In the dark and relentless world of assassins bound by codes, hidden allegiances, and unbreakable oaths, Blood Oaths and Shadows offers a thrilling collection of interconnected short stories set within the legendary universe of John Wick. These stor...
Rain pelted the cobblestones of Prague's Old Town, each drop a whispered reminder of debts yet to be paid. Marcus Shaw—known in darker circles as the Debt Collector—watched the medieval spires of Týn Church pierce the pewter sky, their Gothic points like accusatory fingers. His quarry had sought sanctuary in this ancient city, but there was no sanctuary from the High Table's reach.
He adjusted his Kiton suit, feeling the familiar weight of his custom Beretta against his ribs. The weapon was a masterwork from the Continental's finest gunsmith, modified with a integral suppressor and loaded with subsonic rounds. In his line of work, discretion wasn't just preferred—it was required.
His phone vibrated. A text from the Operator:
*Target confirmed at Café Louvre. Routine maintained.*
Marcus allowed himself a thin smile. Jakob Novotny—former enforcer, now marked for death—was a creature of habit. Even while running, he couldn't abandon his morning coffee ritual. Some might call it arrogance; Marcus recognized it as resignation. After twenty years of service to the High Table, Jakob knew there was no real escape.
The café's brass bell chimed as Marcus entered, shaking raindrops from his coat. The historic coffeehouse was nearly empty, its high ceilings and Art Nouveau décor a testament to a more civilized age. Jakob sat alone at a corner table, his back to the wall, a newspaper spread before him. He didn't look up.
"The coffee here hasn't changed in a hundred years," Jakob said in Czech as Marcus approached. "Neither have the methods of the Table."
Marcus pulled out a chair. "You knew I was coming."
"I counted on it." Jakob folded his newspaper with careful precision. His hands were steady—the hands of a man who had killed hundreds without remorse. "They sent you because we were friends once."
"We still are." Marcus signaled the waiter. "Espresso, please. Double."
Jakob's laugh was bitter. "Friends don't hunt friends for sport."
"This isn't sport. It's consequence." Marcus studied the man across from him. Jakob had aged since their last meeting in Mumbai, grief etching new lines around his eyes. "You broke faith with the Table. You know the price."
"Faith?" Jakob spat the word like poison. "The Table has no faith. Only power and the addiction to it." He leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. "What do you know about Operation Black Glass?"
Marcus kept his expression neutral. "It's not my place to know."
"It wasn't mine either. Until I stumbled onto the truth." Jakob's eyes darted to the window, checking reflections. "The Table is planning something. Something that will make the excommunication of John Wick look like a schoolyard quarrel."
