Nate still hadn’t managed to get much sleep.
It wasn’t that he was too scared to sleep.
His mind simply wouldn’t switch off.
The System, the hitmen, the blood, the explosion, Caine, his uncle, The Continental…
everything kept circling through his head until it hurt.
All right.
Maybe he was scared after all.
So Nate gave up on sleeping entirely.
He dragged a chair outside and sat across from the remains of the restaurant, watching firefighters and the recovery crews pick through the wreckage.
He checked his injuries.
Lily had already treated them.
Aside from the wound on his arm, which was a little more serious, everything else amounted to cuts and scrapes.
He had convinced Mr.
Carter and Lily to go home.
Lily’s eyes had still been red when she left, and she’d kept glancing back every few steps.
A little after eleven that night, the recovery crew finished removing the bodies with help from the fire department.
The ruins were cordoned off with police tape, the yellow-and-black plastic fluttering in the night breeze.
Nate stared at it for a while before taking out the card Caine had given him.
It was simple but exquisitely made.
Matte black, with several overlapping blades stamped in gold across the front.
He turned it over.
The address on the back was printed so small that he almost missed it.
2077 Manoway Street, Block 23.
Lower Manhattan, around the Flatiron District.
That had to be the address of New York’s Continental.
There was no point waiting around.
Nate went home, chose a smaller boning knife, slipped it into a sheath, tucked it behind his waist, then headed out and hailed a cab.
At twelve-thirty in the morning, the taxi stopped across the street from a large building.
Nate stepped onto the sidewalk and looked up.
It was much like the hotel from the movies.
Roughly ten stories tall, with an old-fashioned design and a gray-white stone facade covered in decorative carvings he couldn’t identify.
The entrance on the ground floor was surprisingly modest, squeezed between a bank and a coffee shop.
Without the small gold lettering above the doorway, it could easily have passed for an old private club.
Nate pushed open the door.
It was heavy, and the brass handle was cold enough to sting his palm.
Beyond it, a metal gate opened automatically.
The entrance led into a relatively narrow corridor.
The marble floor was polished enough to reflect his silhouette.
The interior had an elegant, old-world feel.
To the right, several well-dressed people sat on sofas speaking quietly among themselves.
Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, bathing the room in warm light.
This didn’t look much like a den of assassins.
At the far end of the hall stood a tall, slender Black man wearing glasses and a perfectly tailored black suit.
When Nate entered, the man calmly closed the ledger in front of him and offered a restrained smile.
Warm enough to be welcoming, but never overly familiar.
“Welcome to The Continental.”
His voice was deep and composed.
“My name is Charon. I’m the concierge. How may I assist you?”
Nate walked to the desk, placed Caine’s card on the counter, and slid it toward him.
Charon glanced down at it but didn’t immediately pick it up.
Instead, he studied Nate from head to toe, his gaze eventually settling on the slight bulge beneath the hem of his jacket.
One eyebrow moved almost imperceptibly.
Charon picked up the card, examined both sides for a few seconds, then placed it back on the counter and slid it toward Nate.
“Mr. Caine rarely introduces newcomers.”
His tone didn’t change.
“Please wait here.”
He turned and walked toward a closed door deeper inside the lobby.
Three light knocks.
Then he entered.
As the door closed, Nate faintly heard an older man’s voice from inside.
About two minutes later, Charon returned and stepped aside.
“The manager will see you now.”
Nate nodded, adjusted his jacket, and entered.
The office wasn’t large, but everything in it had been chosen with care.
Dark hardwood furniture.
Several oil paintings on the walls.
A fire burning brightly in the fireplace, filling the room with warmth.
An older man stood beside the fire.
His black hair was neatly combed, and he wore a bespoke dark gray suit with a pocket watch tucked neatly into place.
Everything about him was immaculate, giving him the air of a retired British aristocrat.
He held a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid shifting gently inside the crystal.
“Winston.”
The older man introduced himself in a low, gravelly voice, wearing the relaxed smile of someone who had seen almost everything.
“Caine told me about you.”
Nate remained standing for a moment, unsure whether a handshake was expected.
In the end, he simply nodded.
“Nate Lin.”
“Please, sit.”
Winston motioned toward the sofa opposite the fireplace.
Nate sat.
The sofa was almost too soft, the kind that swallowed you when you sank into it.
He wasn’t comfortable enough to relax, so he remained sitting straight-backed.
Winston stayed by the fireplace, studying him as though Nate were a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.
“Caine rarely compliments anyone,” Winston said.
“But he tells me your fried rice is quite good.”
“…Thanks.”
“I wasn’t complimenting your cooking.”
Winston took a sip of whiskey.
“My point is that Caine doesn’t often go out of his way to mention people.”
Right.
There it was.
That carefully cultivated air of mystery was exactly like the movies.
Nate had no idea what he was supposed to say to that, so he simply stayed quiet.
Winston eventually sat on the sofa across from him and crossed one leg over the other.
“Those two men last night. Do you know who sent them?”
Nate shook his head.
They had both been masked, and before he’d gotten the chance to learn much about them, there hadn’t exactly been much left to identify.
“That’s why I’m here,” Nate said.
“I want answers.”
Winston didn’t respond immediately.
Instead, he picked up a remote from the coffee table and pressed a button.
One of the paintings on the wall slowly rose, revealing a screen built into the wall.
A file appeared.
Two photographs.
The men who had attacked Nate the previous night.
“Victor Sokolov. Russian. Former special forces.”
Winston spoke as casually as if he were reading from a menu.
“Currently employed by Cartel United Security, a contractor operating under the High Table. They specialize in the sort of work no one wants traced back to them.”
He pressed another button.
The next file appeared.
“The other man is Michal Peter. American. No military background. Fairly new to the profession, but an excellent shot.”
Winston glanced from the screen to Nate.
“Neither man was an amateur.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“And a few hours ago, you killed both of them with a kitchen knife.”
His eyes narrowed with interest.
“How?”
Nate’s pupils tightened for an instant before he forced himself to relax.
“Kung fu.”
Winston’s expression barely changed, though the faintest hint of amusement touched the corner of his mouth.
“Relax, young man. The Continental has its own sources.”
He set the remote aside.
“We tend to hear about things.”
Nate’s fingers tightened unconsciously around the armrest.
“Who put the bounty on me?”
Winston studied him.
There was something different in his eyes now.
A hint of approval.
“You haven’t earned the right to that answer yet.”
He stood and walked behind his desk.
“But you clearly have talent.”
Winston opened a drawer and removed a small black leather case.
“So the question is whether you’re willing to put that talent to use.”
He returned and placed the case in front of Nate.
Nate opened it.
A single gold coin rested inside.
One side bore a lion and shield.
The other showed the figure of a man holding a shield.
Latin lettering ran around the edge, catching the light.
“This is a Continental membership coin,” Winston said.
“With it, you’re recognized as part of this world. You can stay at The Continental and purchase its services. Weapons, protection, intelligence, whatever you require.”
He paused.
“But if you want access to bounty information, you’ll first need to register as an assassin.”
Nate stared at the coin without touching it.
“Registering means formally entering this world,” Winston continued, his tone becoming more serious.
“And once you’re in, leaving is considerably more difficult.”
He gestured toward the case.
“You can pretend you never saw that coin. Walk out of this hotel, put last night behind you, and go back to being a cook.”
“And then what?” Nate asked.
“Wait for the next pair of assassins to show up?”
Winston didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
After several seconds of silence, Nate reached into the case and picked up the coin.
It was heavier than he expected.
“So I can buy information with this too?”
“Of course.”
A faint smile appeared on Winston’s face.
Part satisfaction, part confirmation that events had unfolded exactly as he’d expected.
He returned to his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed.
“Charon. Take him downstairs.”
He hung up, turned back toward Nate, and finished the remaining whiskey in his glass.
“There are two rules you must never break.”
Winston set the empty glass down.
His expression sharpened.
“No business may be conducted on Continental grounds.”
A brief pause.
“And a blood oath must always be honored.”
His gaze hardened.
“Break either rule, and you’ll be excommunicated. From that moment on, you’ll be hunted everywhere.”
A knock came at the door.
Charon entered and stepped aside.
“Mr. Lin, please follow me.”