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Hammer Industries.
"Regain the orders and bring Hammer Industries back to life."
Natasha walked over to John and set down his coffee. There was scrutiny in her beautiful eyes. "What's the next step?"
John pressed his fingers to his lips, gazing out the window at the busy street below, lost in thought.
"This building isn't very tall," he remarked.
Natasha replied, "Hammer Industries is a military company. Its workshops are some of the best in the world."
"But it's not high," John said, raising an eyebrow. "I like to see the mountains at a glance, to look down on everything."
Even Natasha could not keep up with his train of thought.
"To be precise, this is your father's company," Natasha reminded him. "You used your father's name and funds to make the acquisitions. The major shareholder is your father."
"But he's not home," John replied.
He picked up the coffee, stood, and walked to the window. "As the heir, I have the right to use these."
"He's just not at home, not dead," Natasha sighed, sounding tired. "If you don't want your father to have a heart attack out of anger, don't spend money recklessly."
"Money only has value when it's spent."
John took a sip of coffee and smiled. "Like buying this cup of coffee downstairs for twenty-five dollars."
"Thirty-five," Natasha corrected him without expression. "I tipped ten."
"Really?" John blinked. "Thank you for the treat."
He walked over, placed the empty cup in her hand, and smiled. "But you're earning a monthly salary of—well, buying me a cup isn't much."
John was in a good mood today and left the company with a swagger, not bothering with work.
Natasha lowered her eyes, looking at the cup, which was still warm to the touch. She stretched out her fingers, gently touching the last drops of coffee at the bottom. She brought her fingers to her mouth and tasted the bitterness, a strange look flashing in her eyes.
She rubbed the handle of the cup and murmured to herself, "Strange…"
She had deliberately chosen the most bitter coffee, yet as a long-time coffee drinker, John had not noticed anything unusual. The coffee was still hot when brought to him, but he drank it all without changing his expression.
Natasha was lost in thought.
Regarding John Wick, SHIELD had begun to shift the focus of its investigation away from his father and toward him. Whether it was the mysterious developer of the Iron Soldier or John's eccentric character, everything about him was full of puzzles.
As Natasha pondered this, her phone suddenly rang. She took it out and answered.
"I need you to come back to headquarters, Natasha."
It was Nick Fury, but this time the director's tone was a little strange.
Natasha's voice grew serious. "What's the matter?"
"Someone brought something out of the ice," Fury said. "I need you and Barton back."
Ice? Something?
"I'll be there soon."
Fury added, "I hope your boss will let you take leave."
"He already left," Natasha replied.
Fury grumbled, "That's not very British of him."
"He gave me a Ferrari," Natasha said, flipping her hair and joking, "the new model."
She hung up.
At SHIELD, Fury rubbed his bald head and glanced at his reflection. He muttered, "Female assistants are so popular."
********
The Ten Rings Gang, as terrorists, had long been active in chaotic regions. Wherever they went, they created huge profits for arms dealers. There were always people supporting these activities, eager to keep the fires of war burning.
The leader of the Ten Rings Gang woke with a groan, pain tearing through his wound. He opened a crack in the tent, his gaze sinister. He had always been the one sending assassins, but now he was the one being hunted.
This was the second time he had come close to death. The first was in the cave where Iron Man was born, almost taken by the explosion. The second was when the assassin he sent returned and nearly killed him.
He could not understand why that person would betray him. Was it money? Those he sent out were absolutely loyal, and the families they cared about were under his control.
After that failed assassination, the Ten Rings lost their stability. Though they were the most notorious terrorist organization in the world, their security was tight, and they were not easily approached. But ever since the bounty was posted, skilled and daring assassins had come for him day and night.
Outside, Iron Man attacked the Ten Rings. Inside, hotel killers appeared without warning. The leader was on the edge of collapse. Fortunately, he survived, showing no mercy to the killers he caught. No one was left alive.
He had to move his base and hide in a new stronghold to recover. These killers were experts at stealth. Even special forces might not be their match.
He groped for a pistol in the tent, gripping it tightly as he stared outside. A group had come last night—professional mercenaries, well trained. The leader's shooting was fast, accurate, and ruthless. There was even a man who killed with a throwing knife. A sniper provided support from afar, forcing the leader to hide in the tent and play dead.
Thanks to his base being in a common village, the attackers did not use fire, not wanting to harm civilians. The man in the beret had a tough guy's build and face.
"Christmas, are you sure you hit him?"
"Shut up," grumbled the prematurely balding man. "Maybe it was a ricochet."
"All right, let's wrap it up. Hope he gets bitten by a flea."
"I told you, it was a ricochet, damn it!"
The leader listened as their voices faded, finally letting out the breath he had held. He stayed in the collapsed tent for two more days, only leaving once he was sure they were gone.
His wound had become inflamed and ulcerated in the harsh weather. He gritted his teeth and used a knife to cut away the rotten flesh. He pried open a bullet, poured the gunpowder over the wound, and lit it with the last of his matches. The pain made veins bulge on his face, but he did not scream.
Limping, he headed for his own tent. From the debris, he found a mobile phone in an iron box. He checked the missed calls and dialed back.
The phone rang three times before it was answered.
A deep voice came from the other end. "You're late."
"I need your help, or you won't be able to live well!" the leader threatened. "If I get caught, you're dead too!"
"Relax, my man."
"Screw you, Fisk!"
The leader could not relax. He had not taken the killers seriously at first. Only after a string of assassinations did he realize the gulf between himself and the true underground king.
"I almost died! But I swear, before I die, I'll expose you too! Now, send me the money and guarantee me protection!"
He hung up and, in a fit of rage, smashed the phone to pieces.
*******
Ferdinand drove with intense focus. This was already the boss's fifth car, and nothing could go wrong again. Hip-hop music played in the car.
John sat in the back, scrolling through the latest news on his phone.
"Tony Stark hasn't been seen with a cover girl lately," Ferdinand said. "It's taken a lot of fun out of the entertainment news. I bet with my friend last time whether he'd go for this month's cover girl."
"The prodigal son returns home. Not everyone likes to put their desires on display," John replied, swiping his finger across the screen. "You should read more books. It will help you improve yourself."
"Thanks for the advice, boss," Ferdinand said, curling his lip. "But my reading stops at ABCD."
"Then you can't be a manager," John replied flatly.
The mention of promotion made Ferdinand perk up. "I'll go to the library tomorrow."
"Stop at the next intersection."
The car stopped, and John opened the window to look outside.
"This is Brooklyn, not Hell's Kitchen," Ferdinand said, puzzled. "What's out here besides houses?"
"There are people, Ferdinand. You need to learn to pay attention to your surroundings."
John closed the window, and the car started again. They stopped and started a dozen times, and Ferdinand still did not understand what John was doing.
"You have to figure out what's going on around you," John said lightly, rubbing his ring. "After all, New York could be destroyed one day."
"Haha, boss, is that a British joke?" Ferdinand laughed. How could anyone believe that the most prosperous city in the world could be destroyed? The end of the world?
"We had Captain America before, and now we have Iron Man."
Ferdinand stopped at a red light, raised his hands, and pointed to the sky. "God bless America."
"If God is in control, then suffering is also his gift to you," John said, shaking his head. "How can you guarantee he won't get bored one day and destroy New York?"
Ferdinand scratched his head, feeling as if his brain was growing from the effort.
When the light turned green, he stepped on the gas and forced another car to stop.
The driver rolled down his window and shouted a string of colorful greetings to Ferdinand's ancestors.
John had spent the whole day wandering Brooklyn. As the sky darkened, they finally drove into Manhattan.
Ferdinand groaned. "My god, I feel like my butt is fused to the seat."
"It doesn't matter. The car behind you feels the same way," John said casually, pointing behind them. "You should learn to observe."
Ferdinand checked the rearview mirror and saw a silver car following them. Whenever they turned, the other car turned too.
"Are we being followed?"
"I'm glad you know the term," John said, raising his eyebrows. "They've been on us since we left the company."
Ferdinand cursed under his breath. He had not noticed at all.
As they passed through a deserted area, the car behind them opened its sunroof. A man emerged with a rocket launcher.
Ferdinand's eyes bulged. Words failed him.
He floored the accelerator, but the rocket was already fired. A trail of fire streaked toward the car.
There was a deafening explosion, followed by the blaring of car horns. Flames engulfed the luxury car, worth over five hundred thousand dollars.
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