When James and Mike saw John Wick step into the light, they instinctively took a half-step back and lowered their heads.
Neither PMC operator truly understood who this exhausted-looking man was, but they had seen his combat data. James knew that even with a five-man stack backing him up, he couldn't put this man down cleanly. In a room with weapons, a ten-man team would probably just feed him ammunition until they were all dead.
Bertrand Laroche's eyes widened. The rage drained away, replaced by something close to awe.
"John Wick?" he breathed. "You..."
John didn't look at him. He kept his eyes on Anthony.
"As an ancient covenant, the rules of a Marker supersede temporary directives from the Table," John explained, his voice flat. "But the High Table is the ultimate architect of the rules. They will never allow the Blood Oath to be used as a weapon to challenge their direct authority."
He finally glanced at the man chained on the floor.
"If you order the assassination of a sanctioned High Table agent, you trigger a global Excommunicado and Purge Order. The issuer of the Oath and the man who executes it both become sacrifices."
Bertrand nodded slowly, as if John had just read a familiar scripture.
Then his eyes narrowed. He stared at John in disbelief.
"John," Bertrand rasped. "Do you... do you even know whose man I am?"
"A special agent of the High Table," Anthony said, his voice dropping the temperature in the room. "The Marquis de Gramont."
Bertrand's breathing hitched. He coughed violently, spitting a spray of bloody foam onto the concrete.
Anthony planted his boots and pushed his chair back a few inches to keep his shoes clean.
"How... how could you possibly know that?" Fear finally bled into Bertrand's eyes.
He had never compromised his cover. He had only met Anthony once, at the French restaurant, and he had worn a flawless mask. To Bertrand's mind, there was only one logical explanation: a leak from within the High Table itself. Someone had betrayed the Marquis.
Anthony had no interest in correcting him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Where is Gramont?"
Bertrand swallowed hard, but the aristocratic arrogance slowly returned to his battered face.
"Do you honestly believe I would tell you?"
"You've taken me prisoner. You've killed the Marquis's assets," Bertrand said, his voice cooling. "You are already at war with the High Table. The rules of the Table protect you right now, Anthony, but they also bind you. The Marquis... he operates outside those rules."
"He operates inside the rules," Anthony corrected him sharply.
"If he didn't, he wouldn't need to hide behind the Crips and the Bloods. He wouldn't need to embed a spy in the Pritzker family. He wouldn't need to scurry through the shadows like a rat laying a trap."
Bertrand's pupils contracted.
Anthony stood up and walked over to him, looking down.
"He targeted the Tarasovs. He targeted the Pritzkers. He is trying to get his claws into every corner of New York."
Anthony crouched so they were eye level.
"He needs a spectacle. He needs a bloodbath loud enough to prove to the Table that he deserves the title of supreme ruler of New York." He smiled thinly. "You, and the mercenaries bleeding out behind the Lucky Seven Casino, were supposed to be his opening act."
"It's a pity the curtain call was a disaster."
Bertrand stared at him. The fear was gone. Now, there was only raw curiosity.
"What exactly are you?" Bertrand asked quietly. "Viggo's bastard? John Wick's pet project? Or... something else entirely?"
"I am Anthony Tarasov," Anthony said. "That is enough."
He stood up and walked back to the chair, but he didn't sit down.
"Last chance. Where is Gramont?"
Bertrand laughed. It was a relaxed, burdenless sound, the laugh of a man who realized he held the winning hand.
"You won't kill me," he said casually. "I am the Marquis's direct agent. Killing me is a formal declaration of war. You don't have the stomach for it yet."
He tilted his head back. The overhead lights caught the ugly purple swelling of his broken nose, making his smile look demonic.
"Do you think Santino D'Antonio died in a vacuum? The Camorra wants your head on a spike, Anthony. But as long as the Marquis holds New York, the Italians won't cross the border without his permission."
He let his eyes drift toward Anthony's hands.
"Winnie Pritzker," Bertrand murmured, rolling the name around in his mouth like a fine wine. "If you lay a hand on me, the Marquis might find it necessary to make things very difficult for that beautiful girl..."
He never finished the sentence.
Anthony turned his back. He walked to a tool bench against the far wall and picked up a hammer.
It was a standard woodworking mallet with a heavy, rubber-coated head. Designed to drive joints together without leaving a dent.
Anthony walked back and stood over the Frenchman.
"Do you know why I don't torture people?"
Bertrand didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the hammer.
"Because it wastes time," Anthony said. "And it yields nothing. Operatives at your level are conditioned for interrogation. You can compartmentalize physical trauma. By the time you finally break, the intel is either fabricated or expired."
He squatted down and tapped the rubber head against the concrete. It made a dull, heavy thud.
"So I usually skip that step."
Bertrand's eyes narrowed. "You're going to kill me?"
"Yes."
"Are you not afraid of the Marquis's wrath?"
"I am," Anthony admitted calmly. "But I am more afraid of keeping you breathing, and giving you the chance to transmit what you learned tonight back to your master."
Anthony lunged.
He grabbed the back of Bertrand's neck with his left hand and drove the man's face into the concrete.
Bertrand thrashed wildly, but with his wrists chained behind his back, he had no leverage against Anthony's brute strength. Anthony drove his knee into the center of Bertrand's spine, pinning him flat, and raised the hammer.
"Wait!" Bertrand yelled, his composure finally shattering. "We can negotiate! The Marquis recruits talent. You are far more valuable than I realized. I can broker an introduction. You can have more than just the Tarasov syndicate--"
The hammer came down.
It didn't strike his skull. It struck the back of his neck.
The rubber mallet hit the junction of the cervical spine and the occipital bone with a sickening, muffled crunch.
Bertrand's body went rigid, then instantly collapsed into dead weight.
Anthony swung a second time. Then a third.
He made absolutely certain the spinal cord was pulverized.
He let go of the collar. Bertrand's body lay flat against the cold floor. His eyes were still open, but the arrogant light inside them was permanently extinguished.
[Target Eliminated. Awarding 15 Attribute Points.]
Anthony stood up and tossed the bloody hammer back onto the workbench.
"Get rid of it," he told Sergei. "Burn it in the incinerator. Dump the ash in the Hudson."
Sergei nodded and signaled for two PMCs to drag the body out.
"Boss," Sergei asked quietly. "What about Abram?"
"Give him space," Anthony said. "But put eyes on Boris. If Boris tries to leave New York tonight... let him go. If he decides to stay..."
He didn't need to finish. Sergei understood perfectly.
"Clear."
Anthony stepped out of the barn. The night wind rolling off the Jersey meadows felt clean against his face.
He looked up. There were no stars, just the dark red ambient glow of the New York skyline bleeding into the clouds.
"Are you really taking the Marquis to war directly?"
John walked up beside him, lighting a cigarette. He offered the lighter.
Anthony leaned in, sparked his own cigarette, and exhaled. "Would you submit to him?"
"No."
"Then neither will I."
John stared at the red glow on the horizon. "Gramont will use Winnie to break you."
Anthony was quiet for a long moment.
"No one breaks me while I'm still breathing," he said finally. "You think I'll drop my gun and offer my neck just because he holds a knife to someone I care about? Never."
John turned his head. "You don't care about her?"
Anthony sighed. "John. If Gramont had held a gun to Helen's head... you would have dropped your weapon."
John went rigid.
"And then he would have shot you both," Anthony finished quietly.
He took a slow drag of his cigarette. "I love Winnie. I would take a bullet for her without hesitating. But I will never surrender my autonomy to a man whose only goal is to slaughter us all. This isn't a fairy tale, John."
"Just like right now. As long as you keep breathing, no one dares move on me or Marcus."
John stared at him. "And if... if Gramont does touch Winnie?"
"Then I kill him," Anthony said, flicking his cigarette ash into the gravel. "I won't use a Marker. I will take his head from his shoulders with my own two hands, in the ugliest way possible."
His phone vibrated.
"Uncle," Anthony answered. "Is there a problem?"
Abram was silent for a heavy second. When he spoke, his voice trembled.
"Boris left the estate half an hour ago. He took his passport."
"You let him walk?" Anthony asked, his tone perfectly neutral.
"I told him to run," Abram rasped. Anthony heard the clink of glass -- Abram was drinking heavily. "I told him... if he didn't leave the city tonight, he wouldn't be able to leave tomorrow."
Anthony looked through the doorway at Sergei, who was waiting inside.
"Uncle. I do not want him to ever return to New York," Anthony said.
"He won't," Abram swallowed hard. "He won't, Anthony. And if you want... I can leave with him."
"I understand." Anthony ended the call.
He walked back into the barn and looked at Sergei.
"Boris fled," Anthony said. "Clear the board for Anya."
He grabbed a bottle from a crate, uncorked it, and took a long pull.
"I'm going to use her corpse to buy Queens."
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