In the grimy headquarters of the Russian gang, Viggo Tarasov watched the surveillance video sent by his subordinate, his face a mask of extreme, venomous rage. Not only had Smith Doyle interfered, but the footage clearly showed Marcus—a registered Continental killer he had personally employed—was actively collaborating with John Wick.
Marcus was Viggo's subordinate in the traditional gang sense, but the assassination missions had to abide by the rigid rules of the Continental. Viggo had offered Marcus the $400 million bounty to kill John Wick, believing the failure was due to bad luck or poor opportunity.
Now, he knew the truth: betrayal. Viggo could tolerate outside interference, but the treachery of his own subordinate was unforgivable.
"Damn Marcus," Viggo snarled, slamming his fist onto the table. "I'll make sure he understands the consequences of betraying me!"
He immediately ordered his men to continue tracking Marcus, find his home, and prepare a personal, brutal reckoning for the traitorous assassin.
Just as Viggo was formulating his plan, his phone rang with a chilling update.
"Boss, we've tracked Smith Doyle down. He's driving toward the suburbs."
Viggo's rage, momentarily focused on Marcus, instantly transferred to the outsider who had saved John Wick.
"Send him on his way," Viggo commanded, his voice ice cold. "Wipe them both out. Now!"
On the other side of New York, Fox was driving Smith toward the League's headquarters, the old textile factory. They stopped at a red light at a T-junction on Klein Avenue.
"Is Smith's final assessment finally coming up?" Fox asked, excited.
Smith, sitting in the passenger seat, nodded. "Cross sent a message. The final mission has been selected. I need to go back and get the information."
Hearing this, Fox's eyes sparkled. "Doesn't that mean that once you complete this assessment, you'll become the leader of the Assassin's League, the only God—GOD?"
Smith's lips curved into a confident smile. "Everyone's 18-year anticipation is about to be fulfilled."
Just as the light turned green, a black SUV suddenly accelerated from a side street and slammed into the passenger side of their car. In a critical, inhuman flash, Smith grabbed Fox and exerted a counter-force against the door, trying to minimize the impact.
"BUMP!"
The car was hit hard and pushed violently toward the side of the road, crumpling the passenger side.
The sudden, brutal collision left Fox momentarily disoriented and dizzy, but instinct took over. She reached for her pistol. Before she could aim, another SUV struck the front of their car, and a third hit the rear. The violent impacts turned the vehicle into a mangled wreck, causing Fox's weapon to fly from her grasp.
Immediately, gunmen in all three cars half-exposed themselves, gripping submachine guns and preparing to unleash a hail of bullets on the trapped occupants.
At this decisive moment, Smith Doyle kicked the already deformed passenger door off its hinges with impossible force. He grabbed Fox and pulled her out of the wreckage.
"Da-da-da!"
Bullets tore into the driver's cab, riddling the already battered car with holes. Smith pulled Fox down, shielding her as they sought meager cover behind the car's wheel hub.
"I'll deal with them," Smith stated calmly.
Fox, utilizing the brief pause in the shooting for repositioning, stretched a hand into the passenger seat storage area where she had placed a backup weapon.
Smith launched himself upward, moving faster than humanly possible. He leaped directly to the side of the first SUV that had initiated the collision and delivered a crushing kick to the car's B-pillar.
"BOOM!"
The pillar buckled like paper. The enormous, concentrated force sent the massive SUV flipping sideways. It rolled three times before skidding to a stop. The occupants were instantly knocked senseless, trapped in the wreckage.
The gunmen in the other two cars immediately shifted their focus to Smith Doyle, pulling the trigger and unleashing a torrent of bullets.
Smith, standing completely exposed, pulled a short, razor-sharp knife from his system backpack and began methodically chopping at the incoming bullets.
The bullets were sliced cleanly in two by the impossible speed and strength, falling harmlessly to the ground at his feet.
The gunmen stared, utterly petrified by the supernatural sight. One screamed in pure terror.
"Monster! Run! Drive quickly!"
As the remaining two drivers tried to slam their vehicles into reverse, Fox finally emerged. She stood up, two pistols in her hands, and pulled the triggers on the retreating gunmen.
"Da. Da. Da."
The precision of an Assassin's League member was unforgiving. Several bullets flew, each one finding a target's head, instantly killing the gunmen. Fox spared no mercy for the drivers, shooting them both dead as well.
The men in the overturned car were now crawling out of the wreck. Three of the four were still alive.
Smith sprinted toward them, grabbing the nearest man by the neck and lifting him completely off the ground.
"Tell me, who sent you here?"
The sturdy man's face turned blue, his air supply cut off. "Cough, cough," was all he could manage.
Seeing the man was useless, Smith contemptuously snapped the man's neck with a quick twist and tossed the lifeless body to the pavement. He looked at the two remaining survivors.
"Tell me," he demanded, his voice devoid of emotion, "Whose are you?"
One of the men scrambled to his feet, turning to flee, but a single shot from Fox's pistol ended his escape.
The last gunman, trembling with terror, finally spoke. "We are from the Russian gang... Viggo's men!"
Hearing the name, Smith's expression hardened. He plunged his knife into the gunman's neck and drew it across, swiftly decapitating him.
"Viggo," Smith stated to the air, "I think you've just signed your own death warrant."
Fox walked over slowly, leaning on Smith. "Damn John Wick," she grumbled. "He actually made us clean up his mess."
Smith gently supported Fox. The initial collision, despite his protection, had clearly rattled her. He confirmed the League's immediate priority. "The Russian gang will not exist in New York anymore."
"Not only Viggo will die, but the entire organization will be wiped out. It's time for the League to make a statement."
Smith took out his cell phone and called the Assassin's League. The call was answered instantly.
"Cleaners," Smith commanded. "Klein Avenue intersection. Arrange for a team. Twelve loads of trash and three vehicles. Deal with it as soon as possible."
After hanging up, Smith pulled the body of a dead driver out of the nearest functional SUV, placed the still-shaken Fox in the passenger seat, and drove the stolen vehicle toward the textile factory.
Meanwhile, at the textile factory, the gates opened wide. The Cleaner, driving a discrete garbage truck, led several armed staff toward the location Smith had mentioned.
They had a strict mandate: Clean up the scene before the NYPD could arrive.