A/N:- Extra chapter.
Ten Minutes Earlier
Franklin crouched in the dense woods a kilometer from Long Island Prison, his heart pounding like a war drum. Beside him, four hundred mercenaries—hardened killers hired at a steep price—waited in silence, their faces shadowed under tactical gear. Stan had spared no expense, equipping them with top-tier body armor, bulletproof vests, and an arsenal of light and heavy weapons: assault rifles, grenade launchers, and enough ammo to level a small country. Franklin checked his watch, then raised his binoculars, scanning the prison's perimeter for any sign of movement.
The mercenary leader, a grizzled bastard with a scar running down his neck, crouched beside him. "Phone lines to the outside are cut. Signal jammers are live. Unless we blow this place to the fucking moon, nobody's calling for backup."
As if on cue, the prison's alarms blared, a piercing wail cutting through the night. Franklin's lips curled into a grin, adrenaline surging. "Harleen's making her move. Let's fucking go."
The leader nodded, his eyes cold and focused. He raised a hand, signaling to the team. A quarter-mile away, parked on the road to the prison, sat a beast of a truck—rated for eight tons but loaded with twenty. Its job was simple: smash through the prison's half-meter-thick steel gate, the razor-wire barriers, and anything else in its path.
The driver flashed an OK sign, then gunned the engine. The truck roared to life, a low growl building to a deafening snarl as it barreled toward the gate. On the prison walls, guards snapped to attention, spotting the charging vehicle. No warnings, no hesitation—they opened fire, automatic rifles spitting bullets that shattered the windshield, punching thumb-sized holes through the cab.
The driver ducked beneath the dashboard, his hands locked on the wheel, keeping the truck on course. Bullets tore through the cab, but the vehicle was a fucking juggernaut, unstoppable. After a kilometer of acceleration, it hit 140 kilometers per hour, a steel missile hurtling toward its target.
At fifty meters out, a mercenary wedged an iron block onto the gas pedal, flung open the door, and leapt out, tumbling across the asphalt in a bone-rattling roll. He staggered to his feet, only to be lit up by the prison's floodlights. The guards on the wall swung their rifles toward him, and a hail of bullets shredded his high-tech vest, turning him into a bloody sieve. He collapsed, lifeless, as the truck roared on.
"Brace!" A guard on the wall shouted, his voice drowned out by the chaos.
BOOM!
The truck slammed into the gate with cataclysmic force, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The cab crumpled into a pancake of twisted metal, and the 50-centimeter-thick gate tore free, flying ten meters before crushing a cluster of guards into pulp. The fuel tank ignited, erupting in a massive fireball that lit the night sky, the heat searing the air.
The surviving guards reeled, shell-shocked, as four hundred mercenaries charged from the woods.
Pop-pop!
Sniper shots rang out, shattering the prison's spotlights, plunging the walls into darkness. The mercs' sharpshooters, equipped with thermal-imaging rifles, picked off guards with surgical precision. Each crack of a rifle sent a guard's head exploding in a mist of blood and bone, their bodies slumping over the ramparts. After a dozen kills, the remaining guards ducked for cover, too terrified to pop up.
The mercenaries reached the breached gate, the vanguard clad in heavy riot armor, each man hauling a ballistic shield. They formed a disciplined line, advancing like a Roman phalanx, their shields impervious to the guards' frantic gunfire. Heavy machine guns poked through firing ports in the shields, unleashing a rhythmic rat-tat-tat that mowed down the prison's first wave of defenders. Guards fell, screaming, their bodies torn apart, blood pooling on the concrete as the survivors scrambled back.
The mercenaries breached the gate, moving like a well-oiled war machine, their path clear—until they froze, staring down the barrel of a fucking nightmare.
An M1A2 SEP Abrams tank rumbled into view, its 120mm cannon swiveling toward them. "Motherfucker!" A merc screamed.
BOOM!
The tank fired, the shell obliterating the front line of shields and men, sending limbs and shrapnel raining down like a grotesque storm. The blast shook the ground, the air thick with the stench of burnt flesh and cordite.
"Tank! They've got a fucking tank!" A mercenary yelled, panic rippling through the ranks. The survivors scrambled, some diving for cover, others turning to flee. They'd signed up for cash, not a suicide mission.
"Get out of the way!" The mercenary leader roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. He stepped forward, a Javelin anti-tank missile launcher hoisted on his shoulder. The weapon, a joint masterpiece from Raytheon and Lockheed Martin, was a battle-tested beast, proven in Iraq and Afghanistan, the gold standard for shoulder-fired tank-killers.
He dropped to one knee, locking the laser guidance on the Abrams. With a whoosh, the missile launched, trailing a fiery tail as it arced into the sky. It locked onto the tank, adjusted mid-flight, and plummeted straight down onto its weaker top armor. BOOM! The explosion engulfed the tank in flames, its turret blown clean off, a twisted heap of metal crashing to the ground.
"Fuck yeah!" The leader shouted, pumping his fist. The mercenaries cheered, their morale surging as they grabbed fallen shields and charged into the prison, splitting into squads to wreak havoc.
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Interrogation Room
Back in the interrogation room, Jason and Wesley were still locked in their verbal duel. Wesley had poured on the charm, the threats, the promises—every trick in his playbook to pry Jason's secret out of him. How did he get so strong, so fast, so deadly? But Jason was a fucking wall, giving nothing, his smirk infuriatingly unshakable.
Wesley sighed, rubbing his temples, defeat creeping in. He'd come here expecting a challenge, but Jason was a goddamn enigma, tougher to crack than ever. He opened his mouth to fire off a parting shot, but stopped. Jason's eyes were vacant, staring at the blank wall like he was seeing ghosts.
"The fuck you looking at?" Wesley snapped.
Jason's grin widened, cryptic and smug. "Just wondering how famous I've gotten these days."
Wesley scoffed, his voice dripping with contempt. "Famous? You're a fucking rock star. Newspapers, TV, Twitter—every media outlet's got your name in lights. Even actors couldn't touch your spotlight. For a lowlife gangster, that's as good as it gets. Are you happy now?"
Jason turned, his eyes locking onto Wesley's. "Knew I was hot shit. Explains why my rep's through the roof."
"Rep? What the hell are you talking about?" Wesley asked, confusion clouding his face.
Jason didn't answer. In front of him, a translucent system interface flickered to life, invisible to Wesley. The numbers ticked up, his reputation points surging past a milestone.
[Ding! Reputation has exceeded 1000. One Accomplice Recruitment Opportunity unlocked.]
[Ding! Villain Accomplice 'John Wick' activated. Source: John Wick. The host must personally recruit.]
[Friendly Reminder: Accomplice is within 100 meters of Host.]
Jason's heart raced, a thrill coursing through him. 'John fucking Wick.' The Baba Yaga himself. And he was close—real close.
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