After Anthony permitted the captives to execute the Cartel enforcers, he looked at the traumatized survivors huddled around the bodies.
He pointed to Sergei. "Eat the food we brought. Then, follow him. He will transport you to a safe house for medical treatment and rest."
"For those who wish to return home, I will provide the travel funds. For those who cannot return, I will provide jobs. For those who wish to exact further revenge... I will provide the guns."
Anthony turned away from the group and looked at James. "Let's move out. Destination: Pritzker Pharmaceuticals."
Anthony slid into the passenger seat of the armored Ford SUV and dialed John's secure line.
"I have a high-value target to execute," Anthony said bluntly. "And I'm afraid I might not be able to handle it alone. Keep a low profile. Pritzker Pharmaceuticals in Manhattan."
"Understood," John replied. A single word, heavily weighted with lethal intent.
Anthony wasn't particularly worried about breaching the corporate security of the Pritzker facility. What concerned him were Enrique's two personal bodyguards: the elite High Table assassins.
Aside from Tier One operators like James, standard Tarasov mobsters or gang enforcers simply could not stand toe-to-toe with specialized High Table assassins. The casualties would be catastrophic.
Anthony hung up and immediately dialed Sheriff Rollins.
"Sheriff," Anthony said smoothly. "Mobilize your SWAT units. I need them at the Pritzker Pharmaceutical facility in exactly thirty minutes. Arrest everyone you can find."
Anthony had no intention of killing Enrique Pritzker himself.
Once Anthony eliminated the two elite bodyguards protecting the operation, the NYPD would be free to storm the facility and arrest the billionaire. Anthony was more than happy to let the police claim the political glory of busting a massive human trafficking ring, provided it crippled Enrique.
The perimeter security at the Pritzker facility was shockingly lax.
Perhaps it was the arrogance of operating under the umbrella of a legitimate, multi-billion dollar corporation, or perhaps it was the false sense of absolute security provided by the High Table's gold coins.
When the white refrigerated truck rolled up to the security checkpoint, the guard in the booth merely glanced at the California license plates. He didn't even ask the driver to step out or sign a manifest.
He simply pressed a button, and the heavy steel gate slid open.
A second security guard standing near the loading dock lazily waved a brightly colored baton, directing the truck to back into the subterranean offloading bays.
"Too easy," Sergei muttered from the passenger seat. He was wearing the bloody floral shirt stripped off the Cartel lieutenant, intentionally showing off the prison tattoos creeping up his neck.
In the back of the freshly hosed-out cargo trailer, James's PMC fireteam stood in complete silence, their weapons raised in the dark.
The truck backed into the subterranean bay. The heavy, insulated garage door rumbled shut, sealing them inside.
The subterranean loading dock was blindingly bright, illuminated by rows of surgical-grade LED strips.
Three men wearing pristine white lab coats stood waiting on the concrete dock. They were flanked by two private military contractors armed with short-barreled submachine guns.
Anthony hopped out of the driver's cab. He walked to the rear of the truck, the gold High Table coin dangling visibly from his fingers.
The lead doctor glanced at the coin and nodded. "What is the total yield?"
"Thirty-four," Anthony said, his voice flat. "Three expired in transit. Thirty-one remain viable."
The doctor frowned deeply, making a note on his clipboard.
"That mortality rate is entirely unacceptable. During the previous extraction, only one out of forty units expired."
"We encountered a police checkpoint on the highway," Anthony shrugged casually. "It delayed our timeline. The ventilation in the cargo hold failed."
The doctor sighed, deciding not to pursue the argument. He waved his hand, signaling the armed guards to open the heavy cargo doors.
Anthony shot Sergei a sharp, microscopic wink.
The instant the heavy doors swung open, James and his fireteam surged out of the darkness.
Pffft! Pffft!
The two PMC guards were shot dead before they even registered the threat. The suppressed rounds punched perfectly through their foreheads, dropping them to the concrete instantly.
The three doctors froze in terror as half a dozen suppressed rifles were leveled at their chests.
"It's alright. You are permitted to scream," Anthony said, pulling off his aviator sunglasses.
The lead doctor trembled violently, staring at Anthony. "You... you aren't the Cartel."
"The Cartel uses Latino operatives. Have you never met them before?" Anthony asked, staring coldly at the man. "Or do you strictly deal with the money and never bother looking at the people?"
James rapidly swept the loading dock. He and his team quickly secured a dozen lab technicians working inside an adjacent glass-walled processing room, zip-tying their wrists to the desks.
Anthony walked over to the primary security console. The digital blueprint of the facility was displayed on the screen.
There were three subterranean levels.
"Who is the operational director of this facility?" Anthony asked the captive doctors.
No one answered.
Anthony grabbed the closest doctor by his hair and violently slammed the man's face into the edge of the steel console. The doctor screamed, his nose shattering.
"I asked a question. Who is in charge?"
"Doctor Bosch!" the bleeding man sobbed frantically. "He... he's in Laboratory B3!"
"Lead the way."
Anthony forced the doctor into the freight elevator, checking the magazine of his Glock 17 as the car descended into the earth.
The elevator doors chimed open at Sub-Level B3.
The space wasn't a standard laboratory. It was a sprawling, panopticon-style monitoring center. An entire wall was covered in dozens of high-definition screens, broadcasting live footage from various sectors of the facility.
Several of the feeds showed sterile, prison-like cells. Kidnapped victims were locked inside. Some were strapped to hospital beds, receiving forced intravenous fluids. Others were simply huddled terrified in the corners.
An elderly man in a tailored white lab coat sat in an ergonomic swivel chair in the center of the room. He had thinning gray hair and wore expensive gold-rimmed glasses.
He was reviewing a stack of medical charts when the elevator doors opened. He didn't bother looking up.
"Have today's raw materials been processed? What was the mortality rate?"
"One hundred percent," Anthony replied smoothly.
Dr. Bosch froze. He slowly looked up, his eyes widening as he registered the muzzle of Anthony's Glock leveled at his chest.
Then, surprisingly, the old man smiled.
"Oh? An armed robbery? Do you possess any concept of whose property you are currently trespassing on?"
"The Pritzker family," Anthony said. "Or, more accurately, Enrique's High Table backers."
"And yet you still dared to breach the perimeter?" Dr. Bosch set the medical chart down and stood up slowly, exuding a chilling, academic arrogance. "Young man, I truly admire your audacity, but I weep for your sheer stupidity."
"Even if you assassinate me and burn this facility to the ground, a new doctor and a new laboratory will manifest by tomorrow morning. As long as the demand for human capital exists, the supply chain will never be severed. It is basic economics."
"I did not come here to debate macroeconomic theory with you," Anthony said, his finger tightening on the trigger. "I am here to shut down the assembly line."
Dr. Bosch let out a dry, condescending laugh.
"You believe you are some kind of vigilante superhero? Fighting a global system by yourself? I have operated in this specific industry for fifteen years. I have witnessed men vastly more ruthless than you attempt to disrupt our supply chain. Every single one of them eventually vanished without a trace."
"The absolute elite who sit at the apex of society... they are the architects of order. And maintaining order... requires sacrifice."
"Were the people locked in your cages willing to be sacrificed?" Anthony asked, genuinely curious about the man's twisted psychological justification.
"Willing?" Dr. Bosch scoffed, treating the question like an absurd joke, completely ignoring the guns pointed at him. "Who genuinely cares about their consent?"
"They are the absolute surplus of a failing society. Heroin addicts. Homeless vagrants. The violently mentally ill. They possess no family, no future, and absolutely zero utility."
"By harvesting their biology, we grant them the singular opportunity to contribute to the advancement of medical science. It is vastly more meaningful than allowing them to freeze to death in a gutter."
Anthony didn't say a word. He just stared at the old man with dead eyes.
Assuming Anthony was intimidated by his logic, Dr. Bosch gestured proudly toward the glass double doors leading into the primary surgical theater.
"Allow me to show you the processing zone. We provide highly 'customized' medical services to the wealthiest individuals on the planet."
The scene beyond the glass was horrifying.
A disemboweled corpse lay on a stainless steel operating table, its thoracic cavity completely emptied.
Row upon row of high-tech refrigeration units lined the walls. They were packed with perfectly preserved, vacuum-sealed human organs, neatly labeled with bar codes: hearts, livers, kidneys, corneas.
"Require a heart transplant? We have the inventory," Dr. Bosch boasted. "Require a pristine liver? We maintain a constant supply."
The doctor walked over to a specialized, heavy-duty bio-vault and pulled the heavy steel door open.
"Even if a client desires something... exceedingly exotic... we can facilitate the request."
Inside the vault sat rows of heavy glass jars filled with formaldehyde. The jars contained human eyeballs. The irises spanned every color and the owners had been of every conceivable age, but they were all meticulously preserved and displayed like morbid collectibles.
There were other jars containing amputated human breasts, severed genitalia, and perfectly formed, preserved fetuses.
"These are works of bespoke art," Dr. Bosch whispered reverently. "Certain clients possess highly unique palates for human tissue."
Anthony finally spoke. His voice was absolute zero.
"Does Gramont share that palate?"
Dr. Bosch's arrogant smile instantly froze.
"What... what did you just say?"
"The Marquis Vincent Bisset de Gramont," Anthony enunciated the name carefully, letting it hang in the sterile air.
"Does the High Table emissary realize you are exploiting his gold coins to facilitate this specific grotesque side-business? Or... did he authorize this himself?"
Dr. Bosch's face instantly drained of all color, turning a sickly, ash-white.
He stumbled backward, his hand darting inside his white coat toward a concealed weapon.
Anthony didn't even blink. He fired a single round.
The 9mm bullet shattered Dr. Bosch's right shoulder. The old man shrieked in agony, spinning like a top before collapsing heavily onto the linoleum floor.
James and Sergei instantly swept their rifles toward the laboratory entrances, establishing a defensive perimeter, but no reinforcements breached the doors.
"You... you are utterly insane!" Dr. Bosch screamed, clutching his bleeding shoulder. "They will butcher your entire family!"
"I am fully aware of the risks," Anthony said, walking forward and pressing the searing hot muzzle of the Glock directly against the doctor's forehead. "But you won't be around to witness the consequences."
Anthony pulled the trigger.
The sharp crack of the execution echoed through the sterile laboratory.
Almost simultaneously, two figures detached themselves from the deep shadows at the far end of the surgical theater.
One was a blonde Caucasian man wearing an immaculate, tailored dark suit. He wore a heavy silver serpent ring on his left hand.
Elite Assassin: Bertrand Laroche.
The other was a heavily muscled Latino man featuring a jagged, pale scar that ran from his right brow bone down to his cheek.
Elite Assassin: Santiago Valencia.
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