Just as dawn broke, Anthony received an encrypted message from Sergei.
All five operatives who breached the Bowery are dead. The King's men did it. The bodies were dumped on the steps of the 9th Precinct like a package waiting for a signature. The NYPD bagged the corpses and immediately buried the paperwork.
Anthony smiled faintly. It was a classic Bowery King maneuver.
It was the old-school law of the street: use death to deliver a message, and use corpses to draw your borders.
However, Anthony knew the posturing was ultimately meaningless. The police wouldn't dare investigate a High Table skirmish. It was a silent war. Gramont would never officially claim the dead men, and the Bowery King would never officially name the killers. Everyone had their own hidden agendas; it remained to be seen who would have the last laugh.
"Boss," Sergei's voice crackled over the secure line. "Patrick Donald is terrified of the bounty. He's hiding in a bunker. A hundred thousand dollars is more than enough to turn a third-rate street hustler into an apex predator."
"Good. It is time to signal DeShawn," Anthony said, watching the smoke drift from the cherry of his cigarette.
"Tell Victor and Pavel to spread the word on the street. Let everyone know the Tarasovs are moving into Queens to avenge Anya and wipe out the remaining Crips."
"DeShawn agreed to the alliance," Sergei reported. "But he demanded fifty percent of the Queens territory once the Crips are gone."
A cold, aloof smile spread across Anthony's face.
"He can demand seventy percent for all I care. He can only negotiate with me if he actually survives the night."
Anthony ended the call and dialed a new number.
"Anthony," Victor answered after two rings.
"Tonight. Queens," Anthony commanded. "We erase the Crips' territory."
"I know you are worried about Pavel," Anthony continued smoothly. "But Victor, the next generation of the Tarasov syndicate cannot live forever in their father's shadow. He needs to bleed."
"I understand," Victor said, his voice heavy with a father's grim resignation. "I will act as his overwatch."
"Tell him I am heading to Queens tonight as well," Anthony said, tossing the phone onto the desk.
As night fell, Queens felt like a wild beast injected with raw adrenaline.
The neon signs lining the avenues flickered erratically—red, blue, and green bleeding together into a mesmerizing, uneasy glow. The air smelled of cheap street-cart oil, sour garbage, and a sharp, underlying tension.
Midnight.
Union Avenue.
The "Old Fishbone Bar"—a fortified Crips stronghold.
Deafening reggaeton music crashed against the walls, rattling the cheap liquor bottles behind the bar. The air was thick with marijuana smoke. Seven of the remaining Crips gang members were gathered around a stained pool table. Stacks of chips and glasses of cheap whiskey littered the felt.
The news of Patrick Donald fleeing into hiding had spread like wildfire, and the men were marinating their terror in alcohol.
CRASH!
The stained-glass window facing the street shattered violently.
It wasn't a bullet. It was an M84 stun grenade.
The detonation was apocalyptic. The blinding flash of white light and the deafening 180-decibel roar instantly stripped away all human senses. The music and the shouting were swallowed by a high-pitched, agonizing ring that burned through their eardrums and retinas.
The gang members dropped like they had been struck by invisible hammers, screaming, vomiting, and rolling on the beer-soaked floor as their equilibrium shattered.
The heavy front doors were kicked off their hinges.
Through the thick, acrid white smoke, three tactical figures entered like hounds crawling out of hell.
Victor took the point. The Heckler & Koch MP5K in his hands roared with rapid, lethal precision. Glowing 9mm casings cascaded onto the floor like golden rain.
A Crip member, fighting through the disorientation to reach for a pistol, took a three-round burst directly to the sternum. The kinetic impact slammed him against the wall, leaving a wide smear of blood as he slid to the floor.
Pavel followed closely behind his father. The nervous tension that had plagued him during the refinery assault was gone, replaced by a cold, mechanical focus.
He raised his Glock 17. A thug behind the pool table lunged for a sawed-off shotgun. Pavel fired. The 9mm round shattered the man's wrist. As the shotgun clattered away, Pavel fired three more rounds into the man's chest.
The bartender popped up from behind the counter, leveling a revolver. Pavel didn't even blink. He fired twice through the cheap particle board of the bar, punching through the wood and taking the top of the bartender's head off in a spray of sawdust and brain matter.
It was clean, ruthlessly efficient, and left absolutely zero survivors.
12:30 AM.
Astoria Boulevard.
The "Lady Luck" underground casino.
Anthony sat in the back of a black Chevrolet Suburban with heavy window tints. John sat beside him, methodically checking the tension on an extended, twenty-round magazine for his Glock 19.
James, wearing a lightweight tactical rig, rode in the passenger seat, his finger pressed to his earpiece.
"Mike, sit-rep," James ordered.
"The casino floor is devoid of civilian gamblers," Mike the sniper replied over the comms. "Four security guards at the front entrance. Two outside smoking, two inside the glass. Two more at the rear loading dock. One is currently distracted by a working girl."
"Phineas reports the 'Pink Cat' strip club has been locked down," James relayed to Anthony. "Fifteen hostiles inside. Looks like Patrick's inner circle."
"Alexander has eyes on the drug depot in the 43rd Street auto shop," James continued. "Thirty hostiles. Mostly handguns and shotguns. A few AKs. No heavy ordnance. No counter-snipers."
"Where are DeShawn's Bloods?" Anthony asked.
"Three blocks west. Five vehicles. Fifty men, heavily armed."
Anthony looked out the tinted window. The neon-lit street stretched into the distance like a severed artery.
"We start with the casino," Anthony said, his voice dropping into a lethal, frigid register. "Standard operating procedure. Kill the guards and seize the vault."
James nodded and keyed his radio.
"Team A, target 'Lady Luck.' Clear the exterior security and secure the primary breach point."
"Team B, flank the rear alley. Seal the exits. Mike?"
"In position," the sniper replied smoothly. "Rooftop, southeast corner. Clean sightlines."
"Hold for my mark," James said.
The Suburban glided to a halt in a shadowed alley directly across from the casino.
Anthony pushed his door open. The night breeze carried the distinct scent of Queens: cheap perfume, stale weed, and the distant, rotting smell of the Hudson River.
Anthony stepped onto the pavement. The sharp, rhythmic clack of his leather dress shoes against the concrete sounded like a metronome counting down to an execution.
The two Crips security guards, dressed in ill-fitting suits, paused their conversation as Anthony approached.
"Hey, white boy. We're closed tonight," the larger guard sneered, resting his hand on the butt of a pistol tucked into his waistband.
Anthony didn't break his stride.
"Fuck, this guy is crazy," the second guard muttered. With the entire borough locked in a state of absolute panic, no sane civilian was out walking the streets.
The first guard drew his pistol.
Anthony's hand blurred. He flicked a military combat dagger from his sleeve, driving it perfectly into the soft hollow of the guard's throat. The man dropped his gun, choking on his own blood.
The second guard snapped out of his shock and reached for his weapon.
Anthony was already inside his guard. He caught the man's wrist with his left hand and wrenched it outward in a brutal joint-lock. The bone snapped with a dry, audible crack.
Before the guard could scream, Anthony's right hand closed around the hilt of the dagger still lodged in the first man's throat. He ripped the blade free and drove it upward into the second guard's jaw, punching through the soft palate and sinking deep into the cranial cavity.
The guard's eyes widened, his pupils blowing out instantly. Anthony released his grip, letting the corpse collapse to the pavement like a bag of wet cement.
The entire sequence took 2.8 seconds.
Over the past few days, Anthony had dumped all 163 of his stored attribute points into [Close Combat] and [Stamina Limit]. With his [Close Combat] skill spiking to Level 9, his neural reaction speed and dynamic visual processing had evolved to a terrifying degree. He could finally read John Wick's movements with absolute clarity. He was no longer just a tactician; physically, he was an apex predator.
Two more casino guards burst through the front glass doors, racking pump-action shotguns.
Pop. Pop.
Two suppressed, heavy-caliber rounds echoed from the adjacent rooftop.
Both guards' heads snapped violently backward in twin bursts of crimson spray. They hit the floor dead.
"Front door is clear," Mike reported over the comms.
Anthony stepped over the bodies and pushed the glass doors open. A cheerful brass bell jingled overhead.
The main casino floor was empty. The pale light from a crystal chandelier illuminated rows of green felt blackjack tables and silent slot machines.
Behind the main cashier's cage, a bald manager was curled into a ball on the floor, weeping and clutching a silver crucifix.
"Where is the basement access?" Anthony asked, his tone as casual as a tourist asking for directions.
The cashier trembled violently, pointing a shaking finger at a reinforced wooden door behind the bar.
Anthony walked over and kicked the door open.
A staircase led down into a sprawling subterranean room. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of premium whiskey. It was vastly larger than the floor above, packed with over a dozen high-stakes poker tables, scattered chips, and cocktail waitresses in lingerie.
At the VIP table in the back sat Raymond, Patrick Donald's second-in-command. He wore an unbuttoned floral shirt, a blonde woman draped over his lap.
The moment Anthony descended the stairs, the room fell dead silent. Two dozen pairs of eyes locked onto the elegant man in the bespoke suit, staring at the dripping combat dagger in his hand.
Raymond slowly pushed the blonde woman off his lap and stood up.
"Who the fuck are you?" Raymond demanded, his right hand slipping under his coat.
"Anthony Tarasov," Anthony smiled faintly.
The name dropped into the room like a live grenade. The tension shattered. Men gasped, kicked their chairs back, and lunged for their concealed weapons.
"The Tarasovs ain't welcome in Queens," Raymond said, trying desperately to project authority.
"I am not here to ask for a visa," Anthony chuckled. "I am here to inform you that the Crips are being formally evicted from the borough. Tonight."
Raymond glanced at the heavily armed men behind him. He let out a barking, bluffing laugh.
"Just you? By yourself?"
"Hardly."
Before the word fully left Anthony's mouth, the reinforced steel door at the back of the basement blew open.
James surged into the room, his suppressed MP5 submachine gun already leveled.
Several Crips tried to draw their weapons, but James's tactical sweep was flawless. Three men took bursts to the chest before their guns cleared their holsters.
A man hiding under a blackjack table popped up, aiming a revolver at Anthony's head.
Anthony drew his Glock 19. He fired three times in less than a second.
One round to the heart. One to the throat. One through the forehead.
The man crashed backward over the table, sending thousands of dollars in clay chips scattering across the bloody floor.
"Boss," Phineas's voice crackled over the radio. "DeShawn's Bloods successfully breached their targets. The Crips' auto shop has been wiped out, but the Bloods took massive casualties in the crossfire."
Anthony smiled, holstering his weapon.
"How unfortunate for them. I will be sure to send DeShawn a congratulatory fruit basket when I have the time."
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