eight in the original. Now he was looking at a whole crowd. There had to be at least twenty nuns!

As they approached, the women shrugged off their habits, revealing high heels, tight leather outfits, and shapely figures. Their hoods stayed in place, and an astonishing assortment of weapons appeared from beneath their robes.

“Holy shit!” Nate stared for a moment. What was this, a matchmaking system trying to find someone strong enough to fight him?

Among the guns he spotted two RPG launchers and, unbelievably, two women carrying light machine guns. How the hell had they hidden all that under their habits?

In the instant Nate hesitated, one of the nuns shouldered an RPG. He fired at once, blowing her head apart. As she staggered backward, her finger tightened on the trigger. The launcher roared and sent its rocket whistling harmlessly up into the sky.

Nate worked the bolt and fired again. The second nun with an RPG fell. The survivors quickly figured out where the shots were coming from and scattered toward cover, the two light-machine-gun operators moving fastest of all.

He swung his rifle toward one of them and put a round through her chest as she ran. She collapsed, but the other machine gunner had already made it behind cover and refused to show herself.

Nate kept his sights on her for a while. When she still didn't emerge, he shifted to a riflewoman who was searching for a target and dropped her with a shot to the head.

Another nun spotted Nate through her rifle scope. She was just opening her mouth to warn the others when he shot her too.

But the machine gunner he'd hit in the chest was still alive. Lying on the ground, she managed to point toward Nate's position. Then her hand fell, and she died.

The others saw her gesture. A dense storm of gunfire came Nate's way. Several stray rounds struck his Level 6 bulletproof helmet, costing it only a dozen or so durability points.

Nate didn't flinch. He was waiting for that last machine gunner to show herself. With the other nuns providing covering fire, she finally dared to peek out. Nate promptly put a bullet through her head.

She toppled backward. His AWM magazine was empty now, so Nate made the rifle disappear with a flick of his hand and summoned his beloved Barrett in its place.

The surviving nuns kept blazing away, trying to pin him down with sheer volume of fire. But at five hundred meters, unless they had a sniper rifle, an ordinary shooter using even an assault rifle might as well have been firing blind.

Most of the women were using compact submachine guns, too. Their nine-millimeter rounds would barely make it that far.

Nate had already moved and set up his Barrett at a new position. He was about to shoot when a bald man in black stepped out from behind a corner on the far side of the motel.

A thin wire gleamed in his hands. He slipped up behind a nun absorbed in firing at Nate and silently garroted her. As she fell, 47 strolled through the gunfire toward his next target.

Another nun died to the wire almost instantly. Through his scope, Nate could see that she'd barely managed to struggle before going limp.

Finally! There he was. Nate hadn't originally planned to intervene. He'd wanted to sit back and enjoy watching 47 work.

But in the cutscene, 47 had faced barely half this many enemies, and even then he'd taken a few hits while injured. Nate wasn't about to risk watching him get blown up by a couple of RPG rounds.

47 caught another nun with his fiber wire, then drove a syringe into the next woman's body. She fell, foaming at the mouth and convulsing.

He finally drew his signature weapons from inside his suit jacket. Two suppressed silver 1911 Silverballers.

Nate fired his Barrett again, tearing another nun in half at the waist along with her gun. He wanted to keep some of their attention on himself.

47's silver pistols began firing. Their muffled reports were almost inaudible beneath the roar of the other weapons. The bald assassin moved like a man taking a leisurely walk, swinging his pistols with effortless elegance.

In less than three seconds, seven nuns fell with bullets in the backs or sides of their heads.

Watching through his scope, Nate realized that 47 was moving through each woman's blind spots, choosing the order of his targets and almost always firing while they were reloading.

A nun would drop only a few meters from another, yet the survivor wouldn't notice. She would simply keep pouring bullets toward Nate's position. Two more women fell with bullets to the backs of their heads.

“What a waste,” Nate muttered as he watched.

47 looked like a surgeon methodically dissecting the battlefield. The precision of his killing was almost absurdly elegant. Every target dropped exactly when and where he'd intended. From a distance, the whole thing was strangely satisfying to watch.

The gunfire began to thin. Even the slowest nuns finally realized there was another enemy among them. Only five remained outside the motel. 47 fired twice, and two slender figures crumpled before they could even turn around.

The other three spun toward him. The women on either side barely started raising their guns before his pistols blew their heads apart.

As for the last nun, she was... reloading.

...

Author's Note:

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