Jack crouched at the corridor entrance, peering inside. Below, a circular hallway surrounded the auction area. He knew this place well—it was where, in the original movie, the wealthy bidders sat in private booths on the left, competing for the trafficked girls.
Seven or eight booths encircled a small stage, where the kidnapped girls, clad in nothing but scant lingerie, were paraded like livestock at a marketplace.
Of course, Jack couldn't see any of that yet, nor did he intend to follow the original plot—waiting for the girls to be taken away before chasing after a yacht in a high-speed pursuit.
In the original, Bryan had been alone, limiting what he could do. But now, with Frank and Jack on board, the situation had completely flipped. If there was injustice, there was only one answer: kill.
Back in the upper hallway, the small iron door on the left had already been pried open, and Bryan was nowhere to be seen. Jack stood guard at the corridor entrance, his Viper silenced pistol at the ready.
Soon, hurried footsteps echoed. Bryan reappeared, followed by Frank and Castle.
No words were needed. Castle unzipped the backpack he had been carrying, revealing bulletproof vests and compact submachine guns, distributing them to the three.
Frank's network was as wild as ever—just looking at the weapons he had procured made that clear. They now had SR-2M Heather submachine guns, chambered for the same high-velocity pistol rounds as Jack's Viper.
The weapon resembled an Uzi in appearance but functioned using a gas-operated, rotating bolt mechanism, more akin to an assault rifle or a light machine gun.
A retired CIA operative who could effortlessly acquire Russian-made weapons in Paris? Some things were better left unexamined.
After donning their vests and screwing suppressors onto the Heather SMGs, Jack handed two stun grenades to Castle and pointed to the hallway corner.
"Hold this position. Our exit is in your hands."
The writer nodded grimly. His was the only weapon without a suppressor.
Just as the three were about to descend the stairs, the elevator suddenly whirred to life. Bryan and Frank exchanged a glance and silently took position on either side of the door.
Ding!
The doors slid open, revealing a waiter carrying a tray with an ice bucket and glasses.
He stepped out, head down—then sensed something was off. Looking up, he found himself staring into the black muzzle of Jack's gun.
"Mmmph!"
Frank slipped behind him, locking his throat in a rear chokehold. Without missing a beat, Bryan took the tray and passed it to Jack. Their teamwork was seamless.
"Much obliged."
Jack tucked the Heather into his waistband, watching as Castle dragged the waiter's lifeless body into the left corridor. Then, with the tray in hand, he descended the stairs.
Just as he reached the first private booth, its door opened. A bodyguard with a ponytail stepped out, carefully closing the door behind him.
"Your vodka?" Jack lowered the tray as he rounded the corner.
"Yeah, just put it—" The bodyguard trailed off, his pupils contracting as he noticed something off—no waiter wore a bulletproof vest under their uniform.
Pfft! Pfft!
Two muffled shots rang out. Jack's right hand, hidden under the tray, pulled the trigger. The first bullet struck dead center of the man's chest, the second severed his spinal cord through his throat.
Before the body even hit the floor, Bryan emerged from behind Jack, catching the corpse and gently laying it down. Then, he grabbed its belt and dragged it back around the corner, leaving only a trail of blood.
Without hesitation, Frank and Jack moved forward. Frank pushed open the booth door and slipped inside. Moments later, the door reopened, and the bald man stepped out, smirking as he blew imaginary smoke from his gun barrel.
"One-way glass."
Jack shrugged and continued forward, rapping his knuckles on the second booth door before pushing it open without waiting for a response.
A woman's voice reached his ears.
"One hundred fifty thousand."
"Two hundred thousand."
The booth was small, only a few square meters, with red velvet lining the walls for soundproofing. A single armchair sat inside, along with a table holding a red button.
As Jack entered, an elderly Asian man with graying hair sat with his back to the door, his finger pressing the button.
"Two hundred fifty thousand," the woman's voice announced again.
"Konbanwa," Jack greeted.
As expected, the bodyguard behind the old man snapped, "Baka! Who let you in—"
Pfft! Pfft!
The Viper barked twice from under the tray.
The old man sensed something wrong and turned, his eyes widening in horror.
Pfft!
A single shot put a neat hole in his forehead.
Jack set the tray down on the table and looked through the large glass panel in front of him.
On stage, under the harsh glow of the spotlights, a dazed girl stood wearing nothing but high heels. Her expression was vacant—clearly drugged.
The movie actually went easy on this.
In the original, the girls being auctioned at least had lingerie on.
From the booth's vantage point, only the girl on stage was visible under the spotlight. The other booths were shrouded in darkness, concealing the bidders from view. Just as Frank had said—one-way glass.
Jack smiled as he picked up the vodka from the ice bucket, popped the cap, and took a deep swig. The burn of the alcohol slid down his throat, but rage exploded in his chest.
He took another swig, then tilted the bottle thoughtfully before hurling it forward.
The heavy bottle smashed against the glass with a deafening crash!
As shards rained down, Jack drew the Heather from his back and strode across the shattered glass toward the stage.
A bald bodyguard near the entrance reached for his gun—
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Three shots later, he crumpled.
Screams erupted. The wealthy bidders, now realizing something was wrong, began to panic inside their booths.
Jack took two steps onto the stage, wrapped his arm around the girl's slender waist, and knelt, shielding her with his body.
Under the glaring spotlight, with horrified elites watching, his Heather let out a soft yet deadly piu-piu-piu.
Without even unfolding the stock, Jack wielded the SR-2M as if it had zero recoil, the lethal armor-piercing rounds carving an elegant arc of destruction.
Click! The bolt locked open—empty mag.
The spent magazine dropped to the floor with a metallic clatter. Jack's left hand, already gripping a fresh mag, slammed it into place. The shooting resumed instantly.
By the time two magazines were emptied, the auction hall had fallen into an eerie silence—save for the broken glass underfoot and the still-twitching bodies slumped in the booths.
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