Siberia, Russia
John Wick stepped out of Ivan Vanko's workshop into the biting Siberian cold. Of all the Dragon Balls he'd collected, this one had been the easiest acquisition. No favors owed, no promises extracted, no blood spilled. Just cash.
Ten million dollars, and Vanko had handed over the seven-star ball without hesitation. The man needed funding for his projects more than he needed a mysterious artifact collecting dust on his workbench.
John Wick allowed himself a rare smile as he pocketed the sphere.
"Helen," he murmured to the frozen air. "Soon."
All seven Dragon Balls. The collection was complete. All that remained was returning to the Fraternity headquarters in New York and making his wish. One wish to undo everything, to bring her back, to have the life they should have lived.
He wanted to sprint toward the nearest airport, board the first plane to New York, and finish this impossible quest.
Instead, he forced himself to move methodically. Through the Fraternity's channels, he arranged secure transport back to the United States. While waiting for departure, he sent encrypted messages to the few friends he had left in the underworld.
The High Table is collapsing. Stay out of it. Don't pick sides.
Whatever was coming would reshape the criminal landscape. His friends didn't need to die in the crossfire.
Location Unknown – High Table Emergency Session
The emergency elder council convened via secured video conference. Faces appeared on screens, drawn and exhausted. The meeting had been called to address the crisis, but three hours of debate had produced no viable solutions.
They'd confirmed that Smith Doyle was the only enhanced individual in the Fraternity. That should have been encouraging. One target, one problem.
But their last assault, a force large enough to siege a military installation, had been obliterated. The casualties were catastrophic. Nearly every hired killer who'd participated was dead. The adjudicators who survived were traumatized, speaking in hushed tones about a man who moved like a demon and shrugged off bullets like rain.
"We could deploy heavy ordnance," suggested one elder, a German Elder whose hands trembled slightly on camera. "A missile strike. Eliminate the headquarters entirely."
"In New York?" Another elder's voice dripped with disdain. "That's not a targeted assassination. That's terrorism. Every law enforcement agency in America would descend on us. We'd be dismantled within weeks."
"Then what do you propose?" The Italian elder leaned forward. His face filled the screen. "We've thrown men at him. They died. What's left?"
An uncomfortable silence settled over the conference.
"Perhaps," an older voice suggested carefully, "we could negotiate terms. Sue for peace while we still have, "
Multiple screens erupted in protest. The suggestion died beneath a wave of outrage and wounded pride.
The debate resumed, circular and pointless.
None of them noticed the first elder's screen flicker and go dark. Technical difficulties were common in encrypted communications.
Then a second screen went black.
Then a third.
Italy – Don Massimo's Estate
Smith Doyle stood before the ornate gates of the sprawling Italian manor. Tuscany stretched out in all directions, rolling hills, vineyards, old money hiding behind older walls.
Around the estate's perimeter, concealed on rooftops and in treelines, Fraternity snipers settled into position. Fox adjusted her scope, calculating windage and elevation for the dozen shots she'd likely need to make in the next ten minutes.
Her radio crackled softly. "Overwatch set. All lanes covered."
"Copy," Fox whispered. "Stand by for target movement."
At the main gate, Smith Doyle didn't bother with the intercom. He crouched slightly, then launched himself upward and forward. He cleared the twelve-foot wall effortlessly, landing in a crouch on the other side.
No alarms. Not yet.
He walked openly across the manicured grounds, not bothering with stealth. Within thirty seconds, a two-man patrol spotted him.
"Hey! Stop right, "
Smith Doyle snapped his fingers.
The lead guard's head snapped back, a neat hole appearing in his forehead. He crumpled. His partner had just enough time to register confusion before a second suppressed shot took him down.
Smith Doyle glanced toward the treeline where Fox had positioned herself. He smiled slightly, acknowledgment and approval, then continued toward the villa.
Through her scope, Fox saw his expression and allowed herself a brief smirk before tracking her rifle toward the next threat. Two more guards rounded a corner, already reaching for radios.
Two shots. Two bodies.
Smith Doyle's advance became a killing field. Every guard who approached him dropped from unseen fire. The snipers eliminated threats with mechanical efficiency, providing perfect overwatch until Smith Doyle reached the villa entrance.
He stepped inside. The snipers' sightlines ended.
A guard materialized in the foyer, assault rifle rising. Smith Doyle closed the distance faster than the man could track. His fist drove into the guard's chest with enough force to lift him off his feet. The guard flew backward and hit the wall hard enough to crack the plaster. He slumped down, unconscious or dead.
Smith Doyle rolled his shoulders. "Can't even let me warm up?"
More guards flooded into the hallway, weapons raised. They hesitated, fingers hovering over triggers.
"What are you waiting for?" Smith Doyle asked mildly. "Having trouble pulling the trigger?"
The first guard found his courage and fired. Smith Doyle had already moved. He flowed between them like water, every movement precise and devastating. Bones shattered. Men fell.
It wasn't a fight. It was a demonstration.
Emergency Conference Room – Don Massimo's Villa
Don Massimo sat at the head of a long conference table, video screens displaying the other High Table elders. The meeting had gone nowhere, producing nothing but circular arguments and mounting fear.
A guard burst through the door, breathing hard.
"What is the meaning of this?" Don Massimo barked. "We're in conference!"
The guard leaned close, whispering urgently in his ear. "Smith Doyle is here. He's inside the villa. The perimeter guards are dead. Fraternity snipers have us surrounded."
Don Massimo's face drained of color. He turned back to the screens, forcing his voice to remain steady.
"Gentlemen, I apologize. The Fraternity has launched an attack on my estate. I must address this situation immediately."
Before anyone could respond, the Russian elder's face went pale. "We're under attack as well. Armed assault team breaching our, "
His screen cut to black.
The German elder stood abruptly, shouting at someone off-camera. "What do you mean they're inside? How did, "
His feed died.
The remaining elders stared at their screens in mounting horror. Three simultaneous, coordinated strikes.
Don Massimo slammed his laptop shut and stood. "Full security detail! With me, now!"
Smith Doyle moved through the villa like a force of nature. Bodies littered the hallway behind him. Some groaned. Most didn't.
A door ahead opened. Elder Don Massimo emerged, surrounded by a squad of fully armed High Table adjudicators, the best protection money could buy.
"Mr. Smith." Don Massimo raised one hand, palm out. "Surely we can discuss this like civilized men."
Smith Doyle stopped walking. A predatory smile spread across his face. "Don Massimo. What exactly do you think we have to discuss?"
"Anything!" Desperation crept into Don Massimo's voice. "There's no need for continued hostility. The High Table is prepared to offer whatever the Fraternity requires. Money, territory, contracts, name your price. We can end this war today."
Smith Doyle shook his head slowly. "I don't care what you can offer me."
He dropped into a fighting stance, energy coiling through his muscles.
"The world is filthy," he said quietly. "It needs to be cleaned."
"Wolf Fang Wind Fist!"
The marble floor exploded beneath his feet as he launched forward. He moved like a predator, impossibly fast. The adjudicators' training kicked in, fingers found triggers, muzzles tracked toward their target.
Smith Doyle was already past their firing lines. He wove between bullets, each movement precisely calculated. His hand lashed out, fingers closing around an adjudicator's throat. The crunch of crushed cartilage. The man dropped.
A spinning kick caught another guard center mass, launching him backward into the wall. The impact left spider-web cracks in the plaster. The guard didn't get up.
Don Massimo's courage shattered. He turned and ran, sprinting toward the panic room at the villa's core.
Smith Doyle finished the Wolf Fang Wind Fist sequence. Every guard lay dead or dying. The entire engagement had lasted perhaps fifteen seconds.
He walked after Don Massimo at an unhurried pace.
The elder reached the reinforced door of his safe room, fingers fumbling with the biometric lock. The door began to slide open, sanctuary just inches away.
Smith Doyle's fist caught Don Massimo between the shoulder blades. The impact drove him into the steel door with bone-breaking force. Don Massimo's body hit the metal, then slowly slid down to crumple on the floor.
Smith Doyle pulled out his phone and dialed. Fox answered immediately.
"Don Massimo is finished. Leave Team Three on overwatch. Everyone else moves in for cleanup."
Fox's voice came through clear and professional. "Understood."
She switched to the team channel. "Team Three maintains perimeter security. All other units, advance and sanitize. No survivors, no evidence."
The Fraternity flowed into the villa like a tide, methodical and efficient. Another High Table elder erased from existence.