Half an hour after Hayate had departed.
Abram Tarasov arrived at the suburban Brooklyn factory with his massive entourage. A bodyguard held a large black umbrella over him, shielding him from the torrential rain as he was escorted into the building.
The factory was unnervingly silent.
His counselor stepped forward, his voice low. "They're all dead. Not a single brother survived."
Abram's face twitched. "So, we're too late."
"Do we know who did this? Any leads?"
Abram asked two questions in rapid succession. The counselor hesitated for a moment before gesturing toward the center of the room. "Abram, you should see this for yourself."
The men had dragged all the corpses into the main hall, lining them up neatly on the concrete floor. Abram walked over to inspect them. Over forty bodies lay there; some were mangled beyond recognition, and a pile of severed limbs sat in the corner, lending the space a morbid, chilling atmosphere.
Abram pulled his heavy coat tighter, trying to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
As he surveyed the dead, his brow furrowed. Aside from the three crushed by the security door, the rest of the men had been killed by explosions or slit throats. There wasn't a single bullet wound among them.
The counselor approached, holding out a cloth. On it lay several shuriken and kunai.
"Abram, we found these embedded in the bodies. These are the killer's calling cards."
Looking at the steel blades, Abram's massive frame actually swayed for a second.
He muttered under his breath, "A Ninja..."
"What?" the counselor asked, confused.
"The man responsible for this is Shiranui Hayate," Abram explained. "He is the second legendary assassin in the Continental to earn a title since John Wick, the Boogeyman."
"Because his weapons of choice are shuriken and kunai, he's known as the 'Ninja'."
"With nothing but these 'children's toys,' Shiranui Hayate once wiped out an entire heavily armed gang by himself."
The counselor's jaw dropped. It was a staggering revelation. He looked back at the forty-some corpses on the floor and nodded blankly. The evidence was undeniable; someone had done this.
Abram shifted his focus. "What about the vault in the basement? How much did we lose?"
The counselor hesitated. "It's all gone. Aside from some empty crates, nothing was left behind."
"Dammit! Bastard!"
Abram cursed violently. "Damn that Iosef, and damn you, Viggo! Look at the monsters you two have provoked!"
After venting his fury, he barked orders to his men. "Leave a team to clean up the mess. The rest of you, follow me back."
He retreated into the safety of his Cadillac SUV, flanked by his bodyguards.
While Abram was cursing his brother, Viggo Tarasov was locked in a brutal life-and-death struggle with John Wick in the pouring rain.
Though Viggo was a powerful mob boss, he was no match for a professional of John's caliber in a direct brawl. He was clearly losing the hand-to-hand fight.
Suddenly, Viggo pulled a short blade from behind his back and lunged at the unarmed John. They traded blows for several rounds, neither drawing blood until Viggo saw an opening and thrust the knife toward John's abdomen.
Reacting just in time, John grabbed Viggo's wrist. The two men locked together in a grim stalemate. Viggo used his free hand to strike John repeatedly in the neck and head, gripping his hair to force an opening.
Despite the heavy blows, John didn't let go. Instead, he stared at the blade and did the unthinkable: he pulled Viggo's hand toward himself, driving the knife deep into his own side.
Using the leverage of the impalement, John grabbed Viggo's arm and snapped it with a sickening crack.
"Agh!"
The agony of the fracture forced a scream from Viggo as he stumbled back. He tried one last desperate strike, landing a punch that sent John reeling.
John looked down at the knife in his gut, gripped the hilt with both hands, and ripped it out.
As Viggo surged forward to finish him, John blocked a punch with his forearm and used the momentum to plunge the short blade into the side of Viggo's neck.
Viggo had been struck in a vital spot. He managed one final, weak punch that knocked John to the ground before he lost all strength. He slumped onto the wet pavement, clutching his throat, staring silently at John Wick.
John sat in the mud, holding his own bleeding abdomen.
Knowing his end was near, Viggo spoke through the rain. "John... I'll see you in hell."
John looked at him, his voice rasping. "Yeah. See you there."
John struggled to his feet and began to limp away into the storm. Viggo Tarasov closed his eyes for the last time.
On the other side of the city.
Hotaru had pulled the Ferrari 458 up to the front of the Chrysler Building. As Hayate prepared to step out, she looked at him expectantly.
"Hayate, aren't you going to invite me up for a drink?"
She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, looking particularly alluring in the dim light of the dashboard.
Hayate opened the door and stepped out. "It's late, Hotaru. We both have work tomorrow. Go home and get some rest."
He closed the door and gave her a small wave. "Goodnight, Hotaru. Drive safe. Sweet dreams."
With that, Hayate turned and entered the building.
Behind him, Hotaru sat in the sports car and gave his retreating back a sharp middle finger. "Bastard," she muttered under her breath.
She slammed the car into gear and floored it. The red Ferrari performed a violent U-turn and roared off into the night.
Inside the lobby, Hayate didn't see the gesture, but he could easily imagine her frustrated expression. A small smile touched his lips as he headed for the elevator.