Billionaire in Kingsman with a Marvel System

After leaving the restaurant, William spent over an hour riding his motorcycle, following Sunday's guidance as he scouted several potential warehouse locations. Finally, at the fourth site, he found the warehouse where the Russian mafia stored their money.

In a dark alley outside the warehouse, William sat on his motorcycle, extending his mental power to scan the interior of the warehouse.

The warehouse, which appeared from the outside to be part of a cold storage facility for beef and lamb near the docks, was heavily guarded on the inside by gang members wielding Uzis, AKs, and other firearms.

In one large warehouse, William sensed about a dozen armed guards overseeing more than thirty women dressed in work uniforms. Each woman had a large table in front of her, with two money counters and a mountain of cash at her feet. They periodically grabbed handfuls of bills, sorted them by denomination, and fed them into the money counters, which hummed as they counted the loose bills.

Bundles of 100 and 50-dollar bills were kept on the tables, while the 10 and 20-dollar bills were bundled and thrown into a large plastic bin in front of each table.

It didn't take long for William to understand why they were doing this. After a few minutes of observation, one of the women raised her hand and stood up. Immediately, two guards with guns approached her, glanced at the plastic bin in front of her table, nodded, and then holstered their weapons. They dragged the bin over to a large pile of cash and asked the man sitting on top of the money, who appeared to be the boss, "Boss, should we send these small bills to the drop-off point or store them in the warehouse?"

"Of course, send them to the drop-off point. The warehouse is already almost full, and at least half of it is just piles of 10s and 20s. Call that idiot Slavy and tell him to use his connections on the East Coast to get rid of all these small bills. Also, tell him if he sends more 10s and 20s, I'll make him explain it to Mr. Pushkin himself. Let's see if he can bribe those American cops with this small change."

"Understood, boss. I'll have the money sent to Slavy right away."

The boss nodded, watching his men leave. He then looked at the massive pile of 10s and 20s beneath him and shouted after them, "Tell that idiot Slavy he only has one week. Next week, we'll ship all the money in this warehouse to the Tarasov brothers in New York. If he doesn't want Vigo Tarasov breathing down his neck, he'd better get moving."

"Don't worry, boss. Slavy wouldn't dare offend Vigo and Abram Tarasov," one of the men assured him.

Outside the warehouse, William found the name Vigo familiar. He tapped his earpiece. "Sunday, run a check on Vigo Tarasov and Abram Tarasov."

A moment later, Sunday sent the information to William's phone. As soon as William saw Vigo Tarasov's face, he recognized who he was.

Well, well, well, isn't this the same Russian mob boss from *John Wick 1*? The same guy whose son bashed John Wick's head in, nearly killing him, stole the car his wife had given him, and then killed his dog right in front of him.

This could be interesting, William thought, a sly smile crossing his face. He dialed John Wick's number.

The phone rang four times before John Wick answered. "Good evening, Mr. Devonshire. What can I do for you?"

"Do you know who Vigo Tarasov and Abram Tarasov are?"

John Wick thought for a moment before replying, "Of course, sir. Vigo and Abram Tarasov are both descendants of Russian bears, very well-known in our underground circles. It's rumored that they're Pushkin's proxies in New York. Are you planning to cause trouble for them, Mr. Devonshire?"

"No," William chuckled. "Since you know who Vigo and Abram Tarasov are, I need you to go and pay them a visit. Let them know I'd like to invite them to Boston for a lobster dinner."

John Wick didn't hesitate. "Understood, sir. I'll head to New York right away."

"No rush. Meet me at the hotel in an hour. I have something to give you."

"Alright, see you in an hour, sir."

After hanging up, William used his mental power to scan the surroundings, then took a few steps back before sprinting forward and jumping over the warehouse wall.

With his mental power fully active, William had a clear sense of everything within a 200-meter radius. Along with Sunday's guidance, he strolled through the warehouse, effortlessly avoiding all the guards and checkpoints until he reached the warehouse where the cash was stored.

He climbed through a ventilation shaft and slipped into the warehouse. After a quick glance at the piles of cash, William couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. He estimated there were at least 200 large bundles, each the size of a suitcase. Based on the size of the bills, Sunday calculated that if these were 100-dollar bills, each bundle would be worth $10 million.

Considering Pushkin's status as an oligarch, William wasn't surprised that the gang would stash such a large amount of cash here.

A crafty rabbit has three burrows, he thought, estimating that there was at least $1 billion in the warehouse. Suppressing his excitement, William set a teleportation beacon in the ventilation shaft before crawling back out of the warehouse.

Using his mental power to scan the path ahead, William kept his motorcycle's lights off and lightly pressed the throttle to reduce noise as he rode out of the warehouse's range. Once clear, he revved the engine and sped back to the hotel.

Since the prop money he had ordered hadn't arrived yet, William decided to hold off on opening the teleportation portal to move the cash out of the warehouse. He knew that in a few days, the smaller bills would be replaced with larger denominations, so he wasn't in any rush.

Back at the hotel, William took the private elevator to his suite. He declined the butler's offer of room service, closed the door, and scanned the suite with his mental power. Finding no issues, he opened a portal back to the basement of his Oxford castle, where he retrieved a set of gear before returning to his Boston hotel suite.

He placed the gear by the minibar, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and quietly contemplated his next steps as he waited for John Wick to arrive.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. William put down his glass and opened the door to find John Wick standing there in a well-fitted suit.

"Good evening, Mr. Devonshire."

"Good evening, John. Come in."

William led John Wick to the bar and poured him a glass of Macallan 1956.

"Thank you," John Wick said, accepting the glass and taking a large gulp.

"No, no," William shook his head, chiding him. "This is whiskey, not vodka. You're supposed to savor good whiskey."

John Wick chuckled. "Sorry, sir. You know I'm Russian, and whether it's vodka or whiskey, we drink it in big gulps. But this is excellent whiskey." With that, he finished the rest of the glass in one go. "Thank you."

Slightly exasperated, William refilled the glass when John Wick extended it toward him, filling it to the brim this time.

Since gulping it down was John Wick's habit, William decided not to make a fuss. But he wasn't going to pour him a third glass either, so he simply pushed the bottle toward John Wick.

"Thank you," John Wick said, taking the bottle.

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