The heavy windshield wipers violently swiped back and forth, dragging two blurry, squeaking arcs across the glass as the freezing rain hammered relentlessly against the roof of the armored SUV.
Anthony gripped the steering wheel entirely with his right hand.
The agonizing pain radiating from his left arm intensified with every single pothole the heavy vehicle hit. It felt as though the localized muscle fibers had been systematically shredded and ground into paste by Zero's relentless strikes.
He had desperately utilized his Ka-Bar to parry several of the Shinobi master's heavy slashes, and the sheer, overwhelming kinetic impact had physically split the webbing of his hand wide open.
Anthony fully realized a grim tactical truth. His Systema proficiency and Compensatory Perception allowed him to mathematically match Zero's flawless technique, but in terms of raw physical strength and biological durability, he was vastly inferior to the master assassin.
Steering with his good hand, Anthony activated the encrypted Bluetooth comms and dialed his intelligence chief.
"Boss," Radar's voice crackled through the speakers, underscored by the frantic, rapid-fire clicking of a mechanical keyboard.
"Old A just transmitted the localized data. Gramont officially maintains three primary 'dogs' off-leash in New York. Two of them operate on Wall Street under the guise of high-end 'compliance consultants,' but they are functionally acting as Gramont's localized money-laundering brokers."
"The third asset operates a gritty, underground boxing gym deep in Brooklyn. His name is Rex. He's a former heavyweight enforcer who transitioned into handling all of Gramont's 'unpleasant' physical business after retiring from the ring."
Anthony narrowed his eyes against the glaring headlights of oncoming traffic. "Send the operational coordinates."
"The two Wall Street brokers reside in heavily fortified penthouses on the Upper East Side," Radar warned. "The localized security footprint is massive. Multi-tiered access, armed private details."
"The boxing gym—"
"Just transmit the data, Radar," Anthony interrupted sharply.
A few seconds later, the dashboard screen illuminated with three encrypted addresses and highly condensed tactical dossiers.
Anthony briefly scanned the intelligence, his foot subconsciously easing off the accelerator.
The throbbing agony in his left arm was reaching a blinding crescendo. It felt like a red-hot iron rod was actively churning inside his bicep. Every microscopic attempt to lift his arm resulted in blinding, tearing pain. He experimentally tried to flex his left fingers, barely managing to form a weak, trembling fist. His physical combat strength was currently operating at less than forty percent of its maximum capacity.
In this severely compromised biological state, executing a flawless, high-profile assassination against Gramont's heavily guarded proxies was a tactical impossibility. If he encountered even a mid-tier High Table enforcer right now, merely surviving the engagement would be a catastrophic struggle.
"Fuck me," Anthony muttered under his breath. It was entirely unclear if he was cursing Zero's lethal skill, or his own frustrating physical limitations.
He violently cranked the steering wheel, pulling the heavy SUV into a deeply shadowed, secluded alley behind a 24-hour convenience store.
Anthony killed the engine, leaned his head back against the leather headrest, and awkwardly fumbled for a cigarette with his right hand, desperately needing the nicotine to stabilize his red-lining nervous system.
Before he could spark the lighter, his encrypted phone vibrated again.
It was Marcus.
Anthony tapped the receiver. Before the veteran sniper could utter a word, Anthony spoke: "Where is John?"
"I just boarded the transit vessel. I spoke with him over a secure frequency for exactly three minutes before he physically destroyed the phone," Marcus's deep, gravelly voice echoed through the cabin, layered over the heavy sound of crashing ocean waves.
"The geopolitical situation over there is vastly more volatile than we calculated. The man he went to see successfully accepted his Blood Oath Marker, but High Table intelligence assets are deeply entrenched across all of Morocco. John currently possesses the most violently expensive head on the planet. He is actively dragging a localized apocalypse with him everywhere he walks."
Marcus had deliberately avoided using the manager's name over the comms, but Anthony didn't care.
"Sofia," Anthony stated flatly. "The Manager of the Casablanca Continental."
Marcus paused. He was mildly surprised by Anthony's omniscient intelligence network, but at this point, he was growing used to it.
"Anthony. What is the current operational status in New York?" Marcus asked, his tone shifting into dark concern. "The underworld wire is screaming. I heard there was a catastrophic breach in Queens."
"Mason is dead," Anthony replied, his voice as casually detached as if he were discussing the weather.
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the encrypted line for several seconds.
"Zero?" Marcus finally asked.
"Yes."
"Did you engage him?"
"We intersected," Anthony said coldly, glancing down at his heavily bleeding left arm. "I am currently breathing. But it was a near-run equation."
Marcus drew a sharp, highly audible breath. "You engaged him alone?"
"Alone."
"Are you completely out of your fucking mind?!" Marcus's voice suddenly spiked in volume. "Do you not possess a foundational understanding of who Zero is?! Even John Wick wouldn't confidently bet his life on suppressing that bald freak in a localized melee engagement, and you aggressively hunted him down by yourself?!"
"I did not hunt him," Anthony corrected smoothly. "He actively hunted me."
Another heavy silence. "Where are you currently stationed?"
"In an alleyway," Anthony took a drag of his cigarette. "I systematically slaughtered three of his elite disciples in front of him, and I am currently contemplating driving home."
Marcus remained completely silent.
The veteran sniper clearly didn't believe a single syllable of that statement. In Marcus's mind, Anthony was a brilliant, highly lethal mob boss who utilized assault rifles and tactical Vanguards—he absolutely did not possess the Shinobi-tier martial arts required to butcher three of Zero's personal students.
Let the Russian show off, Marcus thought, completely dismissing the claim.
Marcus entirely ignored Anthony's boast and shifted to a tactical warning. "Do not aggressively maneuver while John and I are off the board. Maintain a highly defensive perimeter. John will inevitably return to New York."
Anthony let out a dark, hollow laugh. "Oh, I know he will return, Marcus."
"When you finally establish visual contact with him, deliver a specific message for me. Tell him that when he finally secures his audience with the Elder... it would be highly advised to simply put a bullet between the man's eyes and refuse to make any localized promises."
"The Elder?" Marcus asked, his voice laced with genuine shock.
He hadn't believed Anthony could kill Zero's disciples, but the fact that Anthony possessed verified intelligence regarding the mythical figure who sat above the High Table was deeply terrifying.
Anthony did not bother explaining his omniscient foresight.
"John desperately marched into the desert seeking an impossible path to survival, Marcus. But that specific path was mathematically doomed from the very beginning."
Anthony exhaled a plume of gray smoke against the windshield. "Because the only conceivable condition the Elder will accept to grant John his 'pardon'... is demanding John return to the High Table as a subservient attack dog, and travel back to New York to personally execute Winston."
"That is functionally impossible," Marcus snapped, his loyalty flaring. "John would never lay a hand on Winston. Never."
"That is entirely up to John's conscience," Anthony said calmly. "Assuming John even allows you to establish visual contact with him when he returns."
Marcus paused, processing the dark implications. "Winston... has officially been served an eviction notice by Gramont. He possesses exactly seven days to abdicate his throne and step down."
Anthony chuckled softly. "It is merely a localized ordeal. Winston will survive it."
"Just remember my exact words, Marcus. Begging the aristocracy for mercy is a fundamentally useless endeavor for a man like John."
Anthony killed the connection. He tossed the burner phone onto the passenger seat, threw the SUV into drive, and the heavy engine roared as he violently accelerated out of the dark alley.
The Continental Hotel, Manhattan
Inside the opulent, heavily fortified penthouse suite, Marquis de Gramont stood rigidly before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. He held a heavy crystal tumbler of vintage whiskey, the large, spherical ice cube clinking softly as he slowly swirled the amber liquid.
The violent bruises painting his aristocratic face hadn't completely faded, rendering his features looking grotesquely swollen under the warm ambient lighting.
"Marquis," Zero's voice materialized smoothly from the shadows behind him.
Gramont didn't even bother turning around. "Speak."
"We successfully breached and neutralized a localized Tarasov stronghold in Queens," Zero reported, his voice entirely devoid of inflection. "Twelve heavily armed contractors were systematically eliminated, including the retired United States Navy SEAL who led the Vanguard at the Hunting Ground."
"However, Viktor Romanov and his son successfully evacuated the secondary facility in West Brooklyn... and three of my personal disciples were killed in action."
Gramont spun around violently, his dark eyes wide with absolute, enraged disbelief.
"Three?! Three of your elite Shinobi were killed?! Were you not standing right fucking there?!"
Zero lowered his bald head a fraction of an inch. "I was physically present on the floor. I simply did not anticipate the hostile operator possessing that profound level of tactical lethality."
Gramont stared at him for a long, suffocating moment. "Have you identified the shooter?"
"In the entire global underworld, the list of verified operators who possess the kinetic capability to slaughter your disciples directly in front of you... is exceptionally brief. Excluding John Wick, naturally."
"It was a masked operator," Zero continued, his mind replaying the flawless, terrifying combat data. "Initially, upon evaluating his height, localized build, and operational aggressiveness, I hypothesized it was Anthony Tarasov. But... the mathematics of combat dictate he does not possess that tier of localized capability."
"Fuck no, he doesn't," Gramont sneered, his lip curling in absolute disgust. "Who exactly does that Russian street thug think he is?"
"If that peasant genuinely possessed that tier of operational lethality, I would personally drink a bottle of scotch standing on my fucking head."
"My tactical assessment aligns with your conclusion," Zero nodded smoothly. "The operator utilized a highly integrated blend of heavy ballistics and a military Ka-Bar. His combat velocity and reactive calculations were superhuman... but his raw physical strength was severely lacking. That discrepancy heavily implies it wasn't Anthony."
Gramont's brow furrowed into a deep, agonizing knot as he rapidly scanned his mental archives.
"Ares is dead," Gramont muttered, pacing the Persian rug. "Cassian is currently hospitalized with a severed aorta. John Wick is confirmed to be bleeding in Morocco."
"Marcus exclusively operates as a tier-one sniper; he would never willfully engage you in localized close-quarters combat. If it were Caine, the blind bastard wouldn't have bothered hiding behind a mask; he would have simply walked through the front door."
Gramont's headache intensified. "I fundamentally cannot comprehend how many phantom assassins currently exist off the High Table's radar capable of butchering three of your students."
Zero lowered his gaze toward the floor. "It was a severe tactical miscalculation on my part."
"A miscalculation?!" Gramont roared, violently slamming his heavy crystal tumbler down onto the mahogany table. The expensive whiskey violently splashed across the polished wood.
"Zero, I did not authorize your exorbitant, multi-million-dollar retainer to stand in my penthouse and recite apologies about your tactical miscalculations!"
Gramont stepped aggressively forward, spittle flying from his lips. "I imported you to this city to systematically obliterate my obstacles! I hired you to locate John Wick! And I specifically hired you to ensure Anthony Tarasov fully comprehends the apocalyptic consequences of humiliating the High Table!"
His aristocratic voice had devolved into a feral, unhinged shout.
Zero maintained his bowed posture, his face remaining a completely expressionless mask of stone.
Gramont closed his eyes, taking several deep, ragged breaths, desperately attempting to force his boiling heart rate back down to a manageable level.
He genuinely did not realize it, but ever since Anthony Tarasov had violently shattered his nose in this very hotel, Gramont's normally icy, calculated political temperament had inexplicably become wildly erratic and paranoid.
Gramont opened his eyes, walked directly up to Zero, and stared deeply into the assassin's dead, lifeless pupils.
"Tell me the absolute truth. Is this masked phantom one of Anthony Tarasov's highly paid contractors?"
"I assess a seventy percent mathematical probability that he is not," Zero replied clinically. "An operator possessing that absolute zenith of lethal proficiency would fundamentally refuse to be leashed by a localized mafia boss like Anthony."
"Are you fucking kidding me? Have you entirely forgotten John Wick?" Gramont sneered viciously. "Tarasov somehow possessed the manipulative capability to leash the Baba Yaga for his own localized purposes."
"True. But I still conclude it is highly improbable," Zero looked up, meeting the Marquis's furious gaze. "Unless this operator is an apex predator we are completely unfamiliar with... a ghost who exists entirely outside the governing strictures of the High Table."
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