Disclaimer: I do not own John Wick or Blacklist. Both are properties of Derek Kolstad and Jon Brokenkamp respectively.

One Last Job

WICK

Viggo was dead.

It wasn't an easy decision to make nor necessary. There was no benefit to his death, except perhaps peace of mind and retribution. It was frightening how easily a man who lived by restraining himself from such things could be so easily swept up in anger and vengeance. Maybe it was a sign of who he still is in spite of all he did to stay away from the damning shadows – the life he lived and left behind when he found his guiding light.

Her name was Helen, and she was more than John Wick deserved. Smart, funny, caring, and beautiful. Everything that he wasn't. He remembers the day they met and the day he decided she was worth leaving that bloody hell behind him. He remembers the faces of the men and women he killed on that night to ensure he could live a peaceful life with her. Those days were the happiest he had ever been, like a weight was suddenly lifted from his shoulders.

Then she collapsed in front of him while they were on a walk. The doctors tell him she has cancer. He held out hope they'd make it past it and they could continue.

It was a pipe dream.

The memory makes him want to scream and yell. His hands are shaking and stops himself from feeling the rush – the agony and anger of losing one of the few precious things that made him happy. He forces the memories away and looks at the brute of a dog at his feet. It's staring at him, eyes honest and happy with his presence. It was very docile in spite of its breed. It's surprisingly gentle and very obedient for a pit bull.

It was not Daisy, but he couldn't leave it behind. The way the dog looked at him when he stumbled into the office, it was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. Maybe he was still reeling from the emotional pain, or maybe he was just lonely. Either way, John took the dog with him.

The drive back to his house in his car, busted and ruined beyond all recognition in his pursuit to retrieve it, was uneventful. He felt bad he ruined the car and left it in such a state, but at least it was back in his hands.

The engine goes silent when he pulls the keys out. He breathes out a small sigh and stumbles out from the car, the dog clamoring after him. He closes the garage door shut behind him and opens the door, entering his home for the first time in what felt like ages. The events of what transpired over the last few days caught up to him at that moment. His legs felt like they were going to give out.

He was so tired…

John exhales a breath of exhaustion, setting the gun in his hand aside. He runs a hand through his hair, sweat mixed with blood clinging to his skin. His suit starts to chaff and feels unbearably tight. The tie and jacket come off almost immediately.

He barely remembers throwing his clothes aside and dumping them in a plastic bag, once again burying his bloody past in a trunk bathed in concrete.

The next day comes by with little fanfare. Aurelio looks at his car with a mixture of dumbstruck awe and dismay.

"I thought you loved this car!"

He admits it will take months to fix the car, but that's fine. He was happy having it back.

The rest of the day is a blur, going about the daily motions and staring at the places Helen should be. The house is dreadfully empty even with its new occupant. His stare lingers on the mug with the daisy printed on it as he's fixing coffee, wondering whether or not that coffee mug will ever be used again by somebody else.

It wasn't until John prepared to retire for the night that someone from his old life came knocking at his front door.

The doorbell rings twice and stops. Whoever is at the door is courteous and knows he's calling John out late and doesn't want to push his luck. He opens the door and stares at the man standing on the front porch.

"Hello, John. It's been a long while," the man says with a thin smile.

John stares at him for a moment. His coat was on his arm and his hand was holding a briefcase. He could think of at least six different ways he could kill this man before he had a chance to bring out his weapon, two involving injuries even in the best case scenario.

After a moment, John finally replies.

"…hello, Raymond."

Raymond Reddington grins. "And here I thought you wouldn't remember me. It's been, what? Five, six years since we last spoke?"

John doesn't remember when it was they spoke. Only that they parted on good terms, with Reddington in possession of something very valuable in exchange for his services. Reddington asks if he can come in and John lets him. The dog doesn't bark or growl at the newcomer, only staring at him before huffing and settling back down on the couch.

"Coffee?"

"No, but thank you. I'll be on a flight to Washington D.C soon, and unfortunately I won't be flying first class. The bathrooms are utterly horrible when you're not flying first-class, I tell you."

John nods. He sits down across from Reddington and stares at the man, waiting for him to explain the reasons for his visit. Reddington looks back at him, looking into his eyes and not turning away for a moment. The only time he does is when he notices the photograph on the table next to the entryway.

"Is that Helen?" Reddington asks. "She's a lovely woman." John says nothing, only nodding in confirmation. The man's smile turns somber. "I heard about the funeral. My condolences."

His words are sincere and sympathetic, as if he experienced it himself. John doesn't fully understand, but he accepts Reddington's words nonetheless.

It's after giving John his condolences that Reddington gets to the point of his visit in a rather roundabout way.

"I happened to hear something rather interesting from Winston while I was on my way here. A shame what happened to Viggo. Personally, I won't be shedding any tears for Iosef. Boy was bad seed, nothing like his father. I say there won't be many who will shed tears for what happened. Brought it upon himself."

John's jaw tightens up. The fop's sneer comes back to haunt him, leering down at him as he tells one of his men to silence Daisy. His fingers curl up in his palm. A gunshot resounds in his head and the anger ceases.

"Viggo didn't see it that way."

Reddington nods. "Fool as he was, he was Viggo's pride and joy. I expect every major player in New York will be scrambling to fill in the vacuum. There's been some whispers that the Mexican Cartel's been looking to take Viggo's spot. Honestly, I don't care much for the Mexicans. Too loud."

"…why are you here, Reddington?" John asks him to get to the point instead of beating around the bush.

The man digs into his pants pocket. John freezes for a moment the second he sees the silver coin in Reddington's hands. The skull printed on its surface looks as though its laughing at him.

"No," John says immediately.

Reddington shook his head. "You and I both know that's not possible, John." He sets the coin down on the table and looks back at him. "Markers are more than just meager blood oaths. In all honesty, though, I wouldn't have come asking you this if it not for the situation I'll be getting myself into." He pauses for a moment, then chuckles. "Or rather, what kind of situation I'll be bringing with me. It's going to be rather exciting."

John knows he can't refuse it. He knows what will happen if he does not fulfill the marker holder's request.

He remembers the day he gave that coin to Reddington. It was the night when he buried far too many bodies for him to count. The foundation for Viggo's empire. His magnum opus.

Reddington smiles in reminisce. "Do you remember the day you gave this to me? Viggo asked you to kill his rivals and their top lieutenants. The Columbian Arms Dealers, the Mexican Slave Trade, and even the infamous Pakistanis that screwed over Viggo more times than I could count. They were all coming together to form an alliance; a joint operation, working together with the intent of taking over all of New York. It still makes me wonder what would have happened if they succeeded. I doubt the Continental, much less the High Table, would have ignored them."

But that didn't come to pass. John killed them all that night. He was bleeding, had several broken bones and fractures, but by the end of the night he did as Viggo asked. He did not ask for payment or coin. He just wanted to leave this damned life.

So why? Why was he being dragged back into again?

"If I recall, I saw you about to make a mistake," Reddington muses. "You were going to give this marker to Santino."

Santino D'Antonio, the son of one of the High Table's seat holders. He didn't know what the man was doing now, other than that he most likely spent the rest of his days running his father's art museum. Last he heard, his sister Gianna was chosen to inherit their father's seat on the Table. He was arrogant, ambitious and perhaps a little too greedy for his liking. He certainly made no secret of how much he coveted his father's position. No doubt the man was angry that Gianna was chosen to succeed their father and not him.

John wasn't overconfident in spite of what his reputation implied. He needed all the advantages he could get if he was going to kill three mob bosses and their best men in what would be his only opportunity. The son of a High Table member had a lot to offer.

Raymond Reddington, however, made him an even better offer.

"If you're curious, Santino is still looking after his old man's museum. Gianna will be named the representative of the Camorra by the end of tomorrow."

John looks at the coin with disdain and turns his head away. "I can't. I'm retired."

"I know you are, John. That's why I'm here."

"I can't."

Reddington's smile is still on his face. "But you can. Because I'm here for John Wick, not the Baba Yaga." John stares at Reddington, eyebrows knit in confusion. The man elaborates. "Do you know why people ask for the Baba Yaga, John? They ask for him because he is good at what he does. Being the grim reaper and the last thing someone sees before they die. He instills fear. I am not here for that. I am not asking for someone who is good at killing. I can name at least a hundred people off the top of my head that can kill someone in so many different ways."

He leans in. "So, let me ask you… If the Baba Yaga makes death into an art form, how good is John Wick at keeping someone alive?"

Cooper stared at the paper in front of him. It was a profile, compiled and conducted by one of their divisions in New York. It was one of the shorter compilations, but it told more than enough for the Assistant Director of the FBI to realize what Reddington was after.

"He can't be serious," Ressler hissed as soon as he finished reading the documents. "He wants this guy assigned to Elizabeth Keen at all times?"

"That is part of his terms," Cooper shrugged. His eyes don't leave the document and stare at the picture stapled to the compilation. "But I will say this. Reddington couldn't have picked a better bodyguard."

Aram, one of the many technicians and computer wizards (dare Cooper say it, the very best in fact), frowned slightly. "I don't understand, sir. Who is this guy?"

It was Ressler who answered. "Aside from the two individuals Reddington asked us to choose from as to who would serve as his security detail, he wants Elizabeth Keen to be assigned a bodyguard 24/7. The man in question was a former hitman for the Russian Mafia."

Cooper sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing the case file shut. "Jonathan Wick, also known more infamously in the criminal underworld as the Babayaga; 'Boogeyman,' in Russian. From what little information we could get about his background, he's an orphan born in Belarus and was taken by the Ruska Roma. They're an illustrious criminal organization with known ties to the High Table – the kingpins of crime, you could say."

Ressler continued, voice tight. "He's trained in a wide variety of martial arts and close-quarters combat tactics, and has experience as a military soldier. United States Marine Corps 2nd Battalion, 3rd Marines. Was in service for six years before he was given an honorable discharge. Recipient of the Purple Heart and Bronze Star Medals. Sometime later, he became a contract killer for the Tarasov family."

"Wick's military career helped bolster his reputation, which also helped the Tarasov family's standing. He eventually left the mafia, though not before he killed all of Viggo's rivals and their best lieutenants," Cooper pulled himself off his chair and walked around his desk, approaching the whiteboard in his office. On it were photographs of Raymond Reddington and Elizabeth Keen, various lines trying to create some sort of connection between the two. "He settled down and lived a normal life, even got married…though that life didn't last for very long."

"Two days ago, a New York Police patrol reported an assault and burglary at Wick's home. The one responsible was Iosef Tarasov, Viggo's son." Ressler wrinkled his nose. "Who is now dead as of yesterday, along with Viggo Tarasov himself."

Aram blinked. "Wait, dead? D-did Wick go after them in revenge?"

"The NY division is still trying to figure out why Wick went after the Tarasov family, but that is the least of our concerns." Cooper said firmly. "Reddington wants Elizabeth Keen to be protected. And he chose one of the mafia's best professional killers to guard her. And I want to know how, when, and where John Wick came into contact with Raymond Reddington."

John finds himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He can't settle down at all, not when he's in this flying death trap. He still regrets not going by car, but he didn't have much of a choice since Aurelio was still fixing up his car.

"Hello, sir. Can I get you any refreshments?"

John shakes his head, giving the woman a polite smile and sends her on his way. Once she was gone he relaxed in his seat and stared out the window. Nothing but a sea of clouds out as far as the eye could see, the world below hidden away in white.

Helen would have loved this view, he thinks to himself.

He takes a moment to relax, breathing in and out deeply to be rid of the tension. Reddington was meticulous and careful in getting him this transport, in no small part thanks to his connections with the Continental and the High Table, and everyone else in-between.

After two or three minutes, John finds it difficult to linger in his seat and instead focuses on the papers he was given. It had schematics of his ward's living space, details of her personal life, personality, habits, background, etc.

The first warning bell that sounds off in John's head is his ward's occupation. A newly-stated criminal profiler for the FBI, and Raymond Reddington's self-appointed contact with the Federal Bureau of Intelligence. As part of his terms in agreeing to work with the FBI to track down certain criminals – the ones the Continental found unfavorable or too dangerous to work with – Reddington would only speak to one person, and that was Elizabeth Keen.

Who was she? Why was Reddington so focused on her? Was their a connection between them?

Those questions were filed away for later. John knew he couldn't afford to slip up around her or do anything risky.

The second warning bell, and perhaps the most worrisome, was Elizabeth Keen's husband.

Christopher Hargrave.

At first, John thinks Christopher's situation is the same as his – he wanted out of the dark and get a look at the other side. But those thoughts were dashed the further he read. Christopher didn't marry Elizabeth Keen out of life, he was doing it because he was job.

Of course, there was probably more to the story than that. For now, he would withhold judgment until he saw 'Tom Keen' for himself.

He glances down at his watch and sighs.

It wouldn't be until two hours later before his flight touched down and arrived at Seattle…

Note: This is just a neat little side project that came to my mind when I re-watched the John Wick films in one go, followed by Blacklist. It won't be updated very often as Young Wolf or Something Wicked.

With regards to Something Wicked This Way Comes and Young Wolf as of late, I must remind you all that the fanfic will be updated when it is updated. I am a human being, not a robot. I do not exist to work on something just because you all tell me to.

With that said, I hope everyone is doing well in these troubling times.

F#ck COVID-19.