Anthony raised a single hand, signaling James and his PMC operators to stand down and step back.
James hesitated. He actually took two steps forward, raising his suppressed rifle.
"Boss, they can't outrun our bullets," James said tightly, his eyes locked on the two High Table assassins. "You and the instructor need to extract now."
Following James's lead, the other former Marines and Delta operators didn't retreat. They formed a tight defensive wall in front of Anthony, tracking the two targets.
James's instincts were screaming at him. He remembered the fight with Marcus Pembroke. These weren't standard cartel thugs. If he engaged these two elite assassins with just his fireteam, the casualty rate would be catastrophic.
He didn't know the full extent of Anthony's combat capabilities, and he assumed the man in the hoodie (John) was simply an older tactical instructor. His only priority was getting Anthony out of the kill box.
Anthony didn't move.
The man in the gray hoodie standing directly behind him didn't move either.
Anthony let out a soft sigh.
He recognized the distinct cut and fabric of the immaculate suits the two assassins were wearing. They were lined with the same proprietary Kevlar-weave technology as his own bespoke suits, potentially even a higher-grade variation.
James and his men were armed with submachine guns and short-barreled rifles. Those medium-to-low caliber rounds wouldn't penetrate the suits. The kinetic impact would bruise the assassins, but it wouldn't kill them.
"I suspected as much," Laroche sighed, his voice dripping with aristocratic disappointment. "That idiot Enrique couldn't even realize the transport crew had been compromised."
Santiago Valencia didn't speak. He crouched slightly, his dark eyes locked dead onto Anthony, analyzing him like a cheetah sizing up an injured gazelle.
"Anthony Tarasov," Laroche offered a graceful, mock-polite bow. "I must confess, I did not expect to cross paths with you down here."
"You put on a remarkably convincing performance at the restaurant last time. Angry. Impulsive. Entirely incompetent. I almost believed you were truly that pathetic."
"Pembroke..." Anthony chuckled softly, looking Laroche dead in the eye. "...died by my hand."
Laroche's polite smile instantly vanished.
The implication was clear. Anthony already knew the Marquis de Gramont had arrived in New York, and he had known exactly who Laroche was the entire time they were sitting in the restaurant.
Laroche's face hardened as he accepted the reality of the situation.
"You killed a piece of useless trash," Laroche sneered.
"We are wasting our breath on dead men," Valencia growled, his hand drifting toward the lapel of his suit.
Laroche didn't say another word. He exploded forward, sprinting toward Anthony with the terrifying, fluid speed of an apex predator.
Valencia moved a fraction of a second later, fanning out to the right to provide covering fire.
James barked an order. The PMC team split into a V-formation, raising their rifles to engage.
"Hm."
The man in the gray hoodie mumbled a single, low syllable.
Hearing John's voice, James and his men instinctively retreated three steps, their trigger fingers tense.
Anthony stood dead center in the aisle, completely relaxed.
[Compensatory Perception]
[Rapid Calculation]
[Neural Response Upgrade]
[Dynamic Vision]
Laroche's speed was genuinely astonishing. He closed the ten-meter gap in the blink of an eye. He was significantly faster and more fluid than Ms. Perkins had been.
But Anthony's upgraded perception tracked every micro-movement. He noticed that as Laroche sprinted in a slight serpentine pattern, the assassin's eyes weren't actually focused on Anthony. He was watching James and the PMC team.
In Laroche's arrogant mind, Anthony was a soft mob boss—a target only worthy of his peripheral vision.
Laroche closed the gap, whipping a sleek, carbon-steel tactical knife from his sleeve and thrusting it directly toward Anthony's throat.
The strike was flawless. Zero wasted movement.
But he had severely underestimated his target.
The exact millisecond Laroche planted his lead foot to strike, Anthony reacted.
Instead of retreating to dodge the blade, Anthony aggressively stepped into Laroche's guard, drawing his unsuppressed Glock 17.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Anthony fired three rounds point-blank into Laroche's chest.
The High Table suit caught the 9mm rounds, preventing penetration, but the kinetic transfer of the triple-tap hit Laroche like a sledgehammer, momentarily stunning him and throwing his momentum off-balance.
In that microsecond of vulnerability, Anthony slipped inside the arc of the tactical knife. He grabbed Laroche's knife-wrist with his left hand, locked it out, and violently smashed the heavy steel frame of the Glock into Laroche's temple with his right hand.
Laroche tried to bring his other arm up to block, but Anthony's Level 9 combat speed was simply too fast.
The instant the steel frame struck his temple, Laroche heard the sickening crack of his own orbital bone shattering. His vision blurred, his equilibrium failed, and then he felt the searing hot muzzle of the Glock press directly underneath his chin.
"Goodbye," Anthony whispered.
BANG!
The bullet entered through the soft tissue beneath Laroche's jaw, bypassed the Kevlar collar entirely, and blew out through the top of his skull.
Laroche's body snapped backward. His eyelids fluttered once, and then he lay permanently still.
The entire sequence took less than three seconds. It was a masterpiece of brutal, mechanical efficiency.
Santiago Valencia abruptly skidded to a halt.
He had personally witnessed Anthony's "performance" at the restaurant alongside Royce Howard. He had believed that was the genuine Anthony Tarasov—a spoiled mafia prince surviving on his family's reputation and a silver tongue.
Valencia suddenly realized the horrifying truth. The bumbling fool at the restaurant had been a perfectly crafted illusion.
The man standing over Laroche's bleeding corpse, the man who had just dismantled an elite High Table assassin in three seconds, was the real Anthony Tarasov.
"You..." Valencia's voice faltered, genuine shock bleeding through his disciplined exterior.
"Your turn," Anthony said calmly, pivoting and leveling the smoking Glock at Valencia's chest.
But Valencia didn't move. He didn't even look at Anthony's gun.
His eyes were locked onto the man in the gray hoodie standing behind Anthony.
The hood was pulled down low, but as the man slowly raised his head, the fluorescent laboratory lights illuminated his features.
"John Wick," Valencia whispered. The name carried a heavy, devout terror.
John did not reply. He simply stood there, as silent and inevitable as the grave.
Valencia knew, with absolute certainty, that he was not leaving this basement alive.
But he was a proud man. He was a trusted confidant of the Marquis de Gramont. He refused to die like a cornered rat. He had never imagined he would cross paths with the legendary Baba Yaga in a subterranean chop-shop, but he understood the hierarchy of the underworld perfectly.
Valencia was an elite assassin.
John Wick was a myth.
"Let's do this, then," Valencia laughed, a manic, desperate sound.
He slowly pulled the heavy silver serpent ring off his left hand and placed it gently onto a stainless steel surgical tray. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, tossing it aside to remove his Kevlar protection.
He drew two custom-machined 1911 pistols from his shoulder holsters, holding them down by his sides.
"Let me see if the myth actually matches the man," Valencia shouted. "John! I invoke the Dueling Protocol! I demand fairness!"
It was a sacred, archaic rule among High Table assassins. A formal request for an honorable duel.
Anthony scowled. He had just harvested a massive amount of system experience from Laroche, and he had no intention of letting John steal the remaining XP.
Besides, Anthony thought cynically, these High Table bastards ignore fairness when they outnumber their targets, but the second they run into someone stronger, they start crying about honorable duels.
"Very well," John said softly. "I will grant you the advantage of two guns."
"John, ignore him. Let me finish this," Anthony stepped forward, raising his weapon.
John simply placed a heavy hand on Anthony's shoulder and smoothly stepped past him.
Valencia screamed, raising both 1911s and opening fire.
A hail of heavy .45 caliber bullets tore through the space where John had been standing a fraction of a second prior.
But John was already a ghost.
The instant Valencia's fingers tightened on the triggers, John dropped into a tactical slide, using the heavy steel operating tables and medical centrifuges for cover. He didn't just react to the gunfire; he anticipated Valencia's sightlines and moved precisely where the bullets weren't.
The heavy rounds shattered the glass observation walls, shredded expensive medical equipment, and blew the formaldehyde jars to pieces, raining preserved eyeballs and glass across the floor.
But not a single bullet touched John Wick.
Valencia fired wildly, dumping his magazines, dropping the empties, and reloading with practiced, frantic speed. His eyes were bloodshot. He let out a feral roar.
"Come out, John Wick! You said you'd give me two guns! Why are you scurrying around in the dark like a fucking rat?"
Before the echo of his shout faded, John materialized from the deep shadows directly behind him.
John held a sleek, matte-black Karambit knife.
The curved blade flashed out, cleanly slicing across the inside of Valencia's right wrist. The razor-sharp steel severed the primary tendons in a single stroke. Valencia's fingers instantly went numb, and the right pistol clattered to the floor.
Valencia shrieked in agony, spinning around and trying to bring his left pistol up.
But John was already moving inside his guard. He parried Valencia's left arm, stepping past his shoulder, and dragged the Karambit across the inside of Valencia's left wrist.
The left tendons snapped. The second pistol dropped.
Valencia stood completely paralyzed, blood gushing rhythmically from both of his ruined wrists, pooling on the white linoleum.
He slowly looked up at the man standing in front of him.
The gray hood had fallen back. Valencia finally stared directly into the cold, dead eyes of the man who haunted the nightmares of the entire assassin world.
"New York is not Gramont's chessboard," John said softly.
John turned and walked away, not bothering to look back.
As he passed Anthony, John paused, giving the younger man a critical, appraising look.
"You continue to surprise me, Anthony."
"You flatter me, John," Anthony smiled, keeping his gun leveled at the bleeding Valencia.
"However," John noted clinically, "your physical stamina remains a liability compared to your technical speed."
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Anthony fired three rounds into Valencia's chest, finishing the execution. Valencia's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed face-first onto the floor, his final gaze locking onto the silver serpent ring resting on the surgical tray.
Anthony holstered his weapon and turned to James.
"Rip all the hard drives from the server farm. Leave the physical evidence intact for the police. As for the 'experiments' locked in the cages..." Anthony's voice tightened. "If the doctors had already started operating on them... if they are beyond saving... grant them a quick, painless death."
Anthony understood the horrific reality of the situation. The NYPD simply didn't possess the clearance to prosecute the High Table elites who funded this facility.
However, by leaving the physical evidence and the mutilated bodies for the police to find, Anthony ensured that the civilian authorities could easily arrest Enrique Pritzker and permanently shatter the legitimate pharmaceutical company serving as Gramont's front.
Anthony deliberately chose not to burn the building down. Winnie might want to repurpose the real estate later, he reasoned darkly.
Ten minutes later, the wail of police sirens flooded the industrial park.
Sheriff Rollins and Jimmy led a dozen heavily armed SWAT officers into the loading dock, their rifles raised. They found the remaining corporate security guards already zip-tied and kneeling on the concrete.
"Anthony!" Jimmy jogged forward, lowering his weapon. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," Anthony pointed toward a man kneeling in the corner, his hands cuffed behind his back.
"That is Enrique Pritzker. The CEO of the corporation. You will find ample evidence of illegal human experimentation, mass organ trafficking, and murder on the servers. It is more than enough to put him in federal prison for the rest of his life."
Sheriff Rollins holstered his rifle and walked over to Enrique, pulling a fresh set of steel cuffs from his belt.
"Enrique Pritzker, you are under arrest."
"Wait!" Enrique thrashed violently, fighting against the zip-ties. His designer suit was covered in dust and blood.
"Anthony! Please! For Winnie's sake, you have to let me go! I am her blood! We are family!"
Anthony stopped walking and slowly turned around. His eyes were devoid of any human warmth.
"Winnie doesn't have a brother like you," Anthony said, his voice dropping to a freezing whisper. "She would never acknowledge a monster who treats human beings as 'raw materials' for his bank account."
"No! You don't understand!" Enrique sobbed hysterically. "They forced me into this! The High Table forced me! If I didn't cooperate, Gramont was going to slaughter the entire Pritzker family!"
"Then you should have gone to Winnie for help," Anthony replied with absolute indifference. "Instead of helping that French aristocrat build a slaughterhouse in my city."
Anthony turned his back on the weeping billionaire and walked toward the armored SUV Sergei had driven into the bay.
"Anthony! I'll fucking kill you!" Enrique screamed like a madman as the SWAT officers dragged him away.
Anthony ignored him, pulling open the heavy door of the SUV and climbing into the back seat. John was already sitting quietly in the passenger seat, his hood pulled back up.
"Where to next, Boss?" Sergei asked, putting the vehicle in gear.
"We go home," Anthony said, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the leather headrest.
"We just ripped a massive hole in Gramont's net. Now... we wait for him to try and fix it."
As the SUV pulled away from the industrial park, Anthony watched the towering glass spire of Pritzker Pharmaceuticals shrink in the rearview mirror. It looked like a massive, glittering tombstone erected over a mass grave.
Twenty minutes later, in a sprawling penthouse in Midtown Manhattan.
The Marquis de Gramont stood before his floor-to-ceiling windows. For the first time since arriving in America, genuine, unadulterated fury burned in his eyes.
"Anthony Tarasov..."
The crystal wine glass in Gramont's hand groaned under the crushing pressure of his grip.
"You tore my net."
The glass shattered, driving sharp shards into Gramont's palm, but he didn't even flinch as the dark red wine mixed with his own blood, dripping onto the marble floor.
"Then I will simply have to forge a new net... out of your bones."
Gramont turned to Chidi, who was waiting silently in the shadows.
"Inform Zero. The New York war... begins ahead of schedule."
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