As S.H.I.E.L.D.
kicked into high gear, the sudden movements of one of the world’s most powerful intelligence agencies sent ripples through the High Table and the Continental network.
Nobody involved had the slightest idea what had triggered it.
Sherlock, meanwhile, had absolutely no clue that the fake persona he’d casually invented had just caused a small storm thousands of miles away in America.
Nor did he realize that on his very first visit to an intelligence market, he’d somehow managed to sit across from Clint Barton himself, currently working undercover.
Sherlock had gotten what he wanted.
As far as he was concerned, that meant there was no reason to stick around.
He left the market and returned to the house they’d rented.
Back in the living room, Sherlock pulled out the satellite map he’d received from the military.
He entered the coordinates he’d purchased.
A valley appeared.
Sherlock compared the terrain against what he remembered.
That was it.
After confirming the location, he quickly mapped out a route and sketched together a basic plan.
Then he headed for his room.
As Sherlock climbed into bed, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he’d forgotten something.
Something important.
He lay there trying to remember.
His eyelids were already losing the fight.
What was it…?
Nothing.
His exhausted brain refused to cooperate.
Sherlock closed his eyes.
And fell asleep.
Leaving one unfortunate bastard completely forgotten at the intelligence market.
John Wick.
While Sherlock had registered a request and gotten an almost immediate response, John’s attempt to find actual information about Tony Stark was going nowhere.
Occasionally, his wristband would vibrate and direct him toward a meeting room.
Every time, John went.
Every time, he listened.
And every time, it took him only a few sentences to realize the supposed informant was full of shit.
That wasn’t surprising.
If genuine information about Tony could be bought this easily, neither Hawkeye nor the U.S.
military would still be empty-handed.
The Ten Rings had handled the kidnapping with frightening professionalism.
They’d left practically nothing behind.
Not even spent shell casings.
The people involved had been isolated tightly enough that there was almost no chance of information leaking.
John spent the entire night wandering through the market.
By the end, he’d burned through roughly five gold coins on drinks alone.
And learned absolutely nothing useful.
Eventually, he returned to the house looking thoroughly defeated.
He’d expected an organization as deeply connected to assassins, criminal syndicates, arms dealers, and terrorist groups as the Continental to know things that government agencies couldn’t uncover.
Apparently not.
At this point, every rumor about Tony Stark had probably already been investigated and discarded by official intelligence services.
John returned only shortly before the market was scheduled to close.
The moment he walked through the front door, however, he saw something hanging beside it.
Sherlock’s robe.
John stopped.
His face darkened.
That bastard had come back already?
And hadn’t even bothered telling him?
For several seconds, John seriously considered marching upstairs and strangling Sherlock in his sleep.
Then he noticed the satellite map spread across the coffee table.
He walked over.
Coordinates had been marked.
A specific valley had been circled.
Beside it were routes, notes, and a rough operational plan written in Sherlock’s handwriting.
John stared at the map.
His anger slowly faded.
Fine.
He’d let Sherlock live.
John still had no idea how Sherlock had become so certain that Tony was inside that particular valley.
He didn’t even know how Sherlock had concluded with such confidence that the Ten Rings were the ones holding him.
But Sherlock clearly believed it.
And John trusted him.
He checked the time.
Instead of heading upstairs to sleep, John sat down on the sofa.
Partly to keep watch.
Partly because Sherlock’s plan could use some work.
John pulled out his phone and logged into the Continental’s network.
Then he opened its intelligence section and began digging into everything available on the Ten Rings.
Personnel.
Territory.
Known movements.
Supply lines.
Weapons.
Possible patrol routes.
Local activity.
The simple satellite map gradually filled with more and more markings.
Sherlock’s single route became several.
One plan became multiple contingencies.
By the second half of the night, with sunrise approaching, John finally put the phone away.
Then he went upstairs.
And woke everyone up.
Sherlock looked half-dead.
Helen wasn’t much better.
Neither understood why John was dragging them out of bed in the middle of the night.
But they trusted him.
More importantly, they respected the rules of the Continental enough not to argue.
Everyone put their robes back on.
John got behind the wheel.
And the four of them drove out of the settlement before dawn.
Only after the Continental had disappeared completely from sight did John finally rip off his robe.
Sherlock immediately did the same.
“What was that about?”
“This branch operates under war-zone rules,” John explained.
He kept watching the road.
“And most of the people using it are intelligence brokers.”
Sherlock waited.
“Which means almost nobody stays until sunrise.”
John glanced toward him.
“The moment the safe-zone protections expire, everyone becomes vulnerable.”
For people whose entire profession depended on secrecy and paranoia, staying around after that point was an unnecessary risk.
Over time, leaving before sunrise had become an unwritten rule.
And because everyone followed that rule…
the Continental had developed another one of its own.
“The moment the first sunlight touches the ground,” John said, “the Continental disappears.”
Sherlock blinked.
“Disappears?”
“Literally.”
Sherlock turned toward him.
“As in…”
“Gone.”
John nodded.
Sherlock stared.
That explained a lot.
From the moment they’d entered the settlement, the core of the intelligence market had been built out of temporary prefabricated structures.
Only the residential section used abandoned houses that had been lightly repaired.
When morning came, those houses were simply abandoned.
The portable market was dismantled.
The staff left.
And before nightfall, another Continental would be established somewhere else in another ruined settlement.
There was certainly no shortage of abandoned towns in the region.
It had never failed.
Which was exactly why John had insisted they leave with everyone else.
The best way to hide was to disappear into the crowd.
Sherlock and Helen had no objections.
If anything, both looked mildly impressed.
Another obscure corner of the underworld they’d never known existed.
Doro contributed nothing to the discussion.
She’d been asleep in Helen’s arms the entire time.
Completely unconscious.
Not even the ride had woken her.
Nobody had the heart to disturb her.
Once they were safely away, John handed Sherlock the satellite map.
He walked him through everything he’d added during the night.
Routes.
Alternate approaches.
Information on Ten Rings activity.
Potential threats.
Contingencies.
When he finished, John slumped into the passenger seat.
Within minutes, he was asleep.
Sherlock didn’t mind.
More importantly, he wasn’t in any hurry to charge straight toward Tony.
None of them had slept particularly well.
Helen was exhausted.
John had barely slept at all.
Sherlock himself had gotten nowhere near enough rest.
So instead of driving toward the valley, Sherlock headed out into an open stretch of desert.
They’d rest first.
Then rescue the billionaire.
Priorities.
Eventually, Sherlock found a suitably empty area and stopped the Raptor.
Helen looked around.
There was nothing.
Just sand.
Lots and lots of sand.
Sherlock climbed out.
He stretched.
Then brought his hands together.
Clap.
Alchemy surged through the ground.
The desert moved.
Stone and earth twisted upward.
Walls rose from nothing.
Supports locked together.
A roof formed.
Windows opened across the exterior.
Even a garage took shape beside the structure.
Within moments, a spacious house stood where there had previously been nothing but empty desert.
The architecture fit naturally into the surrounding Middle Eastern landscape.
Helen stared.
Her eyes widened farther and farther.
She’d known for years that Sherlock could perform alchemy.
She had not realized it could be this absurdly practical.
Sherlock dusted off his hands and walked back toward the truck as though he’d done nothing more impressive than pitch a tent.
He climbed into the driver’s seat and prepared to pull the Raptor into the newly created garage.
Helen finally found her voice.
“Sherlock.”
He looked over.
Helen pointed at the house.
“I swear to God, if you ever decide to go into real estate…”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“You’ll be the next Tony Stark.”
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