"Ben, have someone seal all the exits and shut down the elevators. We're taking the stairs," Owen said, staring at the changing numbers on the elevator panel, a thought flashing through his mind.
Benjamin didn't question it. After working with Owen through several major incidents, he knew better than to doubt him. Owen's instincts were never wrong.
As Owen led the FBI agents racing up the stairwell, Zheng Anshun on the rooftop had already unlocked his handcuffs and was accepting a device from Avril.
He walked to the edge of the building, where several steel cables had been secured, slanting down to a nearby lower rooftop.
Behind him, someone dragged a corpse dressed in the same orange prison uniform into the prisoner transport van. Once everything was ready, the person gave Avril a nod.
Avril casually pulled a grenade's pin and tossed a thermite grenade into the van. A moment later—
Boom!
A blast shook the rooftop, flames rising high into the night sky.
When Owen kicked open the rooftop door, he was greeted by the sound of the explosion and the sight of the burning van—but no enemies in sight.
He caught a faint sound of metal scraping, followed by the glimpse of several figures sliding down cables into the darkness.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Owen fired a few desperate shots. One of the escaping figures was hit and fell, but the others kept sliding farther away.
Holstering his Glock 22, Owen tore off his belt. It was no ordinary belt—it was a CTU-issued tactical belt, a special design updated by Jack Bauer, similar to CIA equipment.
It hid a tiny dagger in the buckle, was made of advanced materials, and could withstand high-speed friction up to 200 kilograms of force—perfect for this exact situation.
"Whoosh—"
With a swoop, Owen became a black streak across the night sky, vanishing toward the opposite rooftop.
Behind him, Benjamin, gasping for breath, could only watch Owen's back fade into the distance and hear him shout through the wind, "Ben, I'm going after them—get your people downstairs fast!"
Benjamin glanced at the dizzying height below and gripped his own belt, feeling a wave of hesitation.
The rooftop fell into a stunned silence until someone nervously whispered, "Boss... we've never been trained for that..."
"Back downstairs—fast! Tell everyone to block the exits!" Benjamin ordered, sprinting for the stairwell, his men gratefully following.
...
Under the dim glow of streetlights, a Dodge Pathfinder roared down the road, its engine growling like a beast.
John Wick's face was expressionless, his hands smoothly shifting gears. The engine responded to his touch—sometimes screaming, sometimes purring.
Banning Street.
That was the address he had found from the intruders' computer.
Spotting the road sign, John pressed harder on the gas pedal. His muscle car roared in response, the raw power evident with each burst of acceleration.
Drifting around a corner, John entered Banning Street, scanning both sides carefully.
"Eeeek—"
He slammed on the brakes in front of a towering building. After a moment of thought, he slowly backed up to the building's entrance.
There it was—the same license plate captured on his home surveillance footage.
Getting out, John glanced up at the building's logo:
Stark Industries Tower
(Haha, just a little joke—don't overthink it!)
John adjusted his suit and strode forward.
"Hey, get lost—"
A few thugs lounged around the lobby. The first one to confront John was the bald guy—the same one from his footage.
"This ain't your place, old man—"
The thug waved a pistol menacingly. John didn't flinch. In the silent lobby, the sharp taps of his handmade leather shoes echoed on the marble floor.
A revolver muzzle pressed against John's forehead.
The bald thug grinned wickedly, feeling in control.
"Wolf Pack?" John asked, his voice unnervingly calm.
Hearing their gang's name, the thug instinctively nodded.
Before he could realize his mistake, John's hand blurred.
A Heckler & Koch P30L appeared in his grip, the extended barrel fitted with a suppressor, and jammed directly against the thug's forehead.
The thug panicked and tried pulling his trigger—only to find the revolver's cylinder jammed tight in John's grip.
"Fuck—who are you?" the thug barked, trembling. He could smell the gun oil on the silencer pressed against his forehead.
John's icy stare didn't waver.
"You killed my dog."
"W-wait—what are you talking about—"
"Pop!"
John pulled the trigger. A neat hole appeared in the thug's forehead.
The muffled shot signaled the start of a slaughter.
"Pop, pop pop—"
John's P30L spat fire.
One shot blew apart the nearest thug's skull. Using the second thug as a human shield, John advanced, firing two shots into the third thug's chest.
When the third man crumpled, John twisted and, with two more suppressed shots, dropped the second thug to his knees, then calmly finished him off with a shot to the head.
Blood splattered. John moved behind a load-bearing pillar just as bullets peppered his previous position, stone chips flying.
Someone tried to flank him.
John quickly checked his remaining rounds, crouched low, peeked out, and—
"Pop, pop."
Two quick shots took down the approaching thug.
Without missing a beat, John circled the pillar, popping another man in the leg and rushing forward.
While sprinting, he shot another opponent dead, kicked away the dropped weapon, and finished off the wounded thug.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
John tucked into a forward roll, dodging bullets that shredded the space where he had just been.
He rolled behind a wall, dropped the empty magazine, slammed in a fresh one with a crisp click-clack, and chambered a round.
He lay still, listening.
The environment fell eerily silent. Clearly, the enemy was moving in cautiously.
John waited exactly one second—then snapped around and blind-fired two suppressed rounds.
A muffled grunt told him he'd hit someone.
Without hesitation, John sidestepped, peeked out, and drilled another enemy cleanly through the head.
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