The setting sun bled across the New York skyline, turning the glass towers a deep, violent red.
Anthony stood on the Brooklyn Bridge, staring down at the endless stream of cars.
Helen lay quietly at his feet, ears twitching now and then.
He checked the time.
5:47 PM.
"Come on, Helen." He patted the beagle's head.
"We've got a show to watch tonight."
He hailed a taxi.
The car headed for Lower Manhattan, toward the Red Circle nightclub.
Anthony closed his eyes, and scenes from the film in his memory began to overlay the city like a ghost projection.
John would track Iosef down there.
John would walk into a trap.
And John would bleed for it.
The Red Circle was never just a club.
It was a snare that Viggo set using his own son as bait.
Viggo knew John would lean on Winston and the Continental to get a location.
So Viggo prepared two knives to catch him.
The Red Circle's inner security.
And the assassin waiting in the Continental.
Tonight, Anthony intended to change one thing.
Saving John would be incidental.
His real goal was to put a bullet in Iosef Tarasov with his own hands.
"Iosef Tarasov," Anthony murmured, fingers brushing the Walther P99 hidden under his coat.
"Tonight, you pay your debt."
"And as for Viggo," he added, a thin smile cutting across his mouth.
"You broke the High Table's rules. You're already dead."
The taxi stopped two blocks away from the Red Circle.
Anthony paid, then led Helen into a narrow alley behind a row of dumpsters.
He crouched in front of her and held her gaze.
"Helen. Don't freak out if you hear banging."
"No matter what you hear, you don't bark. You don't scream. Understand?"
Helen lowered herself to the ground, obedient, eyes locked on him.
Anthony checked his kit.
One Walther P99 with a suppressor.
Two Glock 17s taken from last night's hit squad.
Spare magazines.
A cheap pair of gloves.
He pulled up a 3D map on his phone.
Then he layered it with the club layout he remembered, building a fresh model in his head.
A few minutes later, he spotted John stepping out of a taxi and walking into the Red Circle.
Anthony didn't follow.
He was hunting the escape car.
He walked Helen through the nearby parking lot like a bored pedestrian on an evening stroll.
After several rows, he found it.
A black S-Class Mercedes, engine off, driver inside.
The man behind the wheel was thick-necked, Eastern European, head lowered toward his phone.
Anthony approached the window.
The driver looked up.
And froze.
Because a pistol was already resting on the glass.
"My name is Anthony Tarasov," Anthony said softly.
"You know who I am."
The driver nodded so fast it looked painful.
"Yes. Young master."
Anthony smiled.
"Where is my dear brother meeting you after he runs?"
The driver swallowed.
"Back door."
"I ask." Anthony's voice hardened.
"You answer."
"Or we gamble on whether I'm willing to shoot."
The driver's throat bobbed again.
"The back door," he repeated, almost whispering.
The suppressor gave a soft pop.
The driver's skull snapped back, and his body shuddered twice before slumping onto the steering wheel.
Anthony felt something flicker in the back of his mind, like a notification trying to surface.
He ignored it.
Gunfire and screaming inside the club had already pulled most attention toward the entrance.
Anthony opened the trunk, dragged the body out of the driver's seat, and folded it in with brisk efficiency.
He wiped the blood.
Pulled on the man's jacket and hat.
Then he slid into the driver's seat, adjusted the mirror, and waited.
A minute later, he focused inward.
The translucent panel blinked into view.
A new line had appeared.
A plus one.
"So it's points." Anthony's eyes narrowed.
"Kill someone, get points."
"And those points can be assigned."
He tested it on Firearms Mastery.
The number ticked up.
Anthony exhaled slowly.
"This system is brutal."
"To grow stronger, I have to kill."
He stared ahead through the rain-streaked windshield.
Then he let out a quiet laugh.
"Good thing this world is full of people who deserve it."
He turned the key.
The Mercedes rolled forward and eased toward the back gate of the Red Circle.
Inside, the club was chaos.
Gunshots.
Screams.
Glass breaking.
Anthony didn't need to see it to picture it.
John was inside the VIP level, moving like a black hurricane.
But the Tarasovs had bodies to throw at him.
Even bad bodyguards became dangerous when they had numbers and preparation.
Not long after, a side door burst open.
Iosef stumbled out.
He was half-naked, wrapped in a towel like a panicked idiot, wearing slippers that slapped wet pavement.
His face was paper-white.
When he saw the Mercedes waiting by the back door, hope surged into his eyes.
"Drive!" Iosef roared as he threw himself into the rear seat.
"Get me out of here!"
Anthony didn't turn around.
He simply reached over and clicked the locks.
Then he spoke, voice almost gentle.
"We meet again, Iosef."
Iosef froze.
A heartbeat passed.
Then recognition hit him like a fist.
"Anthony?" Suspicion and surprise tangled in his voice. "Did Dad send you?"
He leaned forward, furious.
"Start the car, you useless piece of trash!"
"Are you waiting for that man to catch me and kill me?"
Anthony reached back and grabbed him by the throat.
Then he slammed Iosef's face into the center console with a dull, savage impact.
Anthony's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Why can't it be me killing you?"
Iosef gagged, eyes wild.
"If you touch me, Dad will make you die screaming."
Anthony turned slightly.
The Walther P99 pressed against Iosef's forehead.
"You burned my mother," Anthony said.
"You poisoned me."
"And you still think you get to threaten me?"
Fear finally broke through Iosef's arrogance.
"Anthony." His voice shook. "I'm your brother. We share blood."
Anthony chuckled.
"Want a secret?"
"You poisoned Anthony Tarasov."
"And I'm not him."
"I'm something that crawled into his body from another world."
Two soft pops.
Two 9mm rounds.
Iosef's head jerked.
His body convulsed a few times, then sagged across the armrest.
His eyes stayed open.
Like he couldn't understand how the world could possibly end with him losing.
Anthony glanced at the panel.
Killing Iosef gave two points.
He didn't allocate them.
Not yet.
One point here and there barely moved the needle.
He would stockpile them until they mattered.
Then he cleaned.
Fast.
Professional.
He dragged Iosef into the trunk and packed him in beside the driver like luggage.
He drove out the back gate.
Looped around.
And brought the Mercedes toward the main entrance of the Red Circle.
People were flooding out of the club in a screaming stampede.
And then John emerged.
Blood-soaked.
Leaning forward.
One hand clamped to his lower abdomen as if he was holding himself together through sheer spite.
Anthony rolled down the window.
"Get in."
John looked up.
His eyes locked on the driver's face.
Shock flashed across his expression.
But he didn't waste time asking questions.
He yanked the door open and dropped into the passenger seat.