"JOHN WICK" (2014)

SCORN

by

Derek Kolstad

New Wave Entertainment (818) 295-8071 WGA: 1585906

FADE IN:

SUPER: ARDMORE, PENNSYLVANIA

A verdant landscape of rolling hills, lush countryside, and ambient peace.

A small, quaint, two-bedroom farmhouse: a classic. Nearby, a small barn -its paint chipped, wood worn- sits nestled within the setting. The homestead feels slightly abandoned, the facade -especially the roof- in dire need of an overhaul.

The hour hand of an old, electric clock shifts slightly, marking six a.m. A soft alarm sounds. Beneath the blankets, a body shifts, a weathered hand reaching out to silence the antique.

A beat... a sigh... a groan... and JOHN WICK -early sixties, salt-and-pepper hair, three-day beard, former boxer, former military, tired, beaten down, and at wit’s end- sits up, staring unblinkingly out at the day.

A beat... and he stands, donning a weathered robe and a pair of slippers. John stuffs his hands into his pockets...

...and shuffles down the corridor, the walls overflowing with family pictures, each badly in need of dusting. They catalogue a long and healthy life with his wife, Norma; the pictures presenting a time line of sorts. No children, yet sheer, unadulterated happiness.

As John makes his way through his home, we can see that it is cluttered and unorganized. Dirty, in fact, as if it hasn’t been cleaned in months.

John opens the door, retrieves the newspaper, closes, and locks the door behind him, without giving the outside so much as a glance.

John unceremoniously tosses the newspaper onto the table, opens a cupboard, and measures out a couple of tablespoons of Folgers Coffee into an old percolator.

As it begins to bubble, John open the fridge, studies its contents for a moment or two, and then closes it, abandoning the thought of breakfast.

He pours himself a cup of coffee and sits at the table.The newspaper is ignored. He drinks in silence for a long, dark, brooding moment, the loneliness almost unsettling.

Suddenly, the phone on the wall RINGS.

John lowers his cup, staring at the device, his eyes tired. A beat... and he stands, walking slowly to answer it.

As he listens to the voice on the other end, John remains still... stoic.

John hangs up the phone and returns to the table, sinking slowly down into his chair.

A long beat...

...and John begins to weep, his hands trembling as he lowers his face in excruciating, utter, and complete sorrow.

Having shaved and showered, wearing an old -but well-fitted- gray suit, John pushes open the garage door...

...to reveal a legend in dire need of a total overhaul: a black, 1969 FORD MUSTANG ‘BOSS 429’.

A smile plays at his lips as John walks into the garage, running a hand along the chassis, desperately in need of a wash and wax. Behind him, the wall is lined with tools:a mechanic’s dream enclave.

John enters-

-and closes the door behind him.

John takes a moment to breath it in: he loves this car... although he hasn’t taken very good care of it as of late.A beat... and he slips the key into the ignition, twisting it, the motor coughing to life, the exhaust pipe belching black smoke.

The vehicle pulls out of the garage, stalls briefly, come back to life, puttering on down the road.

A soft rain begins to fall.

Carrying a humble bouquet of yellow daisies, John slowly makes his way down the eerily empty corridor. He pauses before a picture on the wall, glancing at his reflection upon the glass. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and enters a room.

John slowly approaches the figure lying in bed: surrounded by machinery, accompanied by the soft sounds of technology.

He removes the wilted daisies from the vase, tosses them in the trash, and replaces them with fresh ones.

He pulls over a chair, reaches out, and takes Norma’s hand: she is comatose, her breathing synthetic... so many machines... so many wires, tubes, and monitors.

We never see her face: just her silhouette.

He holds her hand for a long moment in heavy silence.

Behind him, the DOCTOR -of a similar age to John- enters, placing a hand on John’s shoulder. John lowers his head, and nods. With a bit of effort, he stands, staring down at her for a long moment, never once releasing his grip, and leans over to kiss her on the forehead.

A beat... and John nods.

The doctor turns off the machine; lights dim, the room settles into silence, and Norma’s body grows still.

The Doctor leaves John to be alone with his wife.

John pulls into the building...

...and sits behind the wheel for a long moment...

...his eyes unblinking...

...so very alone...

John stands before the wall of pictures, statuesque as he studies them... unmoving...

And then, he snaps; his hands gnarled into first, roaring with rage as he punches the pictures, ripping them from the wall, tossing them aside, eventually collapsing into a heap, out of breath, his knuckles bleeding.

A long beat... and he chuckles softly, pulling himself to his feet.

Unlike the rest of the house, this space is pristine and organized: one half designated as an impressive wood shop, the other an office space with a lazy boy recliner and tube television.

John sits at his desk with a pencil in hand, a pad of paper before him, thinking.

A long beat... and he sighs with a smile, placing the pencil upon the pad before sliding them both aside.

John unscrews the cap off the bottle of scotch and pours himself a healthy dose.

He opens his desk drawer, reaches into the back, and finds an old pack of cigarettes, half-empty. He taps one from, places it between his lips, and lights it, taking a deep pull. He holds it, and exhales, his body relaxing.

He finishes his drink along with the cigarette, pours himself another...

...and then opens a BOTTLE OF PILLS (The label reading NORMA WICK and OXYCONTIN), pouring them into a small mound upon the desk. He stares at them for a long moment...

...before selecting one, studying it, sighing and-

A KNOCK AT THE FRONT DOOR.

John freezes, not sure as to how best to proceed.

A beat... and someone KNOCKS a second time.

John sighs, drops the pill back onto the mound, and walks upstairs.

A DELIVERY WOMAN waits for him on the doorstep. John opens the door.

She hands him a clipboard and a pen.

In a daze, John signs the clipboard and hands it back to her.

John hands her the pen.

The Delivery Woman hands him a card and a PLASTIC CASE by the handle which he takes without looking.

John nods, and -as she takes off- heads back inside.

John closing the door behind him...

...and is startled by a small BARK.

A beat... and he looks down to find that he is actually holding a small PET CARRIER. He lifts it to look inside: the face of a young, tri-colored (black, white, and brown), CHORGI (half-Corgi, half-Chihuahua) looks out at him, her tail wagging fiercely.

She barks again, and John lowers it, confused.

Holding the envelope in his hands, John sits across from the carrier which he has set upon the table. Inside, the Chorgi lies with paws crossed, studying him, tilting her head from side to side.

A beat... and John opens the letter. The card inside is simple; white with a single DAISY drawn upon it. John smiles, instantly knowing who it is from, running a thumb along the face of the flower. He hesitates, but opens the card.

Tears begin to well in John’s eyes.

John lowers the letter, wipes the tears from his cheeks, and stares at the puppy... chuckling.

John reaches across, and flicks open the pet carrier.

The Chorgi scrambles out of the cage and studies him; sniffing, licking, and barking.

John checks the collar to find a DAISY-SHAPED medallion which reads-

As if in reply, Moose barks.

SUPER: THREE YEARS LATER

The homestead has been completely overhauled with a new roof on the house, the barn having been painted, the yard attended to... a picturesque scene worthy of a postcard.

The alarm sounds, followed by silence when a heavy hand drops down upon the snooze button.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Silence.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Silence.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

A beat... and John sighs, pulls back the covers, and kicks out his legs, sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

John glances over at MOOSE who lies on the bed, her paws crossed, held tilted, and tail excitedly wagging in notes of three.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

BEGIN MONTAGE

- John fries up a couple of pieces of bacon and adds them to his plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

He kneels down next to Moose’s bowl and pours some of the bacon grease over the kibble. As John takes his seat at the table to enjoy his coffee, breakfast, and newspaper, Moose devours her meal.

- With his car tilted up by jack stands, John lays upon a creeper cart beneath it, changing the oil as -nearby- Moose lies in the sun, fast asleep. The vehicle is pristine: fully restored and lovingly detailed. Finishing up, John slides out from beneath the vehicle, and wipes the grease from his hands with a shop towel.

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

- At an abandoned airfield, the Mustang roars down the open stretch of landing strip as Moose stands at the open window, tongue wagging in the air. John is in his element: calm, cool, and collected behind the wheel of his car... almost as if it is a natural extension of himself. He deftly shifts gears, reaching speeds in excess of 120 miles per hour before hitting a long patch of gravel, shifting, spinning the wheel, and skidding -while remaining in full control- as the wheels skim over the earth. Moose barks. John smiles, reaching over to scratch her on the back.

- At a small park, John sits at a picnic table, eating a sandwich as he works his way through a small book of crossword puzzles. A cup of hot coffee rests nearby as beneath the table, Moose gnaws on a tough piece of rawhide.

-At a gas station, Moose barks at passing bikers as John fills the tank.

IOSEF TARASOV -mid-twenties, thin, oiled hair, sunglasses, hipster, douche-bag- parks his vintage BMW next to the Ford and as he gasses up, motions.

Iosef smirks with a shake of his head.

Taken aback by John’s fluency, he watches as John enters the vehicle, guns the engine, and drives off.

- John dozes on the couch as -between his legs- Moose snores softly.

- As John washes his car, Moose chases after birds before - exhausted- laying upon her back in the sun, stretching as she gnaws upon her favorite stuffed animal.

- With a glass of scotch resting on the end table beside him, John sits in his weathered La-z-boy recliner with his reading glasses on, a book before him, and Moose curled up, asleep in his lap. A beat... and John closes his book, finishes his scotch-

-and stands, with Moose leaping to the floor, leading the way back upstairs.

- Moose lays on the foot of the bed, tail wagging.John smiles, scratching her belly.

John climbs beneath the covers, sighs, and slips off to sleep as does Moose.

END MONTAGE

FADE TO BLACK:

FADE IN:

John awakes to hear Moose growling with tail thumping, sitting before the closed door.

John groans as he rolls out of bed.

John opens the door. Moose barks, and sprints off into the darkness.

We hear a THUMP and a YELP.

John runs into-

-and freezes at the sight of two MASKED MEN...

...a half-second before a THIRD MAN steps into frame and drives the butt of his shotgun against the side of John’s head. He drops to the floor, hard.

JOHN’S POV:

Across the room, the silhouette of Moose’s body faces him, her breathing labored.

VOICE #1 (O.C.) (in Russian, subtitled) You find the keys?

One of the masked men, LIMPS by, dragging his foot slightly, an old injury or birth defect.

VOICE #2 (O.C.) (in Russian, subtitled) Yeah. He kept ‘em in a bowl like my old man.

Voice #1 chuckles enjoying this as he sucks on a fresh mint.

VOICE #1 (O.C.) (in Russian, subtitled) Then shit... let the fuckin’ babushka fade away and let’s get the fuck outta’ here.

One of the men kneels down next to John, pulling back his mask to reveal his mouth which grins upon him with white lacquered teeth: it is IOSEF.

Iosef cold cocks John as we-

DARKNESS.

Silence.

...a long beat, then...

...thump...

...long beat, then...

...thump...

...a long beat, then...

A small tail rises slowly, and lands with a soft “thump”.

John stirs with a groan, and opens his eyes...

...to find Moose’s nose touching his cheek.

He suddenly sits up, remembering.

Moose takes a shallow breath...

...thump...

John begins to unravel, hands trembling.

He touches Moose’s side, and she whimpers.

John recoils...

...and sees the trail of blood from where she was first injured...

...having pulled her broken body over to his side.

John lies down beside Moose, and softly... tenderly... cradles her head in his hand, rubbing her cheek with his thumb.

Moose relaxes, licks his thumb, sighs one last time...

...and grows still.

John pulls himself up into a sitting position, cradles Moose’s still body...

...and begins to cry...

...rocking back and forth.

John remains sitting on the floor with Moose in his arms.

A long beat... and he stands; an old, weary, and defeated soul.

John flicks on the light and walks down the stairs, gently placing Moose’s body upon his work bench. He searches a shelf and finds a large box which he unfolds...

...placing Moose’s body within.

A beat...

...and John reaches down to retrieve Moose’s stuffed animal from the floor, placing it down beside her.

With a tender -careful- touch, John removes Moose’s collar, placing it -almost with reverence- upon a nail in the wall.

John stares down at his dog for a long moment...

...before closing the box.

John digs a small grave...

...places the box, staring at it for a long moment...

...and then fills the hole.

On his hands and knees, John brushes the blood from the floor.

John takes a long, hot shower.

He sprays a bit of shaving foam into his hand, unfolds his ceramic razor, stares at it for a long moment...

...and begins to shave.

As he does so, the stress leaves his shoulders, his eyes unblinking, his movements precise.

With every flick of his wrist, John seems to change slightly: his features hardening, relaxed, and yet wound tight

John gets dressed, but the outfit is slightly different than we are used to seeing: dark, tailored pants, crisp white shirt, Italian shoes, and a black, leather jacket.

The look suits him although it is a tad bit unsettling, making for an intimidating veneer.

John sips coffee -no breakfast- alone at the table, staring at the wall.

Like clockwork, he lifts his mug, sips, lowers it, waits patiently, lifts, sips, lowers...

...there are no micro-emotions, but it is anyone’s guess what is taking place in his mind.

John leans heavy against the wall, staring at the pictures. We now notice that among the images of John and Norma...

...are also pictures of John and Moose.

John lowers his head with a sigh, massaging his brow, lost in thought.

When he raises his face...

...the change which has washed over him...

...is complete.

A bus roars on by.

John sits alone in the middle of the bus...

...staring straight ahead...

...unblinking.

A 24/7 chop shop, this facility is populated by dozens of hardened criminals, but has become the only family anyone knows.

This is a tight knit, loyal, and talented crew.

A number of vehicles are being repaired, dismantled, painted, and the like: a non-stop flurry of activity.

Walking the floor, AURELIO -late sixties, hard eyes, soft smile, the father figure of this little family- banters with his crew before pausing to help lower a new engine into a car.

John’s Mustang roars down the street, tires clawing at the earth as it rounds a tight corner.

Perched behind the wheel, IOSEF smiles as, in the passenger’s seat...

...VIKTOR -mid-twenties, short, stout, a pronounced LIMP, well-dressed, gawdy jewelry, terrible glasses- and, in the back seat...

...KIRILL -early thirties, enormous, muscular, meathead- cheers him on.

The Mustang pulls into the lot, and enters-

-pulling into an empty space.

A pair of OLDER MECHANICS notice the car, share an emotionless -yet knowing- look, set down their tools, and calmly leave the building.

Iosef, Viktor, and Kirill pour out of the vehicle, laughing.

Iosef sees Aurelio walking towards him, his gaze locked onto the Mustang, recognizing it.

Aurelio opens the driver’s side door, reaches up behind the visor, and pulls out the registration card which reads JOHN WICK.

Aurelio quickly replaces the card.

By now, everyone in the facility has stopped working, watching the drama unfold.

Aurelio motions towards the car.

Aurelio’s eyes grow wide... knowing.

Surprising even himself, Aurelio rears back and delivers a powerful blow to the center of Iosef’s face, shattering his nose.

Stunned, Iosef reels and drops to a knee, cradling his face, blood seeping between his fingers.

In a knee jerk reaction, Kirill pulls his gun.

The atmosphere immediately grows tense, the air still, as - throughout the building- Aurelio’s mechanics each reach for a hidden weapon: knives, machetes, guns, and the like.

Aurelio glares -unblinking- at Kirill as he walks towards him.

Aurelio presses his forehead against Kirill’s outstretched gun.

Kirill smirks, and flicks off the safety.

Kirill blinks, faltering in this game of brinkmanship.

Silence...

...as Viktor lowers Kirill’s arm and we can see he is relieved that Viktor intervened.

Viktor and Kirill help a still dazed Iosef to his feet.

The bus pulls away from the curb...

...and John crosses the street, making a b-line for Aurelio’s automotive.

John enters the building which is silent: everyone is gone.

John carefully makes his way through the floor, rounding a shelving array to find Aurelio -a cigarette dangling from between his lips- sitting at a folding card table, his hands folded in front of him, a bottle of Campari and two glasses resting nearby.

Silence.

Aurelio flips over the glasses and pours two drinks.

John takes a glass and slams back the drink, swallowed in a single gulp.

John turns to leave, but hesitates.

John nods and walks from the room.

A long beat, and Aurelio sighs, relaxing as he pours himself another drink.

An old, quiet, and clean building lost amongst dozens of others in a dying industrial park.

A bus pulls up the curb, pauses for a beat, and then rolls off...

...leaving behind John who walks across the street, his expression blank.

His gait is steady, his shoulders relaxed, hands limp at his sides, breath steady.

The two GUARDS at the door glance up as he approaches, standing as they shift into character.

GUARD #1 What are you-

Without slowing, John reaches into the man’s jacket, slips free the pistol from the shoulder holster therein and-

THUMP! THUMP!

-fires -twice- into the man’s heart, before turning-

THUMP!

- to fire once into the other guard’s face, never slowing, kicking open the door-

-to enter the facility, shooting anything that moves.He is the angel of death: each target receives two well-placed bullets to ensure incapacitation. He never slows, never misses, and will not stop.

The primarily Japanese crew is in a panic with most fleeing - a number of whom are shot in the back- while those choosing to shoot back are cut down in a blink.

Once emptied, John drops his pistol, kneels, sweeps up a fallen gun up, levels, fires, always moving, and -as he passes by a lift- slaps a button, slowly lowering his Mustang down to the floor behind him.

John is a force of nature as he clears out the building.

Unstoppable.

A couple of mechanics escape the building, the last of which is shot in the back; dropping to his knees as a bullet slams into the back of his head.

Running with all of his might, MECHANIC #1 screams into his phone.

MECHANIC #1 (in Japanese, subtitled) I DON’T KNOW WHO THE FUCK HE IS! HE JUST SHOWED UP AND STARTED SHOOTING!

Behind him, John appears in the doorway, aims...

...and decides otherwise, lowering the pistol.

John opens the door to the Mustang, tosses the pistol onto the passenger’s seat-

-and slips behind the wheel. A slight smile plays upon his lips as he sighs; a part of him having been returned. He turns the key, revs the engine, slams his foot down on the gas-

-and crashes through the garage door of the building, tires squealing as the Mustang pulls a one-eighty, righting itself before-

-leaping out onto the street, furiously gaining momentum, as a trio of heavily-modified NISSAN SKYLINES appear and take chase.

John glances into the rearview mirror, takes the pistol in his left hand, shifts, and spins the wheel-

-turning to face the oncoming vehicles.

John shifts again, and crushes the gas pedal underfoot-

-rear wheels smoking as they struggle to grip the road.Once they do, however, the Mustang leaps forward, bearing down on the Skylines.

As the distance between them grows smaller, the passengers of two of the skylines emerge with semi-automatic weapons...

...but before either of them can fire...

...John fires off four shots, killing them each with a pair of bullets...

...before firing until empty...

...killing two drivers, and one passenger...

...leaving one driver barrelling towards him, covered in his passenger’s blood, eyes wide with horror...

...as the two other cars crash behind him.

As the two vehicles barrel towards one another...

...John is stoic...

...while the remaining driver is screaming.

At the last moment, the driver violently twists the steering wheel-

-barely avoiding the Mustang-

-but loses control of the vehicle, sending it toppling end over end, cart-wheeling amidst a cloud of debris, before landing upside down-

-the gas tank having ruptured, fuel gurgling out of the tank to pool around the crushed rooftop.

The driver hangs from his seat, his belt keeping him in place, stunned and bleeding from the forehead.

A beat...

...followed by the sound of footsteps.

As the driver shifts in his seat, a ZIPPO LIGHTER falls out of his pocket, landing on the ceiling.

John kneels down beside him.

A beat... and John reaches inside to retrieve the lighter. He flips it open, and ignites a flame.

A beat... and John closes the lighter and tosses it back into the vehicle.

A long beat... and the driver sighs.

As John walks back towards his vehicle, we can hear the sound of cop cars approaching...

...as a police chopper soars past overhead.

John doesn’t look up as he quickly removes the front and rear license plates -both affixed with quick release clasps- tosses them into the back seat, and-

-slips behind the wheel. He twists, the key, revs the engine, and bolts forward as behind him-

-a pair of police cars round the corner-

-and overhead, the helicopter banks, its sights set on the Mustang.

BEGIN INTERCUTS BETWEEN INTERIORS AND EXTERIORS OF THE VEHICLES

John leads the cops further and further into the city...

...with traffic growing heavier with every block...

...and yet John maintains his speed-

-driving down narrow service alleys with reckless abandon-

-and going against traffic, steering with an apt hand.

Eventually, John creates enough mayhem to tie up the police on the ground-

-leaving the helicopter overhead.

On a long stretch of road, John reaches the vehicle’s top speed, reaches down, flips open a hidden compartment, and presses a button for-

-his NITROUS OXIDE SYSTEM-

-which causes the engine to SCREAM, roaring down the road at an incredible speed-

-distancing himself from the helicopter to eventually hide in an abandoned warehouse.

He parks...

...and walks across the street to the local diner...

...as overhead, the police chopper searches in vain.

END INTERCUTS

The floor is empty, the building quiet.

Sitting at his desk, Aurelio -a cigarette dangling from between his lips- works on a model car, carefully gluing pieces together.

The bottle of Campari rests nearby. Music plays softly from a radio nearby.

The phone rings. Aurelio takes a deep breath, exhales, and answers it.

Silence.

Click - the line goes dead.

Aurelio refills his drink... and chuckles with a shake of his head.

SUPER: MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

A resplendent home in one of the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods.

A trio of military-grade SEDANS -heavily armored, tinted/bulletproof glass, intimidating- pull up to the curb. The first and third empty as the keen eyes of ten gunmen scour the street, buildings, and rooftops.

A beat... and one of them slaps a hand on the middle Sedan’s roof.

Preceded -and proceeded- by a gunman, IOSEF emerges; belligerently naive and yet... scared.

Lighting himself a cigarette, VIGGO TARASOV -60s, face scarred by a hard life, one eye dead, hair perfectly coifed, expensive suit, a slight limp, relying on a cane- fills a tumbler with ice.

He selects a fresh bottle of JEWEL OF RUSSIAN CLASSIC VODKA and twisting off the cap, hesitating. Deciding otherwise, Viggo dumps out the ice, pours himself a double shot, and slams it back...

...before refilling the glass with ice and pouring himself a healthy dose.

Iosef enters-

-and closes the door behind him, tilting his chin towards his father with a smirk.

In a surprising blur of motion, Viggo spins-

-and drives a fist into Iosef’s stomach with enough force to lift him -momentarily- from the ground.

With the wind knocked out of him, Iosef drops to his knees, opens his mouth to say something, but instead vomits, gagging as he gasps for breath.

Viggo casually returns to the bar, grabs a towel, and tosses it down onto his son.

Again, Iosef opens his mouth to say something, but decides otherwise. He grabs the towel and cleans up his mess.

Viggo takes his drink and walks to the window, his cigarette smoldering from the corner of his lips.

Iosef pulls himself to his feet, and stumbles to the bar, pouring himself a drink.

Viggo backhands him, the sound more painful than the strike.

Viggo smiles -amused- finishes his drink...

...and drives a fist into Iosef’s stomach again, dropping him once more to his knees, tears rolling down his cheeks as he vomits up his own drink.

Viggo kneels down next to Iosef, grabs his hair, pulls back his head, produces a switchblade, flicking open the blade and placing it to the flesh directly beneath his son’s right eye.

Trembling, Iosef chokes back tears.

A beat... and Viggo removes the blade from Iosef’s cheek and stands, folding the switchblade closed as he stands to pour himself another drink.

Iosef lowers his eyes, his breath catching in the back of his throat.

Wearing an undershirt and pants, sweating profusely, John wields a SLEDGEHAMMER which he swings down onto the floor time and time again, cracking the concrete foundation.

Viggo takes a long pull off of his drink as the information sinks into Iosef, the blood draining from his face.

John has revealed an OLD TRAP DOOR IN THE FLOOR-

-which he swings open, revealing a ladder.

John grabs a flashlight and heads down.

Viggo lowers his empty glass as Iosef refills his glass with a trembling hand.

John shines the light down a thin corridor stacked high with a variety of boxes, military containers, and briefcases.

Viggo leans against the fireplace, suddenly tired.

John selects a black case, unclasps it, and swings it open-

-to reveal a number of PISTOLS, SILENCERS, and AMMUNITION.

Iosef drops down into a chair, the comprehension of his actions clear.

Viggo turns to leave, chuckling softly to himself.

He pauses at the door, glancing back at his son with a crooked smile.

John sits at the kitchen table, having cleaned and assembled one pistol, now oiling a second. His hands are steady, his skill impressive.

We slowly move past him, over the counter, to the door whose handle softly turns. We pull back as it opens-

-FOUR MEN in black masks, each armed with a silenced pistol enter, fanning out-

-and yet John is nowhere to be seen...

...and two silenced pistols are missing from the table.

A COP CAR pulls up in front of the barn.

Behind the wheel, CARLO -late twenties, a bit dim, but nice enough- kills the engine.

Carlo checks the dashboard computer.

Chuckling EDWARDO -58, nearing retirement, large, heavy, smarter than he looks- takes a sip of coffee from his paper cup before unbuckling his belt.

edwardo opens his door...

...and exits.

The four masked men enter the living room, each wound tight, their silenced weapons at the ready. The lead among them enters the hallway-

-and is shot twice; once in the chest, and once in the head. As he goes down, John moves past, killing two others, leaving the remaining gunmen-

-cowering in the kitchen, leaning against the wall.

John aims-

-the kitchen light casting the gunman’s shadow-

-and fires twice into the wall-

-hitting the gunman in the back and the head, dropping him to the floor.

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.

John lowers the pistol, walks to the door, and peers through the keyhole to see Edwardo standing on his porch. A beat... and John slips the pistol in the back of his pants, unlocks, and opens the door.

An awkward pause, then-

John follows his gaze...

...to see that a dead gunman is in Edwardo’s direct line of sight.

Edwardo turns, takes a few steps, hesitates, and turns back.

Edwardo leaves. John closes and locks the door behind him.

Edwardo slips into his seat, closing the door behind him.

John pulls a large roll of plastic sheeting down from the rafters, balancing it on his shoulder with a grunt.

He grabs a roll of duct tape as he exits.

John drops the plastic sheeting down upon the floor, and rolls it out.

Standing over one of the gunmen, he reaches down, retrieves the man’s pistol, and slips it into the holster at the man’s side. John then kneels beside him and pushes the body onto the plastic, rolling him up tight.

Using his ceramic straight razor, the plastic is cut off from the roll. Wrapping the feet, arms, and head tight with duct tape, John repeats this process with each body...

...until they are neatly lined up near the back door.

John takes the phone off the wall, thinks for a long moment, and dials a number.

A long beat, then...

John glances at the bodies.

John hangs up.

John casually opens one of a half-dozen, identical, silver cases stacked among the others.

Inside are hundreds of AMERICAN LIBERTY GOLD BULLION COINS.

John counts out SIX of them, and closes the case.

John mops up the blood...

...and spackles the bullet holes in his wall.

We hear a KNOCK at the back door.

John wipes his hands against his pants, and-

-opens the door.

Removing his hat, CHARLIE -70s, small, creepy, thin, frail, eyes gentle, a tattooed smirk upon his lips- extends his hand with a smile.

John shakes his hand.

Charlie enters, followed by two GOONS -forties, tall, muscular, emotionless- who offer John little more than a nod before they begin carrying the bodies out of the house.

GOON #1 We’re a go, boss.

John hands Charlie the six gold coins which he graciously accepts with a slight tilt of the head.

Charlie extends his hand. John shakes it.

John closes the door.

Cutting vegetables with a large knife, Viggo slides them onto the face of an open omelette simmering in the pan. As he folds the egg over onto itself, his phone rings. He answers it.

Viggo rubs his brow with a frown, his head down.

Viggo hangs up, thinks for a moment, slips the omelette onto a plate, hesitates, and then dials a number.

SUPER: MAJORCA, SPAIN

A beautiful, rustic, Mediterranean setting.

Situated on a hundred acres populated by thousands of almond trees, the building -complimented by the grounds- is breathtaking.

Accompanied by CESCA -a middle-aged, Majorcan Shepherd Dog, similar in look to a Black Labrador- as he walks -cane in hand- through his property, MARCUS -seventy, thin, balding, round spectacles, clean shaven, always well-dressed, expensive watch, and although he may look frail, he is anything but- whistles softly to himself.

His cellphone vibrates. He answers it.

Marcus looks around with a smile, reaching down to scratch Cesca behind the ears.

Viggo nods, eating a mouthful of the omelette.

Marcus chuckles with a shake of his head.

Marcus listens to Viggo talk...

...pausing in mid-step...

...his brow furrowed, eyes still.

Marcus ends the call, slips the phone back into his pocket, takes a deep breath, exhales, turns, and starts walking back to his house.

Pushing a cart of luggage before him, John enters, studying the security checkpoint.

He spots EVAN -60s, African-American, weathered, large man with a kind face- who works for the TSA, manning a security checkpoint.

As John approaches the two share a knowing glance.

John places his keys, phone, wallet, and TWO GOLD COINS into the tray...

...as Evan casually flips off the x-ray machine, allowing both John and his luggage through without incident.

John retrieves his keys, phone, and wallet from the tray-

-and walks on as Evan turns the x-ray machine back on, slipping the gold coins into his pocket.

A silver-nosed train roars past, its wheels melting snow from the tracks beneath it.

John sits alone, the train half-empty, staring out at the countryside passing him by.

The city is a roiling mass of activity.

Small, trendy, and posh: an upscale, boutique hotel.

Carrying a bulky briefcase in each hand -with the duffel bag slung across his shoulders- John approaches the front desk where the MANAGER smiles up at him.

The Manager checks his computer.

John slides across a GOLD COIN...

...which the Manager -without so much as a blink- slides into his pocket.

The Manager hands him a key.

The sun has begun to set; the street lamps having begun to ignite.

A half-eaten meal is scattered upon the table, the bottle of wine half-empty.

Resting upon the bed, the briefcases lie open, revealing a veritable armory of dismantled weapons, numerous clips, and boxes of ammunition.

Sitting at the desk, John pauses from cleaning a pistol to empty the wine into his glass. Once done, he pulls back the slide, studies the pistol with a keen eye, releases it, carefully loads a clip with bullets, and slides it into the pistol: locked and loaded.

From a small wooden case, John selects a SILENCER which he screws onto the pistol. He sets it down next to a pump- action sawed-off SHOTGUN, a SNIPER RIFLE, an old school UZI SUBMACHINE GUN -silenced- with a polished mahogany stock, a K- BAR DAGGER, and another pistol.

A beat... and John stands, slips the silenced pistol into the back of his pants, dons his jacket, turns off the light, and leaves.

An upscale night club, the line curled around the side of the building, generously serviced by heat lamps to accommodate the almost non-existent dresses of the many young women.

John approaches the BOUNCER -30s, Russian, massive, tattooed neck, intimidating, his suit one size too small on purpose- who controls entry, the guest list glowing upon his tablet computer.

John hands him three, hundred dollar bills.

The Bouncer takes the bills, pockets them, and unclips the red velvet rope, allowing him entry.

As John enters, those in the front of the line complain but are ignored as the rope is re-attached.

Strangely enough, the lobby is laid back and pleasant.

A single bar is available to the dozen or so patrons who lounge about smoking, laughing, and talking as servers wander the floor, offering a variety of appetizers.

Beyond the lobby, however, is a security station -replete with a METAL DETECTOR- in front of the elevators: the “action” it would seem, is on the top floor.

John approaches the security station and pauses, dropping to a knee to tie his shoe...

...and remove his silenced pistol, shoving it deep into the soil of a potted plant.

John stands, empties his pockets into a small plastic bin, hands it to a guard, and walks through: he is clean.

John takes his things, enters the elevator, and presses the red “P” for penthouse.

The doors to the elevator open, the music deafening.John exits, turns left, and enters-

-a two-story structure with the VIPs assembled up top; each having paid for their private tables. John enters, carefully studying the room. He approaches the bar and waves down a bartender.

John motions upwards as he slides across five, hundred dollar bills.

The Bartender studies him... and then takes his money.

John follows the Bartender...

...who slips a hundred dollar bill to each of the goons on either side of the staircase, heads upstairs...

...and slips two bills to the Waitress-

-before returning to the bar.

John follows the Waitress...

...to a table with a perfect view of both levels.

John slides her two more hundred dollar bills.

As the Waitress turns to fill his order, John studies the floor...

...and the upper balcony... searching.

A soft snow begins to fall.

John nibbles on some cheese and bread as he pours himself a generous helping of whiskey.

Down below, Viktor -finishing off his drink- LIMPS past.

John’s eyes narrow.

He finishes his drink, stands, and follows after Viktor, almost breathing down his neck.

Book-ended by a pair of Estruscan bodyguards who follow every move he makes, Viktor slaps a waitress on the ass as he walks past.

As John stares at Moose’s silhouette...

...VIKTOR limps past.

Drunk, Viktor and his bodyguards enter the bathroom, pausing to light a cigarette, before limping into-

-where he leans against the wall in front of the toilet, eyes at half-mast.

John enters as a patron leaves, the bathroom now empty save himself, Viktor, and the bodyguards.

As the door closes, John produces his CERAMIC STRAIGHT RAZOR, drives it between the door and the jamb, and snaps it in two.

A patron approaches the door and attempts to enter, but it won’t budge. He shrugs and heads off in search of another bathroom.

One of the bodyguards turns as John approaches, his eyes instantly wide -uncomprehending- as the broken tip of the blade easily slices open his neck, splashing John with his own hot blood.

Viktor glances towards the closed door with a smirk.

As the bodyguard drops to his knees -bleeding out- the second guard produces a pistol and -as John moves into him- manages to fire off a round which punches through John’s shoulder.

Viktor tenses -eyes wide- shakes off before zipping up his pants, reaches into his jacket, and fumbles for his gun.

With a cry derived far more from anger than pain, John head butts the other bodyguard -shattering his nose, his face instantly crimson with blood- before slashing the remnant of the blade wide, severing the bodyguard’s artery.

The door to the bathroom stall opens and as Viktor emerges with pistol held out-

-John slaps it aside, breaks his arm and kicks in his leg-

-sending him to his knees, screaming.

John grabs the broken arm, twists it behind Viktor’s back, drags him towards the towel, grabs him by the hair, and shoves his face into the toilet. He holds him there for a good amount of time...

...before ripping him back out.

Gasping for breath, Viktor’s eyes are wide, sobriety having swiftly returned.

John answers by slamming his head against the rim of the toilet -breaking Viktor’s nose- before shoving his face back beneath the water. A long beat...

...and John pulls Viktor back up for air.

Behind his back, John snaps Viktor’s wrist, and -as he drives his face back beneath the water- John snaps one finger after the next.

Underwater, Viktor screams, struggling.

John pulls him free.

John twists Viktor’s arm, breaking it with a dry SNAP. Viktor screams...

...but John keeps holding his arm painfully in place.

A beat...

...and John drives Viktor’s head down upon the toilet rim at an odd angle, his neck snapping.

Silence.

John removes Viktor’s wallet and cellphone before exiting the stall.

He slides Viktor’s wallet into one pocket and his cell phone into another. At the sink, he turns on the cold water tap...

...splashes it up into his face, turns...

...and pauses, realizing that he is covered in blood.

John pulls off his shirt, wipes the blood from his face, tosses the shirt aside, reaches down, removes Viktor’s shirt, and slips it on, carefully buttoning it up.

He wets his hair, slicks it back, turns, removes the piece of ceramic blade wedged in the door frame, tosses it into the trash, and leaves.

John passes by the Waitress, pausing to hand her a couple of hundred dollar bills.

The blood from his shoulder wound begins to seep into the shirt, but only he notices it.

John heads down the staircase-

-and calmly makes his way through the sea of dancers...

...as up top, chaos erupts but is silenced by the deafening music.

Using his one good shoulder, John opens the steel door, and - his skin pale, cold sweat upon his brow- moves as fast as he can downwards.

His shoulder hurts.

The blood loss nears critical.

John exits the building as he scrolls through Viktor’s phone, searching.

He finds Iosef’s number, and as he calls it, studies the image of Iosef which appears on screen.

Iosef lays on his bed with an arm behind his head, smoking as he stares up at the ceiling.

We hear the vibration of his cell phone. He lifts the phone, smiles at the sight of Viktor’s caller I.D., and answers.

Iosef bolts upright, his breath stuck in his throat, eyes wide.

John trudges through the snow with Viktor’s phone to his ear.

Iosef swallows hard.

John peers around the corner.

A long beat... and Iosef hangs up his phone, staring at the wall... a solitary tear rolling down his cheek.

John tosses the phone down into the snow, and jogs across the street...

...as MARCUS -a cigarette smoldering between his lips- watches him from the shadows.

The lobby is empty -save the Manager- who glances up from his computer...

...to find a wounded -and quite bloody- John walking towards him.

John chuckles, sliding a gold coin across to the Manager.

Sitting in a chair with his shirt off and a beer in hand, John grits his teeth as the DOCTOR -80s, steady hands, glasses, thinning hair, frail, but strong- removes the bullet from his shoulder, dropping it into a glass of water.

The Doctor cleans the wound, dries it off, and begins to sew shut the wound.

The Doctor exits as John stands in the doorway, his shoulder bound tight with gauze.

The Doctor hands him a pill container.

John hands the Doctor two gold coins.

John closes the door behind him.

The snow now falls harder, although the pace seems lazy.

Dressed in a fresh suit and tie, John strides through the kitchen, ignored by the bustling staff.

John enters the room, and makes his way to the back where a small staircase leads downward.

John walks down them and enters-

-walking down the long, brick-enclosed corridor...

...stopping before a large, thick, imposing IRON DOOR.

John removes a gold coin from his pocket...

...and slips it into a slit -similar to that of a pay phone- to the right of the door.

A beat...

...and a section of the door slides open, revealing a pair of judging eyes. This is EDDIE -30s, red beard, shaven head, pierced, tattooed, three piece suit- intimidating as hell.

He studies John for a long moment.

A beat... and Eddie slides the view piece shut.

A beat... and the door is unlocked, swinging open.

John enters, and the door is immediately swung shut behind, sealed and locked tight.

The room is small, but comfortable.

To the right are a number of coat/hat racks populated by a dozen or so items.

To the left is a bank of modified cigar locker; dozens of transparent, safety-deposit boxes framed in mahogany with a plaque -etched with a name- upon each.

Eddie hands the coin back to John.

John snaps back his wrist...

...and hands Eddie the ceramic straight blade.

Eddie recognizes this name, his demeanor changing drastically.

Eddie turns, finds a locker with the name JOHN WICK carved upon it, opens the small door, slides in the blade, and closes it.

A beat... and Eddie smiles, extending a hand, instantly warm.

John enters the room through a pair of velvet drapes...

...and pauses, taking it all in with a smile.

A luxurious tavern crafted from a long forgotten speak-easy, the room isn’t too big, and isn’t too small, but... just right.

Booths line the outside walls while a number of tables are scattered about.

Near the stage, a small dance floor has been cleared, the wooden tiles worn, but lovingly cared for.

On stage, JENNY -80s, African-American, petite, a commanding presence- sways behind the microphone, singing an old standard, her voice similar to that of Billie Holiday; strong, tender, and sincere.

Her eyes grow wide at the sight of John, but she never wavers from her tune.

As John makes his way through the room, everyone nodes, offers a handshake, or a simple greeting: this is an old family... of a sort.

In the corner, WINSTON -70s, English, tall, lean, well- dressed, glasses, tailored, precise- sits with a worn, paperback copy of THE TELL-TALE SHREW in one hand and a dry sherry in the other.

Winston lowers the book, and glances across at John with a blank -yet warm- look.

John approaches the bar...

...where JIMMY -40s, African-American, three-piece suit, expensive watch, kind eyes, quick to smile- looks up with a grin.

The two shake hands like old friends.

As John leaves Jimmy to make his martini, John strays towards the stage.

Jenny finishes her song, the audiences politely applauds, and she steps down to give him a strong embrace.

John smiles... almost sheepishly.

Jenny hesitates, and then clasps a hand to his shoulder.

Jenny hugs him again, kissing him on the cheek.

Jenny takes to the stage...

...as John sinks into his booth.

Jimmy nods-

-as he slides a martini across to John.

On stage, Jenny whispers to the members of her small band before taking to the microphone.

The music begins...

...and Jenny sings IT HAD TO BE YOU.

Her rendition is powerful, sweet, endearing, passionate, and sincere. As John watches her sing, a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

On the empty dance floor...

...John watches a younger version of himself with Norma...

...dancing slowly... twirling... her head on his shoulder...

...smiling...

...with a sigh...

...before disappearing.

John swallows -hard- as a trembling hand wipes away a tear.

Jenny smiles at him with a nod.

He returns the gesture.

She continues to sing.

John raises his glass as-

-SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.

A CELLPHONE

Five pictures of John are inconspicuously taken...

...by DAVID PERKINS -late twenties, cocky, expensive tastes, lean, cruel- at a table across the way.

David sends them with a text: “Is this him?”

A beat... and he receives a text in return: “Yes. Where are you?”

David texts back: “The Continental.”

A beat... and he receives a text: “We may not engage in hostilities upon those premises.”

David texts back: “I’m willing to take the risk.”

A beat... and he receives a follow up text: “Take him alive. Should you fail, we disavow. Should you succeed, we reward... greatly.”

David smiles...

...as does John.

Once the song is done, Jenny is met with boisterous applause...

...with John clapping the hardest among them.

Exhausted -and more than a bit tipsy- John runs a hand along the wall to maintain his balance.

He sings under his breath... humming the tune to IT HAD TO BE YOU.

At his door, he fumbles with his key card, but finally manages to open it.

John closes and locks the door behind him. He sheds his jacket, his shoes, and his pants...

...flicks off the lights...

...and crawls beneath the blankets with a sigh.

The snowstorm ends, the city suddenly still.

Empty.

A long beat... and two figures appear at one end of the hall while three appear at the other end: suits, ties, gloves, and masks.

One of them inserts a key card attached to his cell-phone and hacks the lock; the light turning from red to green.

Another places a small, MAGNETIC GUN to the door, adjusts the setting, and pulls the trigger-

-causing the latch to leap back from the door...

...which opens.

All five men enter, closing the door behind them.

Sound asleep, John lays upon his back beneath the covers, snoring softly.

Well-rehearsed, two men focus upon his legs while two focus upon his arms, their hands hovering above an appendage as they wait for the fifth (DAVID)...

...who produces a plastic baggie, inside of which rests a damp TOWEL.

David removes the towel...

...counts down with a nod from 3... 2... 1...

Like a well-oiled machine, hands clasp down upon John’s arms and legs as David slaps the rag down upon John’s mouth.

John’s body tenses as his eyes snap open...

...but he does not inhale.

A beat... and John twists at an odd angle, causing one of the men holding his arm to lose his grasp. With his one arm free, John reaches up, grabs David’s wrist, and snaps it.

As David stumbles backwards with a cry, the others pounce upon John...

...who produces the K-BAR blade from beneath the blankets, driving it into the side of one man’s neck once... twice... three times...

...before releasing the blade, arching his back, and wrapping his legs around another man’s neck, tensing until -SNAP- the man’s neck breaks.

The remaining three -horrified- are at a loss; far removed from their element.

David and a gunman run for the door as a third steps back, removes his silenced pistol from a shoulder holster, and blindly fires.

The bullets etch up along the mattress and into the headboard...

...as John rolls off the bed, reaches beneath it, and grabs the shotgun.

BOOM!

The gunman’s left leg disappears as -screaming- he sinks to the ground.

BOOM!

John fires again, hitting the fallen gunman in the chest.

BOOM!

John fires at the fleeing gunman in the open doorway-

-sending him spinning out into the hallway.

BOOM!

He is shot a second time in the back, dead in a blink.

David rips off his mask as he slides to a stop, hands up, just as John emerges from his room, pumping the shotgun for affect.

A beat... and he walks towards David, the weapon steady.

John places the shotgun to the back of David’s head.

John is terribly -to an unsettling degree- calm.

He produces a small pill container, taps out two, and swallows them as he rolls his injured shoulder with a groan.

Tears roll down David’s cheeks as he wracks his brain, thinking.

John swings the shotgun, knocking David out with the butt.

CLICK.

John freezes...

...as HARRY -60s, African-American, former NFL receiver, tall, lean, and imposing, yet currently dressed in boxers, a t-shirt, and dress shoes- aims a pistol at the back of John’s head from the open doorway of his hotel room.

Silence.

John turns...

...and Harry lowers his pistol.

Harry glances about at the bodies...

...and steps back inside his room.

Harry hesitates, but glances out from behind his door.

John tosses Harry a gold coin.

We hear the sound of a phone ringing.

Harry grabs David by the feet as John heads back towards his room.

Harry drags David back towards his room.

John enters his room, and answers the ringing phone.

Well-lit, but empty; a beautiful expanse of architectural history.

John walks with his hands in his pockets, his head down, lost in thought. He pauses to light himself a cigarette...

...a long beat...

...and he lowers his head, flicking ash.

Emerging from the shadows behind him, Marcus holds a silenced- pistol, his leather-gloved hand steady.

A beat...

...and Marcus smiles, slipping the pistol back into his jacket.

Marcus joins him at the rail.

John offers him a cigarette-

-which Marcus accepts-

-leaning forward to ignite the tip from John’s lighter.He pulls back with a nod, squinting out into the night.

John runs a trembling hand through his hair.

A long silence...

...and Marcus finishes his cigarette, tossing it out into the darkness.

Marcus turns, and heads back into the train...

...as John continues to stare out into the night.

A long beat... and he produces his cell phone, dialing a number.

A corner dive, popular, but its population is sparse this early in the morning.

A limousine pulls up to the curb.

Sipping coffee in a corner booth, John watches the front of the building...

...lowering his mug as VIGGO -accompanied by two men- enter.

The two men exit as Viggo walks towards the booth, shedding his jacket as he does so.

Only one of John’s hands is above the table, the other hovering beneath it, a pistol held tight, unwavering.

Viggo slips into the seat.

John answers by taking a sip of his coffee. Viggo shrugs with a frown, motioning towards the waitress as he flips over his mug.

As she walks away, Viggo takes a long pull off of his drink.

Viggo nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and stands.

Viggo leaves the diner, and slides into-

-where four of his men wait, each armed with a silenced, submachine gun: intimidating hardware.

Viggo closes the door, takes a deep breath, and sighs, rubbing his brow.

BOOM!

A round slams into his window, barely missing him before hitting the man seated next to him in the side of the head, blood spattering against glass.

Viggo dives to the floor as his men prepare to return fire-

-but John is a crackshot, firing as he strides towards the vehicle-

-killing two men and wounding a fourth who drops down next to Viggo, screaming.

John ejects a spent clip, slaps in a fresh one in a blink, and unloads into the limousine which jerks forward, tires squealing as it drives off.

Viggo lies on his back, staring at the ceiling as he lights himself a cigarette.

John slips the gun into the back of his pants, turns, and calmly walks away.

The train pulls up and begins to empty, crowding the platform.

John exits the train, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and seeks to disappear into the crowd...

...as KIRILL and TWO GUNMEN spot him.

They move towards him...

...following...

...hands reaching beneath their jackets, fingers curling around triggers as silenced pistols are slipped free by steady hands.

John slows his stride, hands out to his side, mind racing.

With consciousness fading, John leans back upon the floor, listening to the voices of his assailants.

With his face hidden within his mask, Kirill chuckles - enjoying this- as he sucks on a fresh mint.

John tenses, his features hard.

Kirill grins, willing for John to give him reason to fire.

Suddenly, a frail commuter stumbles into their midst-

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

-killing each with a single, silenced round to the heart.

Kirill is dead before he hits the ground.

Amidst a growing sense of chaos, MARCUS shares a parting glance with John, slips the pistol in his pocket, smiles, and tips his hat down low over his eyes.

John returns the nod and disappears in the opposite direction.

John walks up to an old, FORD LTD sedan. He reaches up into a rear wheel well, and rips free a set of keys which had been duct-taped within.

He opens the trunk: we recognize the suitcases therein as his own. However, there is also a LARGE DUFFEL BAG as well which he opens, studies its contents, and -satisfied- zips shut.

He closes the trunk, opens the front door-

-slides inside, starts the engine-

-and drives off.

A number of the quaint old buildings share both English and Russian signs.

With his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, John exits an alleyway and ducks into-

-where he motions “one” to the waitress.

She points towards a booth. He nods, sheds his jacket, takes a seat, and glances down at the menu.

Through the window, John studies the front facade of A BANK building.

HIS POV:

The BANK MANAGER -checking his watch- flips over the sign in the door from CLOSED to OPEN.

Pulling on a pair of leather gloves, John walks down the hallway, but instead of turning left, he turns right-

-exiting the building.

He flips his jacket inside-out -from black to gray- and slips on a face mask.

Reaching down behind a trash can, he removes a TWO GALLON PLASTIC GAS TANK and a PISTOL before walking back down the alley, and out into-

-making a b-line for the Bank.

As he walks across the street, traffic stops as onlookers gawk in horror.

John opens the door, and enters-

-firing two shots in the air.

Customers flee, secretaries scramble after them, as does the Bank Manager...

...who slides to a halt, John’s pistol staring down at him.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

John fires four shots...

...killing the two gunmen who appeared behind the Bank Manager.

The Bank Manager swings open the door, revealing two walls of safety-deposit boxes on either side...

...with a large door in the rear of the vault leading into a secondary vault. A keypad is attached to its face replete with a fingerprint reader.

John presses the barrel of the gun to the back of the Bank Manager’s head and forces him into the vault.

The bank manager hesitates...

...and then presses a thumb to the reader and types in a code.

A beat... and the door opens with a hiss.

John pistol-whips the Bank Manager, knocking him out.

Without really looking inside-

-John tosses the plastic gas can into the secondary vault, and unloads the pistol...

...into the gas can which explodes into flame, illuminating the space to reveal pallets of cash, smuggled artwork, jewels, and the like stashed therein.

John tosses the pistol inside, and walks away.

As the fire grows, devouring the millions of dollars in liquid assets...

John casually walks across the street, ignoring the gawkers, and enters the alleyway.

The Bank Manager comes to with a groan, pulling himself up to his feet. His jaw draw drops -eyes wide- at the sight of the fire.

John tosses the gloves and mask into the trash, turns his jacket back out, slips it back on, and enters-

-walking down the hallway to enter-

-slipping into his seat as the Waitress arrives with his coffee and donut.

John takes a deep breath, exhales...

...and relaxes as across the street, the Bank Manager emerges from the building, and flees off down the street.

A beat... and the trio of intimidating sedans pull up to the curb.

The gunmen in the rear and front vehicles emerge, studying their surroundings. A beat... and one of the gunman slaps a hand to the roof of the center car.

Proceeded -and preceded- by a bodyguard, Viggo emerges, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and marches into the bank as across the street...

...John watches.

The waitress rips the receipt off of her pad-

-and drops it on the table in front of him.

John stands, tosses a twenty down on top of it, turns, and leaves, snagging a toothpick at the cashier’s booth before exiting.

As John walks, he reaches down behind a trash can...

...and retrieves a LARGE BRIEFCASE.

Viggo stands in the center of the small room with his head down, prodding a smoldering Picasso with the tip of his foot.

The question is met by silence.

Viggo is trembling with rage, hands clenched at his sides, eyes unblinking.

With his head down -hands stuffed deep into his pockets, a cigarette smoldering between his lips- Viggo exits, slowly making his way towards his car.

Perched behind the wheel -the driver’s side window missing- John shifts gears, slams his foot down onto the gas...

...and narrows his eyes, tensing, his knuckles creaking from within leather gloves as his fingers constrict around the wheel of the stolen vehicle.

The gunmen react to the sound of the engine’s roar, the two nearest it’s approach dropping to a knee, aiming, and firing.

Bullets slam into the windshield -a round slashing into John’s cheek, clipping his ear- and engine block before the front left tire blows.

John loses control of the truck which fishtails wildly, slamming into a sedan, crushing two gunmen before it cartwheels through their midst, killing three more before coming to a stop on its side.

A gunmen pushes Viggo towards the center sedan-

-shoving him inside.

Three gunmen approach the truck, firing repeatedly.

Dazed, John -his face cut by glass, fresh wounds seeping hot blood- reaches over into the open briefcase, removing the silenced-UZI therein.

John shoots out the sunroof, dragging himself free of the vehicle as he ducks for cover.

As the Sedan peels out, John swiftly ejects the clip, selects another -wrapped in blue tape, these ARMOR-PIERCING BULLETS are dark gray, seemingly sharpened to a tip- from a clip belt, slaps it into weapon, drops to a knee and-

-as the Sedan drives past-

-depresses the trigger.

Bullets easily punch through the doors and windows, riddling the dash..

...the passenger, the driver...

...the seats...

...one gunmen, Viggo, another gunmen...

...and the seats.

The Sedan veers off, plummeting into the store front of a pharmacy.

John ejects the spent clip, selects another wrapped in blue tape, turns towards the fallen truck, and pulls the trigger.

The bullets punch through the roof, seats/floor, and undercarriage of the vehicle...

...cutting the remaining gunmen to shreds on the sidewalk behind it.

The clip empties.

Silence.

John tosses the Uzi into the truck, turns, and walks towards the store front from which the rear half of a sedan protrudes, pausing to slip free a silenced-pistol from a dead man’s hand.

John enters, glancing into the Sedan as he moves past:the gunmen are all dead, but Viggo is missing, a rear door open.

John rounds the corner...

...to see a trail of blood. He follows it...

...to find Viggo dragging his broken body, his switchblade in one hand, his cellphone in the other. The knife is unceremoniously dropped as he struggles to dial 9... 1...

...before the phone slips through his fingers, slick with blood.

John stands over him, the pistol level.

As if sensing him, Viggo rolls over with a groan.

John hesitates, squats, and retrieves Viggo’s cell phone.

Viggo is fading... fast.

Viggo coughs, trembling.

John stands, dials an additional “1”, and the send button...

...but it is too late: Viggo is dead.

John tosses the phone down onto Viggo’s chest, slips the gun into the back of his pants, turns and as he walks towards the store front...

...grabs a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the shelf, unscrewing the cap.

John dumps the bottle onto his head, gritting his teeth, as behind him...

...the sedan EXPLODES behind him.

John does not react.

He tosses aside the bottle, stuffs his hands into his pockets, lowers his head, and walks on.

David sits in a chair with his head down: his ankles, wrists, mouth, and eyes bound by duct tape. A weathered hand reaches over and RIPS the tape off of his eyes.

David winces out of pain and the brutal sensation of light.

Dressed in a three-piece suit, Harry places an old -but gingerly cared for- hat upon his head, a ring upon his finger glistening, his watch an enviable antique.

Harry lifts his suitcase and turns heading for the door.

Harry opens the door...

...and exits, leaving the door ajar.

David slumps in his seat; exhausted, broken, and defeated.

SUPER: NEWARK, NEW JERSEY

Day becomes night.

A bustling mecca of commerce, the port never sleeps;ships of all shapes and sizes dock, empty their shipment, refilled with return cargo, and slip out into the night.

A multi-hulled beast of a ship, THE CHAYKA (Seagull) rests dock-side, its bridge guarded by a small army of security guards.

Overhead, scattered throughout the cranes, are a half-dozen SNIPERS, searching/studying the dockyard.

Cellophane-wrapped pallets of WEAPONS and bales of CASH are carried by forklifts into the center of the hull and bolted to the floor.

Meanwhile, two dozen high-end, luxury cars enter the hull, each driven into its own reinforced, steel crate, the doors sealed shut behind them.

As the last WORKER leaves, he shouts into his walkie-talkie.

Overhead, a large chute appears-

-and the OPERATOR presses a button, sending a seemingly endless stream of grain down into the hull, covering the smuggled goods.

Chewing on an unlit cigar, the CAPTAIN -60s, enormous, grizzled, salt-and-pepper beard, long, unkempt hair, dressed in denim and leather- studies paperwork at his desk while Iosef paces; a cigarette in one hand, a drink in the other.

The Captain’s phone rings. He answers it.

The Captain’s face falls, his jaw clenched.

The Captain hangs up, finds a match, sparks it to flame, and ignites the tip of his cigar, puffing it like an old steam engine.

Iosef is stunned.

The Captain is cut off by the intercom which squawks to life, a screaming voice reduced to panicked static. The Captain slaps a hand down onto the call button.

A number of security guards lay dead upon the deck -bleeding out from single gunshot wounds- as the others sprint for cover. The Operator leans hard against the call button of the intercom.

A round slams into the side of the Operator’s head, killing him instantly, his body sinking to the deck.

The Captain stands, checks the chamber of the LUGER PISTOL at his side, and heads for the door.

The Captain exits the cabin and slams the door behind him. Trembling, Iosef latches close the door...

...and pours himself a tall drink.

A SNIPER searches the yard through his scope, his earpiece overwhelmed by panicked chatter.

TINK!

Across the way, another sniper tumbles off his perch...

TINK!

...as does another...

TINK!

...and another...

TINK!

...and another...

The sniper searches, his skin wet with perspiration, hand trembling upon the stock.

TINK!

...and another, screaming as he falls...

The Sniper has found John...

...but it is too late.

WE ZOOM THROUGH HIS SCOPE...

...ACROSS THE YARD...

...AND INTO THE CANNERY WHERE JOHN LIES ON THE FLOOR WITH A SNIPER RIFLE TO HIS SHOULDER.

JOHN FIRES...

...AND WE FOLLOW THE BULLET BACK UP TOWARDS THE SNIPER’S PERCH...

...WHERE IT ENTERS THE SNIPER’S SCOPE...

...AND PUNCHES THROUGH THE BACK OF HIS HEAD.

His body goes limp...

...and slides out of his perch, cart-wheeling down to the earth below.

EIGHT HEAVILY-ARMORED SUV’s bear down on the old cannery building.

John shifts position, aims, and fires-

-but the round ricochets off the bulletproof window.

John ejects the clip, ejects a round, leans the weapon against the window, and sinks back into the darkness.

The parade of SUVs enter the cannery, their tires screeching to a stop as a swarm of highly-trained gunmen emerge, scattering throughout the building.

John pries open the doors of an old, wooden, elevator shaft: now an empty cavern disappearing down into darkness.

A pair of gunmen swiftly close in on John...

...who takes a deep breath...

...and jumps-

-bullets riddling the doors behind him-

-disappearing down into the darkness-

-his body SLAPPING against the water as he sinks like a stone.

A gunmen rounds a corner...

...stepping over the empty duffel bag we last saw in John’s trunk...

...and freezes, his eyes wide.

HIS POV: A brick of C-4 is attached to one of the main support beams, the pale red light of the detonator glowing with ominous disdain.

He takes a step back, lowering his weapon, and glances about...

...noticing for the first time the RED LIGHTS of a DOZEN OR MORE C-4 charges scattered throughout the interior.

Underwater, John lifts his hand...

...to reveal a REMOTE DETONATER...

...which he depresses with his thumb.

The gunman goes pale at the sight of all of those red lights... turning green.

A series of powerful explosion tear through the building, reducing it to splinters as it collapses in upon itself.

As debris begins to sink down all around him, John swims as hard as he can.

Surfacing when he is safe, gasping for breath.

Finding a ladder, John climbs upwards-

-emerging from behind an access panel.

John turns towards the ship and moves at a steady pace, eyes roving.

Surrounded by crewmen and security personnel, the Captain watches the explosion, his eyes wide.

CREWMAN #1 What do we do?

POP! POP! POP! POP!

The sound of a pistol echoes up past them.

With his pistol held in both hands -soaked to the bone- John strides towards the boat’s entryway, dropping five guards with two perfectly-placed shots apiece.

He ejects the spent clips, slaps in a replacement, drops to a knee, and fires off six shots at the two gunmen as they round the corner, dead before they hit the ground.

John drops his pistol, retrieves a submachine gun off a dead guard, unfolds the stock, presses it to his shoulder, and enters the ship.

With a trembling hand, Iosef pours himself a drink, staring at the door...

...from behind which is heard the sound of sheer, unadulterated chaos: gunfire, screams, and explosions.

Silence.

THUM! THUM! THUM!

Iosef drops his glass, and unlatches the door.

The Captain stumbles into the room, leaning heavy against his desk, pausing to take a swig of whisky, blood trickling down from his forehead, his left arm limp at his side.

The Captain reloads, reaches into his drawer, finds a snub- nosed .38, and tosses it to Iosef.

The Captain swings open the door, and -with his pistol in both hands- enters-

-bodies lay everywhere.

Gunshots ring out.

A number of panicking crewmen flee the ship.

Iosef stays close to the Captain, his sweaty hands clinging to the pistol. As the Captain rounds the corner-

-commotion-

-as he and John collide.

SLOW MOTION...

...as John looks past the Captain, his eyes locking onto Iosef...

...who -panicking- raises his pistol, and FIRES-

BACK TO SCENE

-hitting the Captain in the shoulder.

Iosef turns and flees...

...as the Captain and John disarm one another.

The Captain roars -in pain and anger- driving a fist into John’s side, breaking ribs. He follows through with a wild left, but John avoids it, slapping it aside, the Captain’s forward momentum sending his fist to SHATTER again the iron wall of his ship.

The Captain howls, wrapping his arms around John, crushing him...

...and as consciousness begins to fade...

...John’s teeth close around the captain’s nose, cleaving it from his face.

Stunned, the Captain releases John who kicks out his knee, moves behind him, wraps his arms around the wounded man’s head, and SNAPS his neck.

Iosef emerges from the lower deck, firing back into the darkness as tears roll down his face.

A beat...

...and John emerges, the very visage of death: his chest etched with bullet wounds, blood trickling down his face, wet, dirty, wounded, pale, and yet...

...unstoppable.

John moves at a steady pace, the gun in his hand at his side, arm limp.

Iosef sprints towards the far end of the ship, and climbs up the ladder towards the pilothouse.

John follows.

Overlooking the entire ship’s deck, the pilothouse offers little in the way of escape.

Instead, Iosef now finds himself trapped.

He searches the desk and finds a LETTER OPENER which he yields like a knife, turning...

...as John enters the room.

Silence.

A beat... and John raises the pistol, and fires off his last round, punching a hole in the glass.

Iosef grins, laughing as John drops his weapon.

John surges into Iosef...

...whose hand comes down with the letter opener. John catches his wrist, and snaps it as his right hand darts up, constricts around Iosef’s jaw, cracking it in two...

...lifting him from with the ground...

...and hurling him through the pane of glass which EXPLODES.

SCREAMING, Iosef tumbles end over end, his body slamming into chute from which grain continues to pour, the hull close to full.

Iosef cartwheels over it and lands half-in/half-out of the hull, SNAPPING his back, as around him...

...grain piles higher...

...as he sinks.

While his legs remain on deck, his upper torso sinks slightly, the grain covering his face, muting his screams...

...as he suffocates to death.

John stares down at him for a long moment, turns...

...and leaves.

Silence as a soft snow begins to fall.

A beat...

...and a sedan rounds the corner, takes it too wide, and crashes.

Perched behind the wheel with his head down, John groans, leaning back as snow wafts through the door’s broken side window.

John pulls himself out of the vehicle, stumbles a few feet, enters-

-leans heavy against the wall, and slides into a sitting position.

John Wick looks to be on death’s very doorstep....

...however...

...death will not take him.

With an almost frustrated/irritated groan John pulls himself to his feet, and staggers down the alley.

Small, simple, and clean.

A beat... and an elbow is driven through the door’s window. John reaches in, unlocks the door, opens it, enters, and closes it behind him.

John grabs an empty box and begins filling it with instruments, medication, bandages, and the like.

John enters to find an empty room...

...save a single YOUNG DOG -a mutt of no distinguishable breed, three years old- who sits staring at him, offering little more than a tilt of its head.

John strips and -using the hose attachment- rinses his body clean: the damage is extensive with cuts, bruises, and three bullet holes (one in his shoulder, one his side, and one in his chest).

John studies the bullet wounds.

However when he gets to the one in his chest-

John swallows a handful of pills, clenches his teeth, and - using a pair of needle nose pliers- reaches into the wound, searching...

...until he finds the bullet which he pulls free.

John cleans the wounds with disinfectant, applies a number of pads/bandages, and studies himself in the mirror: he is a complete and total wreck... but alive.

Searching, John finds some surgical garb; thin pants and a shirt which he slips into.

John takes a jacket off of the rack, tries it on -too small- moves on to the second one, and it fits. John flicks off the light, and leaves the room. A long beat...

...and John returns, turning the light back on. From across the room, he stares at the young dog, studying it.

The dog makes no sound, tilting it’s head from side to side.

A beat... and John walks to the cage, removing the clipboard from its side, reading it: we can see that the dog is scheduled to be put down tomorrow.

Miko replies with a tilt of her head-

-and a paw pressed to the side of the cage.

John smiles, places the clipboard on top of the cage, and opens its door.

Miko doesn’t move.

A beat... and Miko leaps down onto the floor, tail wagging.

John takes a leash off of the wall, and clips it to Miko’s collar.

John and Miko emerge from the Veterinarian’s Office and walk out into the snow...

...disappearing into the night.

With his arm in a cast, DAVID makes his way through the kitchen, his expensive suit freshly pressed.

David enters dry storage, makes his way to the back, and walks down the staircase.

As he approaches the door, he searches his pocket for a gold coin, finding one. He slips it into the slit in the door. A long beat...

...and down below, it clatters out into a small receptacle.

...over his shoulder, we see Winston emerge from the shadows behind him, a silenced-pistol held steady in his hand.

THUMP! THUMP!

CUT TO: BLACK

Silence.

The sound of a key slipped into an ignition.

It turns, the engine roaring to life, tires squealing.

FADE IN:

The sleek, clean, black as night, 1969 Ford Mustang ‘Boss 429’ sprints down the tarmac as inside...

...Miko holds her head out of the open window, her eyes narrowed, mouth open, and tongue flapping in the wind.

John smiles, reaches over, and scratches her on the back.

The Mustang charges off into the distance.

FADE OUT: