Two stylish young women passed beside the parked Raptor, laughing as they moved through the crowded Manhattan sidewalk.
“I told you New York would help,” one said.
“You’ve spent too much time hiding at home since everything happened.
A vacation is exactly what you needed.”
“Maybe you were right.”
Their accents and familiar expressions briefly reminded Father Anderson of the city where he had lived during his previous life.
For a moment, memories of another Earth surfaced in his mind.
Soon after arriving in this parallel world, Anderson had tried calling his old phone number and searching for his parents.
The numbers had never existed, their names appeared in no public records, and even the neighborhood he remembered had developed differently.
There was no path back.
Whatever life he had possessed before now existed only within his memories.
Anderson shook off the moment of nostalgia, picked up the backpack containing the stolen valuables, and opened the truck door.
The sound made the two women glance in his direction.
He offered them a polite smile before walking toward the building across the sidewalk.
One of the women watched him leave.
“That man was handsome.”
“He was only being polite.”
“He smiled directly at you.”
“Stop it.”
Their laughter faded into the surrounding traffic as Anderson entered the building.
From the street, the establishment appeared to be an expensive tailor shop.
Dark suits stood behind polished glass, while rolls of imported fabric lined the walls beneath warm lighting.
Anyone entering to purchase a suit would receive exactly that.
However, clothing was only the business visible to ordinary customers.
Anderson had purchased many of his firearms and specialized rounds through this establishment.
His reinforced clerical clothing had also been made here using layered ballistic fabric resistant to bullets, blades, and certain supernatural attacks.
The shop was connected to the same underground world that supplied professional assassins and operatives affiliated with the Continental network.
Several employees greeted him as he entered, but Anderson ignored the display suits and walked directly toward the rear counter.
A thin man in a perfectly fitted black suit stood behind it.
His movements were calm and controlled, while his expression revealed almost nothing.
Ward Martin owned the shop.
He was also a gunsmith, ammunition specialist, and expert in tailoring discreet body armor.
Anderson had known him for years and trusted him as much as he trusted anyone involved in the criminal underworld.
“Father Anderson,” Ward greeted in his low, slightly hoarse voice.
“How may I assist you today?”
Anderson placed the heavy backpack on the counter and opened it.
“Sell these for me.”
Ward looked inside.
Gold necklaces, rings, bracelets, luxury watches, and other valuables filled the bag.
His eyes moved across the collection before returning to Anderson.
“Father, have you been on a killing spree?”
Anderson’s mouth twitched.
“You just called me ‘Father.’ What do you think?”
Ward smiled faintly and asked no further questions.
In his business, knowing when to remain silent was as important as knowing how to handle a firearm.
“Please follow me.”
He lifted the backpack from the counter and led Anderson through a narrow door behind the fitting area.
A long corridor extended beyond it.
At the end, Ward unlocked a reinforced steel door and entered a large underground showroom.
Rows of firearms covered the walls beneath bright white lighting.
Handguns, carbines, rifles, and shotguns were displayed beside shelves of suppressors, optics, and specialized ammunition.
Another section held tailored ballistic suits in different colors and styles.
To an ordinary observer, they looked like expensive formal clothing, but each one contained carefully layered protective materials. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Sofas and leather chairs surrounded a bar in the center of the room, making the armory resemble a luxurious private lounge.
Every time Anderson visited, he compared the facility to his underground warehouse.
The comparison always damaged his pride.
His basement was functional, heavily stocked, and carefully organized.
Ward’s showroom, however, looked like something created by a billionaire arms manufacturer.
Compared to this place, Anderson’s warehouse felt like a cluttered survivalist bunker.
“Please make yourself comfortable,” Ward said.
“I’ll have the merchandise appraised and prepare an itemized list.”
Anderson waved him away.
Rather than sit on the sofa, he walked toward the nearest weapons display.
Ward understood his habits and disappeared into the appraisal room with the backpack.
Under the bright lights, the firearms seemed designed to tempt anyone who appreciated mechanical engineering.
Anderson picked up a compact black carbine and inspected its action.
“CZ Scorpion EVO 3.”
The lightweight 9mm platform used detachable magazines and remained controllable during rapid fire.
Its compact dimensions made it useful inside narrow hallways, basements, and haunted houses.
Anderson checked the sights before returning it to the display.
His attention shifted toward a semiautomatic shotgun.
“Benelli M4 Super 90.”
The gas-operated 12-gauge shotgun was reliable, fast, and capable of handling heavy loads without the constant manual cycling required by his Winchester Model 1897.
Against several physical creatures attacking at once, the Benelli would provide a considerable advantage.
Anderson reluctantly returned it to the rack and picked up another weapon.
The next firearm was a customized SIG Sauer MPX carbine modified by Taran Tactical Innovations.
It carried an enlarged magazine, upgraded controls, a compact red-dot optic, and a weapon-mounted light and laser module.
Anderson shouldered the carbine and looked through the optic.
“With consecrated ammunition and magical reinforcement, one magazine could probably erase several Bathshebas.”
Bathsheba Sherman had apparently become his newest unit for measuring supernatural firepower.
The thought of firing forty blessed rounds into a manifesting spirit was extremely appealing.
Anderson seriously considered purchasing the MPX before remembering the overflowing shelves in his basement.
He already owned more firearms than he regularly used.
Most exorcisms could be completed with holy water, a crucifix, medicine, and a reliable shotgun.
Buying another expensive carbine simply because it looked impressive would be irresponsible.
“No practical need.”
Anderson returned it with visible reluctance.
For years, he had imagined confronting a powerful demon with a shotgun in one hand and a rocket launcher in the other.
Unfortunately, none of his enemies had yet justified that level of excessive force.
Bathsheba had died after two shots.
Sarah’s demon had been defeated with medicine and a crucifix.
Even the cannibal killers had required only a few ordinary slugs.
Still, Anderson believed the day would eventually come when every weapon in his warehouse became necessary.
Until then, his preparation and practice would ensure he was ready.
He examined several additional firearms while waiting.
By the time Ward returned, Anderson was holding a polished Remington double-barrel shotgun and testing its balance.
“The appraisal is complete,” Ward announced.
Anderson returned the shotgun to its rack and accepted the document.
Every item had been assigned a number, description, estimated market value, and resale price.
With more than a hundred pieces listed, reading the entire report would have taken too long.
Anderson turned directly to the final page.
“After deducting my twenty-percent commission, your total payment will be one million seven hundred and thirty thousand dollars,” Ward explained.
“Is that acceptable?”
“Reasonable.
Transfer it to my usual account.”
Ward inclined his head respectfully.
“It will be done.”
Combined with the two million dollars promised by Jessie and Carly, Anderson had earned more than enough money to fund his research and maintain the church for years.
He placed the appraisal sheet inside his coat and turned toward the exit.
After he had taken several steps, Ward spoke again.
“Father, have you heard that Mr.
Wick has returned to the life?”
Anderson stopped.
He looked over his shoulder.
“John?”
Ward nodded.
“John Wick.”
The name brought back memories of a quiet man who had once attended St.
Michael the Archangel Church.
John had originally come with his wife, Helen.
Although he rarely spoke, his love for her had been obvious in every glance and gesture.
After Helen died, John began visiting alone.
Later, he occasionally brought a beagle named Daisy—the final gift his wife had arranged for him before her death.
Anderson had spent several long evenings listening as John struggled with grief, loneliness, and the violent life he had abandoned for Helen.
“What happened?” Anderson asked.
“The Tarasov organization is hunting him,” Ward replied.
“From what I’ve heard, Viggo Tarasov’s son broke into his home, stole his car, and killed the dog.”
Anderson’s eyes became colder.
Ward continued carefully.
“John has come out of retirement.”
That outcome wasn’t surprising.
Daisy hadn’t merely been a dog.
She had been Helen’s final attempt to give John something to love after she was gone.
Killing her had destroyed the last peaceful connection John possessed to his wife.
“I didn’t know,” Anderson said.
He turned toward the corridor again.
“But what does that have to do with me?
I’m only a priest.”
Ward watched his broad back recede.
“People know you helped Mr.
Wick survive the grief following Helen’s death.
The Tarasovs may believe he’ll contact you or seek shelter at your church.”
Anderson stopped near the steel door.
Ward’s voice remained calm.
“I recommend making preparations.”
Father Anderson glanced back at the walls covered in firearms and armored suits.
A faint smile appeared on his face.
“Let them come.”
He left the underground showroom without another word.
Ward remained where he stood, watching the steel door close behind the priest.
For a man who claimed to be “only a priest,” Father Alexander Anderson possessed an extraordinary talent for declaring war.
A review helps a lot.
P1treon: