Casablanca. The Continental Hotel.
John Wick sat heavily on the plush leather sofa of his secure suite. Resting on the low table before him was a thick, highly detailed operational dossier Sofia had just provided.
The heavy file contained the absolute entirety of the localized resources the Casablanca Continental could offer him. Weaponry caches, encrypted intelligence frequencies, armored vehicles, and a specialized escort element.
But effectively mobilizing those resources required time. And time was precisely the one asset John currently lacked.
"High Table insertion teams have saturated the perimeter of Casablanca," Sofia stated coldly, sitting upright in the armchair across from him. A thin, elegant cigarette rested between her fingers. "The moment you physically step off the sanctuary grounds of this hotel, a small army of assassins will converge on your position in less than ten minutes."
John didn't look up from the dossier. He mechanically flipped the page. "What about maritime transit?"
"Completely locked down," Sofia exhaled a thin, gray plume of smoke. "Every commercial and private port along the Mediterranean coast maintains an active High Table presence. Private vessels are subjected to rigorous registry audits. Exfiltrating via the ocean is impossible."
"Air transit?"
"Even less likely," Sofia countered seamlessly. "Casablanca International has a dedicated fast-track lane specifically for High Table personnel. Every flight manifest is cross-referenced by their intelligence network. A burn-passport won't bypass the dragnet. The High Table employs far more informants than you realize."
John slowly closed the heavy file. He looked up, his dark eyes meeting hers. "So. What exactly is your recommendation?"
Sofia looked at him, her sharp features contorted with a complex mixture of anger, resentment, and helpless obligation.
"John, you fully understand the reality of what it means for me to honor your Blood Oath Marker. It dictates that I must weaponize every resource I possess to ensure your survival. It means I must actively offend the High Table. It means I will likely lose my entire kingdom in Morocco."
"I understand," John said softly.
"Then you should also understand that I am not a philanthropist," Sofia leaned forward, crushing her cigarette out in the heavy crystal ashtray. "I am facilitating this strictly because my blood binds me to the debt. But the moment this operation concludes, we are entirely even."
"I understand."
Sofia stood gracefully, walking to the arched window to look out over the sprawling, ancient nightscape of Casablanca.
"The day after tomorrow," she announced. "I require exactly twenty-four hours to synchronize the logistics. The day after tomorrow, I will open a transit path for you. But whether you possess the ability to survive it depends entirely on you."
"What path?"
"Overland," Sofia turned around. "Deep into the Sahara. It is a highly volatile route. Not only will you be hunted by High Table elements, but you will face desert bandits, armed extremist cells, and the freezing void of the desert itself."
John remained silent for several long seconds. "Are there any alternatives?"
"Only two," Sofia replied coldly. "You can stay locked inside this hotel suite and wait for Marquis de Gramont's executioners to breach the door. Or you can book a commercial flight back to New York and personally face down a fifteen-million-dollar global bounty."
John stood slowly. His body ached from a dozen untreated contusions. He walked to the window, standing silently beside Sofia.
Outside the glass, the dense, golden lights of Casablanca twinkled in the darkness, looking like a fallen, burning starry sky.
"The day after tomorrow," John confirmed.
"The day after tomorrow," Sofia echoed.
John gave a shallow nod. He turned and began walking back toward the sofa.
Sofia watched his back. "Anthony Tarasov," she suddenly asked. "How well do you know him?"
John paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Why do you ask?"
"Because the underworld wire is screaming," Sofia raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "I received intelligence that Anthony physically engaged Zero in close-quarters combat in New York last night. Preliminary data suggests Zero lost three of his elite disciples."
John stared at her for a moment. Then he let out a short, tired exhale. "I suggest you ignore local fake news."
Sofia smiled faintly. "I suppose that's accurate. In this world, aside from yourself and Caine, perhaps only Killa Harkan has the sheer bulk to disregard Zero in a fight."
John sighed heavily. "Viggo Tarasov understood the parameters of survival. He knew how to weigh risks against rewards. Anthony is different. He's young. He's arrogant. And he refuses to exist beneath someone else's rules."
"I've tracked his restructuring," Sofia noted. "Is the Russian genuinely attempting to declare war on the High Table?"
"No," John shook his head. "He's testing their structural limits. He's calculating exactly how much freedom he can manufacture while remaining technically bound to their laws."
"Foolish," Sofia commented dryly.
"Perhaps," John admitted. "But he's far smarter than I am."
Sofia simply glanced at him, offered no further commentary, and quietly exited the suite, sealing the heavy wooden door behind her.
Once he was entirely alone, John picked up the heavy operational dossier again. But he didn't read the text. His dark eyes drifted back to the window, staring out into the pitch-black horizon toward the distant East.
Marcus. The veteran sniper had abandoned Anthony's defense perimeter, flying across the Atlantic to ensure John survived the desert.
John was currently trapped inside a gilded cage in Casablanca, three thousand miles away from the active battlefield of New York. The feeling was suffocating. He felt exactly like a starved wolf locked inside a steel trap. He could smell the blood in the air, but he couldn't reach the prey.
John violently clenched his scarred fist.
In exactly forty-eight hours, he would be marching into the unforgiving void of the Sahara. He would face armed tracking elements, desperate mercenaries, and the lethal environment itself. Any single variable possessed the ability to end his life.
John took a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes.
The exact words Anthony had spoken to him in that empty Brooklyn barbecue restaurant suddenly echoed loudly in his mind.
"John... there are specific wars in this world that cannot be fought by a single man."
John had thought the young Russian was simply projecting arrogance at the time. Now, standing alone in a hostile country with a fifteen-million-dollar price tag on his head, he finally began to understand the meaning of that statement.
The Tarasov Estate, New York
The Following Day, 12:00 PM
The torrential freezing rain had finally ceased, but the New York sky remained a suffocating, bruised gray. Thick, low-hanging clouds threatened to drown the city again at any moment.
Inside his heavily fortified office, Anthony systematically reviewed the combat data of the past forty-eight hours.
Mason was dead. Zero had permanently lost three of his elite apprentices. To the underworld, it appeared as though the Tarasov Vanguard had successfully drawn blood and secured a tactical victory against the High Table.
But Anthony coldly recognized the reality. He had lost the engagement. He had nearly been slaughtered due to his limitations, his lack of melee endurance, and his failure to possess the deeply ingrained reflexes forged over decades of survival.
His encrypted phone vibrated against the mahogany desk. Anthony glanced at the caller ID and tapped the receiver.
"Boss. The data from Old A just finished decrypting," Radar's voice crackled over the line.
"Deliver it."
"It involves Marquis de Gramont's proxies," Radar reported rapidly. "The muscle operating out of the 'Fang' boxing gym in Brooklyn. Old A intercepted their chatter. They're gearing up to raid the 'Nightingale,' our newly acquired nightclub in the theater district, tonight. They intend to execute a high-profile takedown."
Radar paused. The rhythmic clacking of his keyboard filled the background static.
"Boss, Old A is a highly irregular variable. His intelligence network is god-tier, but he absolutely refuses to integrate into any operational structure. I offered him a lucrative retainer to fold into our logistics. He flatly refused."
Anthony let out a dark, freezing sneer. "He claims to require a 'sensitive identity'? He conceals his allegiance, uses my syndicate as a battering ram, and expects me to maintain gratitude for the privilege?"
"I practically guarantee this 'Old A' phantom is a deeply embedded mole acting on behalf of a High Table faction. Perhaps he's a white-glove asset kept off-leash by the Bowery King, or even the Harbinger."
Anthony leaned back in his leather chair. "He wants to sit comfortably in the shadows and watch Gramont and I tear each other's throats out. The more blood we spill, the higher his true masters climb."
Radar remained silent for a long moment. "So... how do you want to handle this?"
"How do we handle it?" Anthony let out a cold, terrifying laugh. "If a phantom hands me a perfectly sharpened blade, am I required to refuse it simply because I know he's using me?"
"Right now, I will happily execute any maneuver that bleeds Marquis de Gramont. Even if it temporarily makes me a pawn on someone else's board."
Anthony severed the connection and slammed his finger against the heavy intercom button. "Mike. My office. Now."
Exactly thirty seconds later, the heavy oak doors opened. Mike stepped into the room, his scarred face locked in a rigid mask of suppressed, violent fury.
"Boss."
Having personally triaged Anthony's near-fatal wounds, bagged Mason's mutilated torso, and secured the crippled bodies of Viktor and Pavel, every veteran operator in the Vanguard currently possessed a burning desire to commit mass murder.
"Gather the Vanguard element," Anthony ordered coldly. "Deploy to the 'Nightingale' tonight. You will pose as standard VIP security. Ensure heavy weapons are pre-staged behind the bars and beneath the VIP tables."
Mike's bloodshot eyes instantly flashed with homicidal malice the moment he heard the authorization for heavy weapons.
"Copy that, Boss."
"One critical parameter," Anthony added, his voice dropping to a freezing whisper. "When Gramont's thugs breach the perimeter and initiate the chaos, the Vanguard does not fire the first shot."
"You will let them shatter the glass. You will let them assault the civilian patrons. You will let them cause as much visible chaos as possible."
Mike frowned deeply, his tactical mind confused. "Why yield the initiative?"
"Because we are currently operating as a legally incorporated entity," Anthony hissed through his teeth. "Under the Adjudicator's rules, initiating an unprovoked massacre in a public venue is a severe violation. But if heavily armed thugs raid a legitimate establishment, and we respond with lethal force..." Anthony smiled. "That is simply self-defense."
Mike completely understood the logic. A dark, vicious grin split his face.
"Deploy the team," Anthony waved his hand. "I will be physically present on the floor tonight."
Mike delivered a crisp, tactical nod, turned on his heel, and sealed the door behind him.
Now Get The FULL AVAILABLE NOVEL at Once!
Get 20% OFF for limited time only.
@patreon.com/Authorizz/shop