Continental Hotel, New York
Winston watched the Adjudicator approach, her expression as cold and final as a death sentence. His gambit to redirect her attention to the Fraternity had failed. No matter. He'd prepared for this outcome.
"Have you selected your successor?" she asked.
Winston met her gaze without flinching. "No."
He'd spent the past seven days mobilizing every asset he possessed, killers who owed him favors, operatives bound by blood oath markers, people who understood that the High Table's rigid hierarchy was strangling them all. Only those with nothing left to lose would dare stand against the High Table alongside him.
"Then you've made your choice." The Adjudicator pulled out her phone and dialed. "Modification to standing orders. Adjudicator 3C434A21. New York Continental Hotel, out of service."
She ended the call and turned back to Winston. "This facility is no longer neutral ground. The Continental's protections are void. Combat operations are now authorized within these walls."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to something almost sympathetic. "Since you refuse to abdicate, you forfeit your life. High Table enforcers are en route to remove you from this building. Permanently."
She walked past him toward the exit. "Goodnight, Winston."
Winston watched her go, then whispered to the empty lobby, "Sanctuary's over."
He pulled out his phone. "Charon. It's started."
Then he headed for the armory hidden three floors beneath the hotel, the arsenal he'd been stockpiling for exactly this scenario.
The hotel's PA system crackled to life with Charon's measured voice: "Ladies and gentlemen, please be advised: the Continental Hotel is now closed. We are temporarily out of service. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. Please proceed to the nearest exit immediately."
Guests began evacuating, some hurrying, others moving with the unhurried pace of professionals who'd survived worse.
The Adjudicator found Zero in the lounge, seated with his two students. All three wore expressions of serene anticipation.
"The Continental is open for operations. You may begin."
Zero smiled, a predator's expression. "Good. Very good."
"Additional support is being deployed as we speak," the Adjudicator added.
She returned to room 217 to monitor the situation remotely.
Outside, two armored buses pulled up to the Continental's entrance. Doors hissed open, and dozens of tactical operators poured out, full body armor, ballistic helmets, the latest generation bulletproof suits. They moved in coordinated fire teams, weapons up, advancing into the hotel with professional precision.
The battle for the Continental had begun.
Fraternity Headquarters – Textile Factory
Three armored buses roared toward the textile factory. Gunfire erupted from the walls, League sentries opening up with automatic weapons.
Tat-tat-tat-tat!
Bullets sparked off the armored hulls, ricocheting harmlessly. The vehicles' armor plating and bulletproof glass shrugged off the assault.
The buses smashed through the factory gates and screeched to stops in the courtyard. Doors flew open, and High Table enforcers spilled out, returning fire immediately.
Chidi led the assault, with Caine moving beside him, blind eyes somehow tracking targets with eerie accuracy. They wore full tactical gear, helmets protecting their heads as they advanced under covering fire.
On the rooftop, Mr. X activated bullet time. The world slowed. He tracked targets through his scope, searching for the gaps in their armor, exposed necks, the thin space between helmet and collar, the vulnerable lower face beneath ballistic visors.
His rifle cracked methodically. Each shot found flesh. High Table operatives dropped with precision wounds to their throats and jaws.
But there were too many. And their armor made killshots difficult.
The attackers pushed forward, forcing their way into the textile factory proper. Mr. X relocated, moving to maintain his firing angle as the battle shifted indoors.
Moroccan Desert
Smith and his team followed the Elder across the dunes until the landscape shifted, rocky outcroppings rising from the sand like broken teeth. The Elder's true headquarters.
It was underground. Clever. In the desert's heart, beneath stone and sand where satellites couldn't see and no army could approach undetected.
Smith activated his scouter, scanning the subterranean complex. Dozens of heat signatures appeared, guards, servants, administrators. Combat power readings flickered across his vision. None above 5 points.
No wonder the Elder wanted John so badly. His forces are mediocre at best.
"Fox. Signal the others. All teams execute now."
Fox pulled out the satellite phone and made two brief calls. In Paris and Italy, Cross and the Gunsmith received their go-codes and launched their assaults on Gramont and the Camorra.
The Elder led them through the entrance, a reinforced steel door built into the rock face. As soon as they were inside, Smith drew his weapon.
"Kill the Elder."
John Wick's pistol barked once. The Elder crumpled, a neat hole in his temple.
Then chaos erupted.
Smith released Puar from his pocket. The shape-shifting cat transformed mid-leap into a massive tiger, bowling over three guards who'd been reaching for their weapons.
"Push forward! No survivors!" Smith charged, leading from the front.
His Wolf Fang Fist technique made him a blur of motion, strikes too fast to follow, each blow hitting with enough force to shatter bone. His scouter tracked every enemy, preventing ambushes. Bullets that should have killed him bounced off his enhanced durability, at 8 points of combat power, small-caliber rounds were merely painful.
Wesley and Fox moved like twin reapers, their curved bullets finding targets around corners and through doorways. No place was safe. No cover was sufficient.
John Wick fought with brutal efficiency, headshot after headshot, never stopping to confirm kills. If the first shot didn't hit the brain, he fired again.
Puar shifted forms constantly, tiger to eagle to serpent, adapting to each combat scenario, providing support where needed most.
Word of the attack spread through the complex. Emergency broadcasts in Arabic echoed through stone corridors. But there was nowhere to run. The Fraternity had sealed the exits.
Within twenty minutes, the underground fortress fell silent.
Smith stood in the Elder's command center, checking his scouter one final time. No remaining signatures. Complete elimination.
But victory had come with a price. Eight of his operatives bore injuries, bullet wounds, shrapnel, burns from an improvised explosive. Three hadn't made it. A grenade had taken them in a narrow corridor, killing them instantly.
John Wick himself had taken two rounds to his bulletproof vest, massive bruises bloomed across his ribs.
"This Elder's faction is eliminated," Smith announced. "Collect our fallen. We're leaving."
John stared at Smith with new respect bordering on awe. He'd watched the man move through combat like something from a comic book, shrugging off bullets, moving faster than should be possible, hitting with superhuman strength.
Captain America, John thought. He fights like goddamn Captain America.
He finally understood the true depth of the Fraternity's power.
High Table Emergency Session
Three simultaneous reports flooded in, attacks on Elders in Morocco, Paris, and Italy. Communications cut out mid-transmission. Distress calls went unanswered.
The remaining Elders convened an emergency video conference. Their faces appeared on screens in a secure bunker, the High Table's hidden nexus.
They stared at each other in stunned silence.
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