The smoke of the battle still hung thick in the air, mixing with the overwhelming, copper stench of fresh blood and the sour putridity of the garbage piled outside the Old Fishbone Bar.
The neon sign above the entrance had been blown out by a stray shotgun blast. Only the flickering, jagged letter 'F' remained illuminated, casting a chaotic red glow across the pavement.
Victor kicked the crooked, bullet-riddled front door open. His heavy combat boots made a wet, tearing sound as they pulled away from the congealed blood pooling on the threshold.
Pavel followed a step behind him. The young man kept his Glock raised in a two-handed grip, his face pale in the dim light, sweeping his muzzle over the carnage.
The bar was completely destroyed. The heavy oak pool table had been overturned to serve as a barricade, its green felt soaked through with a dark, oily liquid.
Several of Tarasov's enforcers moved silently through the room, dragging the bodies of the dead Crips toward the back exit, leaving long, slick smears across the floorboards.
Victor holstered his MP5K and walked over to the shattered bar. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of bourbon that had somehow survived the crossfire. He uncorked it with his teeth and took a long, burning swallow, letting the alcohol strip the taste of cordite from his throat.
He turned and held the bottle out to his son. "How do you feel?"
Pavel swallowed hard. The smell of the slaughterhouse was threatening to turn his stomach. He forced his shoulders back, deliberately looking at a corpse in the corner whose skull had been caved in by a 9mm hollow-point.
"I feel better than last time," Pavel managed to say. "At least my hands aren't shaking."
Victor nodded once. He took another drink and pushed the bottle into Pavel's chest.
Pavel hesitated, then grabbed the neck of the bottle and took a deep pull. He immediately choked, coughing violently as the cheap whiskey burned its way down his esophagus. Tears pricked his eyes.
Victor slapped him hard on the back, his massive hand nearly knocking the boy over.
"You'll learn to appreciate it," Victor rumbled. "Remember the taste of this room. Remember the taste of the ash."
He stared into his son's bloodshot, watering eyes.
"The Tarasov killing machine is going to belong to you one day, Pavel." Victor kicked the twisted, broken barrel of a discarded shotgun across the floor. "You have to get used to living in the garbage."
Pavel wiped his mouth with the back of his tactical glove and handed the bottle back. He looked around the ruined bar—a piece of an empire he had just helped tear down with blood and fire. The last lingering shadows of his boyhood cowardice finally broke, replaced by something much harder.
"I understand, Dad."
In the distance, sporadic, muffled gunshots echoed through the night.
DeShawn's Bloods were currently sweeping through the rest of the neighborhood, eagerly cleaning up the scattered remnants of the Crips. They were moving rapidly to secure the highly lucrative underground gambling dens, the strip clubs, and the drug transit houses.
As for the massive piles of cash seized from the Crips' vaults—that all went directly to the Tarasovs.
Ten minutes later, DeShawn swaggered into the ruined Fishbone Bar, flanked by six heavily armed lieutenants. The Bloods boss wore a flashy, tailored purple velvet suit. His face beamed with absolute, undisguised pride, acting as if he had personally orchestrated the massacre.
"Victor! My old friend!"
DeShawn threw his arms wide. His smile was blinding, revealing a row of diamond-encrusted gold teeth.
"Look at this! Just look at it! Queens belongs to us now!"
He clapped Victor forcefully on the shoulder, entirely ignoring the cold, lingering killing intent radiating from the massive Russian enforcer.
"Where is Boss Anthony? I need to thank him personally for tossing my crew this opportunity. These roaches from the Crips should have been exterminated years ago."
Victor slowly reached up and brushed DeShawn's hand off his shoulder. His voice was dead flat.
"The Boss is currently securing the 'Lady Luck' casino."
Victor paused, letting a microscopic hint of dark sarcasm bleed into his tone. "He mentioned that Boss DeShawn has moved very efficiently tonight."
DeShawn laughed so loudly he practically spit on Victor's tactical vest.
"Of course! When Anthony Tarasov calls, DeShawn answers! As for the territory..."
DeShawn rubbed his hands together, the sheer greed in his eyes impossible to hide.
"Anthony sent word that I get seventy percent of the turf, minus the hard cash. I gotta admit, I never expected the Russians to be so generous."
"Don't you worry about a thing, Victor. From tonight onward, the Bloods and the Tarasovs are blood brothers."
DeShawn grinned, already counting the millions he was about to make, utterly oblivious to the fact that he was enthusiastically locking his own neck into a guillotine.
At the southern tip of Manhattan, the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Gramont penthouse completely insulated the Marquis from the bloodshed across the river.
Gramont stood before his massive curved video wall, holding a crystal glass of deep red wine.
Chidi stood three paces behind him, as rigid and silent as a gargoyle.
"My Lord," Chidi reported smoothly. "Breaking intelligence from the street. All seven of the Crips' primary strongholds in Queens fell within forty-two minutes. Their core leadership is either dead or in hiding."
"The assault was spearheaded by a Tarasov tactical element, led by Viktor Romanov. His son, Pavel, was documented in the assault force."
"Anthony Tarasov was also confirmed active in Queens. He was operating alongside a separate, highly specialized four-man fireteam."
Gramont took a slow sip of his wine, savoring the dry astringency of the tannins against his palate.
"The Queens Crips were nothing more than a block of rotting cheese," Gramont murmured. "They were destined to be devoured by rats."
"Where is that imbecile, DeShawn?"
"His forces are currently conducting sweeping operations against the scattered Crips survivors," Chidi replied. "Exactly as Anthony Tarasov requested."
Gramont smiled. "And what are the Bloods' casualty metrics?"
"Preliminary reports indicate at least thirty-seven Bloods dead or critically wounded in the crossfire. As for the Tarasov casualties... we have zero reported."
"A formidable operational tempo," Gramont said, his tone appreciative, like a food critic reviewing a new, exotic dish. "Anthony possesses genuine tactical flair."
"But DeShawn... does that absolute moron actually believe the rumor that Anthony is going to hand him seventy percent of the borough?"
Chidi remained silent.
"Of course he isn't going to get it," Gramont answered his own question, turning to look at Chidi with eyes glittering with dark amusement. "You know Anthony Tarasov's psychological profile. Do you honestly believe he would share his prize with a wagging dog?"
Gramont turned back to the screens, watching the live betting odds for the Hunting Ground fluctuate in real-time.
"DeShawn considers himself a clever mouse. He is happily snatching the most tempting piece of cheese off the trap, completely ignoring the poisoned wire suspended above his neck."
Gramont shook his head slowly, watching the tragedy unfold with aristocratic detachment.
"Poor DeShawn. He believes Anthony is inviting him to carve up the cake. No, my dear Chidi."
"Anthony was simply clearing the dirty dishes off the table to make room for the main course. DeShawn and his Bloods are the meat sitting on the platter."
Gramont threw his head back and laughed. It was a sharp, piercing sound, echoing through the cavernous living room with a morbid, psychotic joy.
"Marvelous! Absolutely masterful!"
Gramont actually clapped his hands together, applauding Anthony's geopolitical strategy.
"Anthony used the Bloods as a disposable janitorial service, and the moment they finish cleaning his floors, he is going to execute the janitors. DeShawn is infinitely stupider than Preston ever was."
Chidi bowed slightly. "Should we dispatch a courier to warn him? Or... intervene directly?"
"Intervene?"
Gramont let out a soft, mocking chuckle.
"Why on earth would I intervene? Let Anthony scrub this blight off my city. DeShawn doesn't even qualify as a pawn on my board. His only value is to bleed away a microscopic fraction of Anthony's stamina, and perhaps make our little Russian prince seem slightly less invincible to the rest of the underworld."
Gramont's tone was incredibly relaxed, exuding the suffocating aura of absolute, untouchable control.
He paused. His gaze drifted to a digital satellite map of the United States, his long finger tracing a line from New York across the country to the West Coast.
"However. A lion is still a lion. And even a young cub possesses lethal claws. Sometimes, the most efficient method to dispatch such a beast is to simply unleash another pack of equally starving, highly motivated predators to tear it apart for you."
A terrifying, freezing light flashed in Gramont's eyes.
"What about our loyal business partners in Los Angeles?"
"Those Mexican cartel businessmen who sell death under the California sun. They treat the Pacific Coast like their own private sandbox. Haven't they always coveted an East Coast distribution hub?"
Gramont looked over his shoulder at Chidi. His smile was absolute.
"Sanctioned agents should be used to destroy sanctioned agents. Send an encrypted diplomatic cable to our dear friend, Carlos Mendoza."
"Tell him the dining table in New York is finally large enough to accommodate a second set of cutlery."
"If the Cartel can prove they have the stomach for the slaughter... I will officially authorize them to take a seat."
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