It's been a little over a week since Mr. Wick left on the lifeboat. A little over a week I've spent haunting the airports and train stations, waiting on something to report back to the Bowery King.

At the moment, I'm sitting in Grand Central's lobby, nursing a cup of strong black coffee. These never-ending hours of observation are wearying. I don't flinch when Nikita drops into a seat beside me. I know he's been watching me for about an hour. I'm just not entirely sure why he's here.

He leans over, brushing a kiss against my throat, then my cheek before he whispers, "An Adjudicator came to the theater."

I take a sip of coffee before I cast him a sideways glance. He looks as tired as I feel. Nikita slouches down in his seat, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark trousers. He's dressed in a suit with well-cut lines. With his blond hair neatly combed and a bruise on his cheekbone, he nearly looks like a professional.

More than I do in my ripped black jeans and leather jacket, courtesies of the King.

"The Director was required to...reaffirm our allegiance."

At the dreadful shift in his voice, I turn my head. He drapes an arm over the back of my seat, his body warm against mine. My eyes skip over the bruise again, but he shakes his head. "They killed Gregori. Aliaksandr. Ivan, Pavel, Dzmitry. More. They punished the Director." He reaches over and carefully grasps my chin, making sure I am looking at him. "It's time to come home, Alena."

All I can do is blink at him. No it isn't. My job isn't done. Nikita must see the answer in my eyes, because he heaves a long sigh and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. He kisses my mouth softly one more time, more of a goodbye than anything, and he stands up, buttoning the jacket of his suit.

"The Bowery King has disappeared," he warns, dark brown eyes serious. "The High Table is coming for John Wick and anyone who helped him. They aren't forgiving, Alena."

"Neither is Mr. Wick," I reply softly. Then I stand up as well. I fix his tie and kiss his cheek. "I'm staying, Niki." I pull back a little to stare into his eyes. "Things are about to change. Can't you feel it?"

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone can. That's what worries me."

Then Niki is gone and I sit back down, smiling to myself as I take another sip of coffee. We've always had a strange sort of connection, but ultimately I know if I asked, he'd fight beside me.

That's when I see Mr. Wick. He's finally back.

He looks better. He's no longer limping and the bruises have faded, the cuts mostly healed. He has a new suit. One that is not torn or bloody.

And he walks with single-minded purpose.

I abandon my coffee and trail him quietly through the station, making sure to watch his reflection as often as I watch him. I know Mr. Wick would be able to feel it if I look directly at him for too long, and I don't want him to get the wrong idea. It doesn't take long before I realize I am not the only one stalking along in his wake.

The first body drops in the lobby.

I stop, hidden in a corner, watching as Mr. Wick and a man I can only assume is another assassin stand talking over the heads of a line of school children. Or rather...the other man is talking. Mr. Wick simply looks impatient.

The children pass and another man in black is suddenly standing behind Mr. Wick.

If I hadn't been waiting for it, I would have missed it. Mr. Wick truly is an artist. In a little under a minute and with barely a glance at the man, Mr. Wick has dealt no less than three fatal blows. The body falls and there isn't so much as a stutter in the foot traffic around him.

Amazing, how absorbed people are in their own lives—how unobservant. The cell phone has been the single greatest aid to assassins in over a hundred years.

I see his lips move. I suppose the other man answers.

A group of people pass, and Mr. Wick disappears.

I swear under my breath, eyes darting over the crowds, but he is simply gone. Admiration flares hot in my chest, even as I begin to jog toward the direction I think he has gone, based on how the crowd was moving.

Bursting through the doors into a crisp night, I'm just in time to hear a handful of gunshots and the high keen of a motorcycle engine. I slip toward the sound and watch as the man from inside the station takes off on a motorcycle in pursuit of Mr. Wick, leaving two of his compatriots dead on the ground.

There is no way for me to chase them down, and I hiss in frustration.

Moving quickly, flinching at the sound of sirens, I move toward the bodies. I take out an old flip phone the King has given me and use my foot to turn the first body over. I take a picture of the man, who has two bullet holes through his head and a crushed nose and cheekbone.

Then I try to take the helmet off the second man. Chunks of his skull come away in a bloody mess in the helmet.

It would appear when Mr. Wick sets out to kill someone, he does not leave anything up to chance, trauma or blood loss. He makes sure every soul taken is reaped by him.

I make a mental note of that before I take a picture and scurry into the shadows as the sirens become louder.

Shoving my gloved hands into the pockets of my jacket, I walk casually away from the bodies. I keep walking until I am far from the train station and pass a man mumbling to himself, holding a sign begging for food or change. He's managed a nice little collection.

People are foolish.

I slow just a little, wary of any possible eyes in the trickle of people moving down the sidewalk. Then I take my hand out of my pocket, phone clutched in my fist. The man holds out his cup, muttering something about hospitals and I drop the phone in.

He thanks me, but I don't so much as nod. He can let the King know that John Wick has returned to New York.

I need to get to the Continental.