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...
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The rain fell in sheets across Manhattan's glittering skyline, each droplet catching the neon glow of the city below. From her vantage point in the abandoned penthouse, Maya Chen watched the streets through the scope of her rifle, counting the moments between lightning strikes. Three years of exile had taught her patience—a virtue the High Table had failed to instill during her decade of service.
The burner phone on the window ledge vibrated. A text from an unknown number: "Found you."
Maya allowed herself a thin smile as she tracked movement in the building across the street. Right on schedule. The High Table's latest hunter emerged from the stairwell, weapon drawn. Amateur move. They always searched high ground first, following the old playbook she'd helped write.
The thunder masked her shot perfectly. Through the scope, she watched the hunter crumple, tranquilized but alive. Maya never killed them anymore—each death would only bring more. Instead, she left them with a message: "Tell them to stop sending children to do their work."
She broke down her rifle with practiced efficiency, each component sliding into its designated compartment in her matte black case. The muscle memory brought her back to training days at the Table's compound in Seoul, where she'd learned to assemble and disassemble every weapon in their considerable arsenal blindfolded.
*"Precision before speed,"* her mentor's voice echoed. *"Speed before force."*
Master Jung had been dead for five years now, but his lessons lived on in every movement she made. He wouldn't have approved of her current situation—exile was shameful in the old ways. But then again, he'd never lived to see how corrupt the Table had become.
The door clicked behind her. Maya froze, case in hand.
"The famous Maya Chen," a woman's voice purred. "You're slipping. There was a time when no one could get within fifty feet without your knowledge."
Maya turned slowly. The speaker stood in the doorway, elegant in a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cars. Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe bun, face lined with age but eyes sharp as razor wire.
"Madame Zhou." Maya inclined her head slightly—old habits died hard. "Still doing Viktor's dirty work?"
"After all these years, you still think Viktor was behind your exile?" Zhou's laugh was like breaking glass. "Oh my dear, you never did see the whole board, did you?"
Maya's grip tightened on her case. "I saw enough. The Rotterdam job. The evidence planted in my safehouse. The convenient timing of the vote to excommunicate me."
"What you saw was what we wanted you to see." Zhou stepped further into the room, her Louboutins clicking on the bare floor. "Viktor was a piece on the board, nothing more. A rather disposable one, as it turned out."
The implications hit Maya like ice water. "Viktor's dead?"
"For about six months now. Tragic hunting accident in the Alps." Zhou's smile didn't reach her eyes. "The Table sends its regards, of course."
