The meeting went smoothly.
Though it seemed Alex took a small concession—agreeing to help the Russian mob with a few minor problems—the trade was clever. Tasks that required only John Wick to handle were rarely complicated: kill the target, problem solved. By solving these little headaches for the Russians, Alex could quietly learn their structure: why they wanted a particular target dead, what stakes were involved, what downstream effects might follow. One small task after another gave him leverage—knowledge of weak points he could exploit later when contending with the High Table. In short: this was his plan in plain sight.
As for Eve Macarro—a rookie in the assassin world—Alex wanted her partly to honor his agreement with Lena, and partly to harvest a potentially useful asset. Katia agreed quickly once she realized Eve was a nonessential recruit with no family imprimatur; a familyless young assassin was a trivial favor to sell.
Down in the Continental Hotel's lobby, Daniel got Lena's call and understood the town chief's plan immediately. He rose and went upstairs with two clan killers to knock on Santino's door.
Three knocks. A Camorra killer answered, eyes cold. "Who are you? What do you want here?"
"We're here for Mr. Antonio. On behalf of our leader, we'd like to propose an alliance—together we can take down Alex." Daniel's voice was even.
From inside, Santino barked, "Let them in."
The guard stepped aside. Santino sat slumped on the couch, an ice pack pressed to his swollen cheek, throwing darts at a framed photo of Alex. A half-finished glass of whiskey sat on the table; he looked world-weary and bruised—exactly the image of someone primed for revenge.
Daniel kept his composure. "Mr. Antonio," he said politely.
Santino didn't turn. He flung a dart, then drained his glass. "Which organization are you from?" he slurred.
Daniel didn't answer verbally. Instead he rolled up his sleeve and flashed the large X-scar on his wrist. Santino's head tilted; recognition hit him like a punch. His expression flickered—cooperating with an "evil clan" might stain his reputation at the High Table. But the lure of getting Alex dead—and returning to the Camorra fold—won out.
"What's your plan?" Santino asked, decision made.
Daniel smiled. "You'll see soon enough."
At that moment, phones across the room pinged. Santino checked his message:
Type: Open Order
Target: Alex Cross (Lighthouse leader)
Bounty: $10,000,000
Deadline: 20 hours
Location: Continental Hotel, Room 1002 (real-time updates)
His eyes flashed with murderous intent. "Did your group post this bounty?" he demanded.
"Of course," Daniel answered, nodding.
"This amount will tempt dozens of bounty hunters in Prague," Daniel said. "They'll break the rules to get it—if they try to attack him in the hotel, it will force him out. Then we strike while his men are distracted."
Santino grasped the implication immediately. "You want to flush him out of the Continental, then hit him when his guards are busy. Right?"
"Exactly." Daniel's smile was steady. "On behalf of my organization, I invite you to join us. Together we deal with Alex."
Santino agreed without hesitation.
With the pact made, Daniel walked out, coordinated pickup for the town's killers, and then fired off a message of his own:
"Mr. Alex—your bounty has been raised to $10 million. Also, the town chief and I have allied with Santino. If you leave the Continental tonight, you will face grave danger."
The message went out. In the lobby, a number of would-be bounty hunters made up their minds. Many didn't even know who "Alex" was beyond a name—European mercenaries knew of a rare thing: a ten-million-dollar contract in Prague was unheard-of. Greed and opportunity overrode caution.
One by one they rose, drew pistols, and headed for the elevators. An unavoidable bloodletting was about to erupt inside the Continental Hotel.
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