Chapter 19: Stopping the Nuke
Paris — Beneath the Eiffel Tower
The plaza was a ruin. Smoke and the tang of blood hung in the air. The ground was cratered, pocked with bullet impacts and littered with broken stone. Bodies in tailored suits lay where they'd fallen.
John Wick and Caine finished mopping up the last of the assassins and made their way toward Ethan.
They found the Marquis's corpse on the ground and Ethan standing over it, his expression grim.
Caine smiled. "Thank you, Ethan. For saving my daughter. For killing the Marquis. It's finally over. Come — let me buy you both noodles."
Ethan didn't smile back. "It's not over. Before he died, the Marquis launched a nuclear warhead. Target: this city. He wants all of Paris to be his funeral pyre."
Silence.
Lunatic.
That was the first and only word that crossed both their minds.
"Can it be stopped?" John asked. His voice was flat, but he wasn't running.
Ethan noticed that. Neither of them had even considered leaving. They were killers — cold, efficient, ruthless — but they drew the line at mass civilian slaughter.
Ethan had his own code. He valued loyalty above almost everything. He despised betrayal. And he would not tolerate the killing of innocents. In his past life, he'd been an ordinary person. He knew what ordinary people went through just to survive. In a world full of superheroes, their lives were even harder — you could be commuting to work and have your car totaled by collateral damage from some Avengers-level throwdown, or just walking down the street when aliens dropped out of the sky.
The Marquis had crossed every line Ethan had.
· · ·
French Government — Emergency Command
"Sir! A nuclear warhead will reach the capital in ten minutes!" A uniformed officer burst into the President's office.
The President shot to his feet. "Who launched it? Are we looking at World War Four? Begin evacuation protocols immediately. And get me the intelligence service — find out if there's any way to intercept."
"Mr. President, this location is no longer secure. We need to evacuate you now."
The intelligence chief entered. "We've traced the warhead to Vincent de Gramont — the Marquis. A High Table elder based in Paris. Source of the weapon is still unknown. Military is already working to intercept before it reaches the city. If it detonates over the metropolitan area, half of Paris will be destroyed."
"There's no time for a civilian evacuation. The Air Force is assembling a strike team to attempt detonation at altitude."
"Mr. President — please. We need to move."
"Get the High Table on the phone," the President snapped. "I want to know what they think they're doing."
Across the world, S.H.I.E.L.D., the CIA, the DGSE, the FSB — every major intelligence agency spun up simultaneously, scrambling to understand what was happening.
· · ·
High Table Headquarters — Casablanca Desert
"Has the Marquis lost his mind?!" An elder's face filled one of the screens, livid. "He killed the High Table's own courier, and now a nuclear weapon? He's trying to destroy us all!"
"First priority," Maktoum said, cutting through the noise, "we publicly disavow the Marquis. He acted alone, he's no longer one of us — make that the official line. Second priority: stop the warhead. If we don't, we're all finished."
The Hongmen elder spoke up. "Kingpin's godson — isn't he on the ground in Paris right now? He has abilities. Superhuman ones. Can he handle this? If he stops the nuke, the entire High Table owes him a favor."
The screens went quiet. No one objected.
Maktoum picked up his phone and dialed the number Fisk had given him.
"Mr. Cross. This is Elder Maktoum. The warhead will detonate over central Paris in nine minutes. Can you resolve this?"
"I'm already working on it," Ethan replied. "I can guarantee my own survival. But stopping the nuke is another matter entirely."
"If you can make this problem disappear, the entire High Table — every member — will owe you a personal debt."
"Even without the offer, I'd be trying. I'm not about to let a city full of innocent people die. I'll be in touch." Ethan hung up.
His mind raced through options. Chaos Magic wouldn't work — the warhead was too massive, and he didn't have the reserves to levitate something that size to a safe altitude. Superspeed couldn't evacuate an entire city, and even if it could, the fallout would be catastrophic.
For the first time in a long time, Ethan wished he were stronger.
Okay — if magic won't work, what about science?
Science.
His eyes lit up.
I know a man who was cursed with knowledge.
He pulled out his phone and called Tony Stark.
"Well, well — if it isn't Hell's Kitchen's favorite son! You've been making quite the splash in the underworld lately. Those fireworks the other night — that was you, wasn't it? So — did you find the mole inside Stark Industries?"
"Short version: I'll tell you about the mole later. Right now I need a favor. In less than ten minutes, a nuclear warhead is going to detonate over central Paris. I'm in Paris. If you want that intel on your traitor, figure out how to stop this thing."
Tony's tone shifted instantly. The humor drained away.
"JARVIS — pull up everything on an inbound nuclear warhead heading for Paris. Now."
Holographic displays erupted across Tony's workspace.
"Can you do it? Clock's ticking." Ethan pressed.
"For anyone else, this would be tricky. For me? Please." A beat. "Two options: either I disable the warhead remotely so it doesn't detonate, or I redirect it somewhere it can explode safely."
Tony paused. "Honestly, most governments could figure this out too — they just don't have time to crack the launch encryption. Give them another hour and they'd manage. Lucky for Paris, I'm faster."
"So can you do it or not?" Ethan cut off the monologue.
"Shut up and don't question me. I'm already in." Tony's fingers were a blur across multiple keyboards, code streaming across his screens. "Just... give me a minute."
Seconds crawled by. The clock wound down.
With one minute to spare, Tony entered the final command.
"Done. Redirected to the Pacific Ocean — it'll detonate over open water, nothing within a hundred kilometers. Paris is safe."
· · ·
"Mr. President — someone has altered the warhead's trajectory. It's heading for the Pacific. Paris is clear."
The President sagged with relief.
Then his expression hardened. "Get me the High Table. Now."
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