Even for someone as hardened as Ivan, Richard Castle's approach seemed excessively ruthless. Ivan had often bragged to Castle about the superiority of his homeland's DShK 14.5mm heavy machine guns, claiming they were far superior to America's ancient M2 Browning "Ma Deuce," a weapon the U.S. military had used for over 80 years. But Castle had opted for the Browning, not because it was necessarily better, but because .50 BMG ammunition was much easier to acquire in the U.S. Moreover, should any investigation arise, using an all-American weapon made things much easier to explain.
However, the sight of the four Kornet automatic mortars—clearly repurposed from armored vehicles—was a step too far, even for Ivan. Ambushing an eleven-person mercenary squad was already overkill with the defenses in place: 20 well-trained guards, four machine gun bunkers controlled by Jarvis, and the various micro-missile launchers secretly installed throughout Castle's estate. Adding four heavy-duty automatic mortars to the mix seemed utterly unnecessary.
Even Ivan, a proud former Russian soldier, felt this was like using a tank to squash an ant. He couldn't help but question his boss: "Do we really need this for the upcoming fight?"
Castle chuckled. "Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, Ivan."
But Ivan wasn't convinced. "Boss, it's not just overkill—it's going to raise too many questions. We've already got American-made weapons, which makes it easier to explain if anything goes wrong. But bringing in Russian mortars? That's a whole other level of trouble."
Castle sighed and ultimately relented. The mortars were quietly returned to their hidden corner in the armory. While disappointed, Castle trusted Ivan's judgment and decided to stick with the current setup.
Meanwhile, the rear of Gianna's estate—specifically the indoor shooting range she had built for John Wick—had been transformed into a forward command center for the FBI and NYPD. Castle's plan to let his private security team handle the initial assault while law enforcement intervened later had been approved by the higher-ups, thanks to Joe and Beckett's influence. The agents and officers were now casually waiting around, as the live feeds from Castle's estate displayed the insane level of preparation for the incoming attack.
Even Beckett, who had lived at Castle's estate, had no idea he had installed eight 12.7mm heavy machine gun bunkers around the property. Not to mention the four 12-missile micro-launchers strategically placed in the north, east, and west. Two of these launchers were dedicated to the northern beachfront alone. The sheer scale of the defensive measures left everyone in the room speechless.
Many of the agents and officers were in shock. "This guy's a writer?" one muttered, staring at the screen in disbelief.
"This isn't a house. It's a fortress," another whispered.
The idea that the mercenaries planned to assault this well-fortified estate from the sea? It was laughable. Watching the live footage, more than one officer muttered under their breath, "These guys are dead men walking."
Castle's defensive setup was absurdly excessive. Four machine gun bunkers were already locked onto the beachfront where the mercenaries intended to land. If needed, the other four machine guns could be remotely redirected to the same area, creating a complete kill zone. It was overkill in every sense of the word.
The mercenaries didn't stand a chance.
Some of the federal agents and police officers even started joking about how they were only here to "collect the bodies." Castle's strategy of overwhelming firepower was a quintessentially American approach, and as a well-connected taxpayer in good standing, no one could really argue against it. This was exactly the kind of person they were sworn to protect.
But what truly made the officers envious wasn't Castle's heavy firepower—it was the advanced equipment his private security team was using. From state-of-the-art FN SCAR rifles to the cutting-edge "GPNVG" quad-tube night vision goggles, Castle's team had better gear than most of the law enforcement present. And while civilians technically weren't allowed to own fully automatic weapons in the U.S., Castle's security team was licensed, and no one was about to question their legality.
As the mercenaries' attack drew closer, Castle's dark sense of humor kicked in. He instructed Ivan to line the beachfront with three concentric rings of flashbangs and flares, set to detonate as soon as the mercenaries landed. By the time Watanabe's men were delivered to the beach, the area was ready to light up like a Christmas tree.
What Watanabe didn't know was that while his men were boarding the speedboats, his own estate had already been infiltrated—silently, skillfully, and lethally.
John Wick had been waiting for this moment. As the legendary assassin known as "The Boogeyman," John had been itching for action, eager for a break from babysitting his daughter. His mission was simple: eliminate Watanabe and all his men at the estate while Castle's defenses distracted law enforcement. Once the job was done, the cleanup crew from The Continental Hotel would ensure that no evidence remained.
Watanabe sat anxiously in the estate's living room, waiting for news of the assault. His calm façade was gone, replaced by restless pacing. He had no idea that his eleven mercenaries had essentially signed his death warrant the moment they left for the beach. Nor did he notice the impeccably dressed man who had silently entered the estate—a man whose neatly combed hair and tailored suit contrasted sharply with the deadly aura he carried.
"Who are you?!" One of Watanabe's four bodyguards shouted as he spotted John standing calmly at the doorway.
Before Watanabe could process the intrusion, he saw a sight that would haunt him in his final moments. The mysterious intruder, without so much as a word, raised his pistols and fired eight precise shots. Each of the four bodyguards collapsed, a bullet through each head, their bodies thudding lifelessly to the floor.
Watanabe froze, his mind racing. He was no stranger to death, but the speed, precision, and cold detachment of this man left him paralyzed. In that instant, he realized two things: his plan to kill Castle had been compromised from the start, and the mercenaries he had sent to the beach were almost certainly doomed.
Still, his pride refused to let him accept defeat. Why? Why do these Americans get to live so freely, while the people of Japan must bow and scrape before them? His eyes burned with rage and indignation.
But as much as he wanted to fight back, Watanabe's instincts told him to bargain. Perhaps this assassin was a professional—someone he could buy off.
"Wait!" Watanabe began, forcing himself to remain calm. He tried to suppress his fear and speak with authority, hoping to negotiate.
Unfortunately for Watanabe, John Wick wasn't interested in negotiations.
Before he could utter another word, John calmly fired a single shot, the bullet shattering Watanabe's skull. The old man slumped back into his chair, his final breath an unfinished plea for mercy.
John lowered his gun, his expression unchanging. For him, this was just another day's work.
As he stood over Watanabe's lifeless body, John reflected briefly. If Rick had sent Ivan, you'd have been tossed into a volcano. This is mercy compared to that.
Holstering his pistols, John turned and waited for Watanabe's remaining men to return. He had no intention of letting them leave alive.
"I'm John Wick," he thought to himself, "and today, I'm delivering some very special meals."
(End of Chapter)
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