Helen scrambled onto John's lap, her wet nose sniffing frantically at his blood-soaked clothes. She searched for Daisy's scent, but found nothing. After letting out two soft, confused whimpers, she began gently licking the bloodstains from his hands.
John wrapped one arm protectively around the beagle, his deep, pain-clouded eyes fixed on the back of Anthony's head with a heavy, thoughtful expression.
Anthony slammed his foot on the gas. The stolen Mercedes shot out of the Red Circle's back alley like an arrow.
In the rearview mirror, two muzzle flashes strobed in the dark. Bullets struck the reinforced trunk with a pair of dull, heavy thuds.
"Turn left. Get me to the Continental," John ordered through gritted teeth, fresh blood seeping from the corner of his mouth.
This time, Anthony didn't mock him about his rust or his age.
After all, walking into a fortified club alone and fighting through three dozen armed men—whether John survived the night or not was a genuine question.
Right now, Anthony was perfectly content to ride John's coattails and pick up the high-value scraps the Boogeyman left in his wake.
Anthony didn't reply verbally. His mind was fully engaged with the 3D spatial model of Lower Manhattan he had constructed, giving him an intimate, real-time tactical map of the gridlocked streets.
Three black Bratva SUVs attempted to intercept them from different avenues, but Anthony executed a series of violent, precision turns through narrow service alleys, shaking the pursuit in under three minutes.
The interior of the Mercedes fell silent, save for John's heavy, ragged breathing.
The legendary assassin's face was growing paler by the second. Dark blood from a deep abdominal wound had completely soaked through his tactical vest and white shirt.
"Anthony... how is it you seem to know everything?" John asked suddenly, his voice a hoarse rasp over the hum of the engine. "How did you know exactly where I would be tonight?"
"You have to remember, John, I was born into the Tarasov syndicate," Anthony replied, keeping his eyes locked on the road, his expression completely neutral. "I have my own intelligence network."
"No. That's not the whole truth." John stared hard at Anthony's profile in the rearview mirror. "Anthony, I'm not a fool. What exactly is your endgame here?"
Anthony spoke calmly, taking a corner without tapping the brakes. "I didn't come to the Red Circle to follow you. I came to find an opening to kill Iosef. Seeing you stumble out the back door bleeding to death was just a happy accident."
Before John could press the issue, Anthony let out a soft, dry chuckle.
"John, if you want to interrogate me, save it until you're safely inside the Continental. You've lost way too much blood. Save your breath."
"Do you really expect me to believe that, Anthony?" John's voice suddenly spiked with intensity, cutting through the pain. "You know damn well I don't believe in coincidences."
As the Mercedes turned onto a quiet, rain-slicked street, Anthony suddenly slammed on the brakes. The heavy car lurched to a halt. Anthony shifted in his seat, turning to look John dead in the eye.
"John, I know a lot of things you don't. Just because you play by the High Table's rules doesn't mean the rest of the world will. And don't be so incredibly naive as to think hiding behind the doors of the Continental makes you untouchable."
"If my goal was to kill you," Anthony added, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, "I would have had half a dozen opportunities by now. Wouldn't I?"
John stared back into Anthony's eyes. He found no deception there, only a vast, freezing emptiness.
John knew, on a visceral level, that Anthony didn't want him dead. But he simply couldn't decipher what Anthony's true agenda was in circling his orbit.
John was willing to believe Anthony had his own inside sources regarding Iosef's location. But even so... wasn't the timing just a little too perfect?
Anthony put the car in park. He stepped out into the rain, walked to the rear of the Mercedes, popped the trunk, and snapped a photo with his burner phone.
He climbed back into the driver's seat and tossed the phone into John's lap.
John looked down at the illuminated screen. He froze, sheer shock temporarily overriding his physical pain.
It was a photo of Iosef Tarasov's corpse, two bullet holes punched neatly through his forehead, stuffed into the trunk of the very car they were currently sitting in.
"He killed your dog. But he killed my mother. So, I killed him. You shouldn't look so surprised," Anthony said, shifting the car back into drive and accelerating toward the Financial District.
"John, I saw you walk through the front doors of the Red Circle. But I don't have your suicidal courage, so I waited out back in the shadows," Anthony explained, his voice low and steady.
"As God is my witness... Iosef is dead. But I killed him. Not you."
John stared at the photo of the dead mob heir in absolute silence. A faint shadow of lingering doubt still clouded his gray eyes.
"I knew your frontal assault was going to fail tonight, John. Because Iosef hiding at the Red Circle wasn't a secret—it was a trap Viggo set specifically for you."
Anthony pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jacket, lit one, and handed it back to John.
John took it with a bloody hand and drew a long, sullen drag.
"I'll admit, I used you as a distraction tonight," Anthony continued. "If you hadn't kicked the front door in, I never would have had the opening to catch Iosef slipping out the back. But John, listen to me. Viggo is going to blame you for this. He's going to hunt you to the ends of the earth."
John remained silent for a long time. The cherry of the cigarette glowed dull orange in the dark cabin. Slowly, his right hand crept toward the spare magazine in his waistband. "Why did you choose me?"
Anthony caught the subtle movement in the rearview mirror. "You still suspect me?"
He understood exactly what John's question implied. John was challenging the very foundation of their meeting. John was asking if Daisy's murder had been orchestrated by Anthony all along.
"I didn't 'choose' you, John. We just happened to possess the exact same intelligence regarding Iosef's location tonight," Anthony lied flawlessly, lighting a cigarette for himself. "When you run in the same circles, coincidences happen."
Anthony stared straight ahead through the windshield, his tone hardening into absolute resolve.
"Whether you decide to continue your war against Viggo or not is your business. But I am going to watch his empire collapse. I am going to watch everything he cherishes burn to ash."
"And as for you, John..." Anthony exhaled a plume of gray smoke. "You are a sword that has been drawn from its scabbard. And you are destined never to be sheathed again."
John suddenly doubled over, coughing violently. Fresh, bright red arterial blood spilled over his bottom lip and stained his collar.
His complexion had shifted from pale to a sickly, translucent gray. He was going into hypovolemic shock from extreme blood loss.
"Hold on. You're not dying in my passenger seat," Anthony grunted, flooring the accelerator.
"Anthony..." John's voice was a frail, breathless whisper. "There is something... familiar about you. Looking at you is like looking at a shadow of myself before I met Helen."
"I'll never be like you, John." Anthony cut him off sharply. "You have an unbelievable capacity for suffering. I don't. I take responsibility for my own survival."
"I pulled your military file," John wheezed, fighting to keep his eyes open.
"Your tactical awareness... your physical execution... it far exceeds standard Marine infantry training. Sometimes, when I watch you move, it feels like your eyes are seeing things the rest of us can't."
"War changes a man," Anthony replied with a dark, self-deprecating laugh. "Viggo sent me to the sandbox hoping I'd die there, or come back a killer he could control."
"But I only joined the Corps to learn how to kill him. Surviving Afghanistan was just the prerequisite for my revenge."
As the Mercedes turned onto Wall Street, the iconic, triangular facade of the Continental Hotel loomed ahead. Anthony slammed on the brakes, parked directly in front of the main doors, and jumped out.
He pulled the rear door open. "Can you walk?" he asked, looking at John's gray, sweating face.
John gripped the door handle. He tried to pull his heavy body upward twice, but his legs completely gave out.
Without a second of hesitation, Anthony hauled John out of the car, threw the legendary assassin's arm over his shoulder, and half-carried, half-dragged him toward the glowing steps of the Continental.
Helen bounded out of the car, sticking close to Anthony's heels.
Standing beneath the hotel's awning was a tall, impeccably dressed Black man wearing wire-rimmed glasses. His hands were clasped in front of him, fingers flexing and unclenching in a rare display of nervous energy.
When Charon saw the young man dragging a blood-soaked John Wick up the steps, he immediately rushed down to meet them.
"Quickly! Fetch the triage team!" Charon barked at the doorman standing nearby. His voice cracked with an unusual, frantic anxiety that was entirely at odds with his famous, unflappable professional demeanor.
Anthony stopped at the heavy brass doors and unceremoniously handed John's dead weight over to the concierge. "I don't know exactly what organ they hit, but he's bleeding out fast."
Charon shot Anthony two sharp, appraising glances. Then, his eyes dropped to the pavement, widening in sheer disbelief as he noticed the beagle sitting loyally at Anthony's feet.
Charon didn't ask a single question. He offered a solemn, deeply respectful nod. With the help of the doorman, he supported John's weight and hurried him inside toward the hotel's underground hospital, completely ignoring Anthony's continued presence.
Just as Anthony was about to turn away, the heavy doors opened again. Winston Scott, the Manager of the New York Continental, stepped into the light.
Winston wore a masterfully tailored, dark three-piece suit. Paired with a silk pocket square and his signature ascot, he exuded the overwhelming, regal authority of an old-world aristocrat.
When Winston saw the trail of John's blood on his pristine steps, his expression darkened into a scowl. But when his gaze shifted and he realized it was Anthony Tarasov who had delivered the Boogeyman to his doorstep, a flicker of profound surprise momentarily broke his stoic mask.
Anthony flashed the Manager a polite, razor-sharp smile. Then, he turned on his heel and walked back to the Mercedes.
Winston's gaze naturally drifted downward. He spotted Helen trotting after Anthony. For a fraction of a second, the Manager of the Continental looked utterly and completely confused.
Anthony climbed into the driver's seat, staring up at the dazzling, golden lights of the Continental Hotel as his mind raced.
Tonight, he had fundamentally shattered the original timeline.
Iosef Tarasov was dead by his hand, not John's.
This massive deviation meant the plot was no longer bound by the script in his head. The butterfly effect was about to trigger a chain reaction of chaos across the entire underworld.
Anthony whistled sharply. Helen hopped up into the passenger seat, curling into a ball on the leather.
Anthony shifted into drive and disappeared into the New York night.