John Wick's muscle car rolled to a stop fifty yards from the warehouse, its engine ticking in the sudden silence. According to the intelligence packet, this location served as one of Madame Gao's primary heroin processing facilities, a large industrial space masquerading as legitimate storage. Lights blazed behind the reinforced windows, but the loading bay doors remained sealed.
Rather than attempting infiltration, John stepped out of the vehicle and opened the trunk with deliberate calm. The grenade launcher rested in its custom foam cradle, six 40mm rounds arranged beside it like lethal chess pieces. He loaded five grenades with practiced efficiency, the metallic clicks precise and final.
He raised the weapon, sighted on the nearest window, and fired.
Glass exploded inward as the grenade punched through, detonating a heartbeat later. The warehouse's interior transformed into an inferno, flames erupting from chemical stores and racing across flour dust suspended in the air. Secondary explosions followed as the fire found accelerants. The remaining windows blew outward, showering the parking lot with glittering shrapnel.
John didn't pause to admire his work. He fired again.
Thump. Boom.
The second grenade struck the loading bay door, buckling the metal and igniting vehicles parked inside.
Thump. Boom.
The third punched through the warehouse's far wall.
Thump. Boom. Thump. Boom.
The final two grenades transformed the building's interior into a vision of hell itself. Flames painted the night sky orange, and the screams of men caught in the conflagration carried across the industrial district.
John set the spent launcher aside and donned a tactical sling loaded with spare magazines. His assault rifle came up smoothly as he advanced on the warehouse, boots crunching over broken glass. He kicked open the main entrance door, warped but still functional, and moved into the smoke-choked interior.
Men writhed on the floor, their clothes burning, their screams desperate and animal. John shot each one systematically, moving with the cold precision that had earned him his reputation. No hesitation. No mercy. These men had chosen to serve an organization that trafficked human misery. Tonight, they'd face the consequences.
Madame Gao had just received confirmation that the earlier assault had been executed by local assassins responding to the Fraternity's bounty when her phone rang again. The tone indicated it was one of her facility managers, but at this hour, that meant problems.
She answered, swiping the screen with an elegant gesture. "Speak."
"Boss, it's bad! The Hell's Kitchen facility is under attack! The attacker appears to be John Wick, "
The line erupted with automatic gunfire. A scream. Then silence, though the connection remained active.
Madame Gao's expression didn't change, but her grip on the phone tightened fractionally. She heard footsteps, boots on concrete, approaching the phone. Then heavy breathing, and finally, a voice.
"Are you the person in charge of this factory?"
The voice was calm, controlled, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. Madame Gao recognized the tone, she'd heard it from countless killers over the centuries. But John Wick possessed something extra, something that had allowed him to survive decades in a profession that consumed most practitioners within years.
"The Baba Yaga is coming for you," John continued, his voice dropping to something almost intimate. "I hope you've found a good hiding place."
The sheer audacity of it sparked genuine anger in Madame Gao. After five hundred years, after building an organization that spanned continents, after surviving challenges from warlords and empires, this... contractor... dared to threaten her?
"John Wick," she said, her voice carrying the chill of winter. "Are you provoking me?"
A pause. Then: "Just take it as such."
The line went dead.
Madame Gao stared at the phone for three seconds, her breathing controlled but her fury absolute. Then she raised her cane and drove it against the marble floor with inhuman force. The impact sent cracks spider-webbing across the stone, intricate fractures that spread in geometric patterns before the entire section collapsed into fragments.
She turned to Nobu, who'd witnessed the exchange in silence. "Where are the ninjas I sent to guard that facility?"
Nobu checked his tactical watch. "They should arrive within two minutes, assuming traffic conditions, "
"Capture John Wick," Madame Gao interrupted, her voice flat and absolute. "Alive if possible. Dead if necessary. But I want him in custody. Use whatever force is required."
She turned to address the other four fingers. "We're going to the facility. All of us."
Sowande raised an eyebrow. "One assassin hardly requires our collective attention."
Bakuto shrugged, his expression almost amused. "I don't object. We can demonstrate our power publicly. Remind the New York underworld why challenging the Hand is fatal."
"It's not about John Wick specifically," Madame Gao clarified. "It's about establishing dominance. If we don't crush this insect immediately and publicly, every two-bit contractor in the city will think they can harass us with impunity."
Her eyes glittered dangerously in the conference room's recessed lighting. "After we capture Wick and extract information about the Dragon Balls, we'll proceed directly to the Fraternity headquarters and eliminate them completely. This ends tonight."
The timing was critical. Night operations offered cover, both literally and metaphorically. A full-scale assault during daylight hours would draw immediate law enforcement response, potentially even federal intervention. But darkness provided plausible deniability, and by dawn, any evidence could be sanitized.
The others nodded, recognizing the strategic logic. They'd mobilize their elite operatives and converge on the flour mill. Simultaneously, their broader forces would advance on the Fraternity's headquarters, creating a two-pronged assault that would prevent either side from reinforcing the other.
As they departed the conference room, Madame Gao withdrew her phone once more and placed a call she'd hoped to avoid. The line connected after three rings.
"Mrs. Gao," Wilson Fisk's voice was professionally neutral. "To what do I owe, "
"Kingpin," she interrupted, dispensing with pleasantries. "The Hand and the Fraternity are now openly at war. As our business partner in New York, neutrality isn't an option."
Silence stretched for several seconds. Then Fisk replied, his tone carefully measured. "The Hand and I have a commercial relationship. You produce product; I distribute it and provide payment. That arrangement doesn't automatically make me a military ally."
"As for the Fraternity, I have no conflict with them. They've made no moves against my interests."
Madame Gao's laugh was sharp and utterly devoid of humor. "Wilson Fisk. The Fraternity has already struck, and the Hand is preparing our retaliation. Do you genuinely believe you can maintain neutrality while the city burns around you?"
She paused, letting her next words carry maximum weight. "I know what you're planning. You want both organizations to exhaust themselves, leaving Hell's Kitchen open for your expansion. But the Hand isn't the High Table, we don't lose. We will emerge victorious."
"Your choice is simple: ally with us now and share in the spoils, or refuse and face suppression once we've won. Your dream of empire dies either way, the only question is whether you die with it."
She shifted tone slightly, injecting poison into honey. "I should mention something about the Fraternity's philosophy. They believe justice must be achieved through direct action. Their peace is built on the corpses of people they deem unworthy. People like you and me."
"They follow an old creed: 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' What use are laws and morals to zealots who believe such things?"
The final strike, delivered with surgical precision: "Who do you think becomes their next target after they eliminate us? The tall tree draws the axe, Kingpin. And you're the tallest one left in New York."
She ended the call without waiting for a response. Fisk was intelligent enough to recognize the trap closing around him. He'd make the correct decision.
Wilson Fisk stood motionless before his office window, the phone still pressed to his ear as the dial tone droned. Madame Gao had forced his hand brilliantly, a political and strategic masterpiece.
If he refused to cooperate, the Hand would view him as an obstacle and target him regardless of the war's outcome. But if the Fraternity won, and they'd already demonstrated terrifying effectiveness against the Russians, the Camorra, and the High Table, he'd become their next priority target.
The Fraternity had methodically dismantled every major criminal organization in the United States over the past months. The pattern was clear: they weren't interested in territory or profit. They wanted elimination. Total, absolute, permanent removal of what they considered evil.
And by any reasonable definition, Wilson Fisk qualified as evil.
Even if they acknowledged his anonymous warning about the Hand's arrival, even if they recognized that intelligence as a friendly gesture, the best he could hope for was survival. His organization would still be dismantled. His empire would still crumble.
Worse, given the Fraternity's absolutist philosophy, could he truly trust them to spare even his life? They'd killed everyone else.
His jaw tightened as the reality settled over him like a burial shroud. There was no safe path forward. Only variations of danger.
He picked up his phone and dialed Bullseye's direct line. The call connected immediately.
"Boss?"
"Gather the men," Fisk said, his voice carrying the weight of inevitability. "Full mobilization. We can't stay neutral any longer."
"About time," Bullseye replied, audible excitement coloring his tone. "Which side are we hitting?"
Fisk stared out at the glittering Hell's Kitchen skyline, his kingdom, for however much longer it lasted.
"I'll provide targeting information shortly. Be ready to move within the hour."