No time to waste. The club owner immediately called the base to inquire about John's availability.
Fortunately, John hadn't retired for the night; he was currently holding a meeting with the key members of the local base. He was scheduled to leave Houston for New York tomorrow, and he had to tie up all loose ends before his departure.
Upon receiving the news, the owner was overjoyed. He immediately applied for a meeting with John, using the pretext that a special guest had arrived at the club—someone John would surely find interesting.
Once the request was submitted, everyone sat in the private VIP room to wait. In Houston, John held a status that was beyond extraordinary; a simple phone call usually wasn't enough to secure an audience. Even the city's highest officials found it difficult to catch a glimpse of him.
"Do you think he'll refuse? Or perhaps grow suspicious?" Loki asked, a hint of concern in his voice. His knowledge of John was limited to the dry reports in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files. To truly understand a man, one had to look him in the eye.
"Unlikely," The owner replied, though there was a trace of uncertainty in his tone. The organization was currently in a massive expansion phase, recruiting heavily from across society. Over the past year, the owner had personally introduced thirteen new recruits. By using the word special, he had practically guaranteed that John would be intrigued.
As for suspicion, that was even less likely. Loki had entered the club under a magical disguise, had not exposed his identity, and had done nothing overtly suspicious. Unless John possessed the power of prophecy, he had no reason to doubt the meeting.
After ten minutes of tense silence, the base called back. John had agreed to the meeting. Loki let out a quiet sigh of relief and shot a triumphant look at the others.
"Let's go. It's time to meet our comrade."
Since the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's face was flagged in the Joker organization's database, he stayed behind at the club. Loki and the owner were driven to the location by the two bouncers.
*
John's style was unlike any other. While most people would choose a remote forest for a secret base, he did the opposite: he established the Houston headquarters in a high-end, members-only hotel in the heart of the city. True concealment isn't found in the wild, but in the bustling center of power.
The hotel was massive, decorated in a timeless classical style. It was a favorite haunt for the city's socialites and politicians. What S.H.I.E.L.D. likely didn't know that many of these influential figures were the Joker organization's primary financial backers. They funneled immense wealth and resources to the organization in exchange for peace and business favors. The hotel itself had been provided to the organization free of charge.
Whether you hated Jason or loved him, the reality was undeniable: in the current climate, if you wanted your business to grow, you had to be on good terms with the Joker organization. Otherwise, even a billionaire like Tony Stark would find himself forced out of his own company, living a life of displacement. The American capitalists understood this; they cared only about immediate and future profits. If there was enough money to be made, they would support the Joker organization even if it meant toppling the world order.
The club's bouncers drove the car into the hotel's underground parking lot. As soon as they parked, two burly men approached, large-caliber handguns tucked into their waistbands. Their hands swung naturally as they walked, but their right hands remained inches from their holsters, ready for a quick draw. These were official members of the organization, and their combat skills were on par with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.
Before they could speak, the club owner pulled a card from his pocket and handed it over. "Sorry for the trouble."
One of the men took the card and swiped it through a device resembling a POS terminal. The card contained the member's credentials and an encrypted invitation to the hotel. Unless you were a high-ranking official of the Houston branch, members were restricted from entering without specific clearance.
"The invitation says two people," The man said, looking up with a stone face.
The owner pointed to the front seats. "They're just drivers. They aren't coming in."
The man nodded, returned the card, and said, "Proceed."
Loki and the owner stepped out. One guard stayed to watch the drivers, while the other led the pair to a private elevator that went directly to John's floor. Even with an invitation, guests were not allowed to wander; the hotel operated under strict rules and time restrictions.
The elevator stopped one floor below the penthouse. The guard handed them off to a team of high-level security—John's personal detail.
"Security check," One guard stated.
The first rule of meeting John was surrendering all weapons and anything deemed suspicious. The owner, knowing the drill, had left his gun in the car and simply handed over his phone. As for Loki, he carried nothing on his person, but the flamboyant scepter was impossible to ignore.
"This is a gift I intended for Mr. Wick. I wish to present it personally," Loki explained calmly.
The guard snatched the scepter, examined it closely, and ran it through a portable X-ray scanner. Finding nothing beyond its ornate craftsmanship, he assumed it was just a beautiful piece of art.
"Proceed."
Cleared by security, the two were led into John's drawing room. It was an elegant space—classical décor, antique wooden furniture, and soft yellow lighting that created a warm, cozy atmosphere.
Having finished his day's work, John had removed his black suit jacket and wore only a crisp white shirt. He sat upright on a long sofa, a glass of chilled whiskey in his hand. A nightcap was a habit he never broke.
As they entered, the guards quietly withdrew.
"Sit."
John glanced at the scepter and gestured to the chairs. Loki and the owner sat opposite him. John looked to be in his thirties, with a sensible beard and neatly trimmed fingernails. Loki's first impression was that this man didn't look like a killer; he looked like a gentleman.
John: "Something to drink? Water, coffee, or whiskey?"
The owner didn't hesitate. "Whiskey!" The Big Boss, Jason, loved whiskey, and over time it had become the drink of choice for the entire organization—to not drink it was practically heresy.
"The same," Loki added casually. To him, Earth's drinks were a joke. In Asgard, a drink worthy of the name had to be naturally fermented for at least a thousand years; the flavor was beyond mortal comprehension. On Earth, they aged something for twenty years and sold it for a fortune. To Loki, all human alcohol tasted the same.
John rose slowly to pour the drinks himself, treating them not as subordinates, but as guests.
"Sir... please, let me," The owner said, overwhelmed by the gesture. He quickly stood up to take the bottle.
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