Starbursts and Assassins (John Wick)

Chapter three: Bullets Made of God's Breath

I still don't know why this man decided to murder me in the back of a filthy restaurant wearing an impeccable all-black suit, but here I still am, being dragged by the collar by him. My sneakers, now all muddy and soaked, keep skipping on the pavement, and if not for this weirdo, I would have ended up face first on the wet New York pavement.

"Can't you walk?" he grumbles in my ear.

"I'm trying." But he's walking too fast, dragging me by the arm too harshly.

I try not to look at anyone passing. They all seem tucked into their own pockets of life, talking on the phone, sky gazing, muttering among themselves. No one is paying attention to us, which is pitiful. You'd think the entire city would revolt if they saw a man dragging a woman, but it was as if we'd been thrown under Harry Potter's invisibility cloak.

At one point, I decide, what's the worst thing this guy can do? As I look him over, painfully trying to keep in step with his long strides, I try my best to seize him up. Slicked back black hair. Sharp features, styled beard.

I frown. "How much time did that take you?" I ask, my voice wavering as I fumble over a rock. We exit the main street, and he leads us into a series of small, short streets. Backways, I realize. He's trying to be covert.

He doesn't answer my question, so I go on. It's not like he can kill me. "I wager it must have taken you about like – uh – forty-five minutes?"

He remains stoic, face as unreadable as a reflective block of ice.

He plows along, dragging me off another street, sneakers muddy, onto a cracked sidewalk.

"I mean, that level of intricacy and precision, I doubt you took a few minutes to achieve that." Again, no answer. I sigh. "I wish I had a beard so I could shave little designs into it."

"It's not designs," he grits.

"He speaks!"

He stops us short, caught between two shady buildings with rusty windowpanes and even shadier back staircases. His grip on my bicep strengthens, clearly leaving a bruise, and his face has gone from ice cold to burning rage. His jaw is clenched so brusquely that I fear he may shatter his teeth.

"Shut the hell up," he spits at me, baring his teeth like a predator.

"Ooh," I say sarcastically, pretending to shiver. "I'm so scared."

He points his handgun at my face, and all I can do is throw my head back and laugh.

"As if that would hurt me, Asshole!"

"It may not," he answers, the words strained with anger. "But from what I've seen of you, I bet it would hurt."

I roll my eyes. "So?" I shrug. "I don't bleed, Sugar Bear. So unless you've got magical bullets made of God's breath in there, you don't scare me."

I see the questions flitting in his eyes before he takes a step closer, so close to me that if anybody was looking at us from those rusty windowpanes, they'd think we were about to kiss. Minus the handgun that is a few millimeters from my left eyeball, I'd say we look quite the romantic part.

"I don't know from which level of Hell you came from," he growls, "but I will kill you. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day."

"Monday?"

He backhands me. It is so swift, so out of line for a supposedly covert super spy that I am caught off guard. I stumble back, held at arm's length by his iron grip. My mouth opens in both surprise and a hint of humorous acting.