In the dimly lit, fortified Russian Gang Headquarters—a private club closed to the public—Viggo Tarasov paced nervously. He had just received the devastating report: the entire team sent to deal with Smith Doyle had lost contact.
He shook his head, bitterness consuming him. "Failed again," he muttered.
His recent failures had been catastrophic. Because of a stolen car and a dead dog, his organization had been bled dry:
The initial invasion team: wiped out.
The Red Circle Club: nearly 30 dead.
The Little Russia Church: nearly 50 dead.
The warehouse guards and the final ambush team: at least 12 dead.
Viggo had lost hundreds of men—not street thugs, but elite, assault-rifle-wielding enforcers.
Legal Advisor Ivy cautiously approached him. "Boss, what are the arrangements next?"
Viggo ignored the lawyer and looked at his younger brother, Abran Tarasov, the head of the gang's robbery division. "Abran, have all your men been transferred here?"
Abran, looking pale, nodded. "My entire gang is downstairs. But isn't the matter with John Wick resolved?" Abran was clearly terrified of the "Night Demon."
Hearing the name, Viggo took a deep breath. "The enemy this time is not John Wick," he confirmed. "I've reconciled with John Wick. This time the enemy is Smith Doyle."
Viggo briefly explained the situation with Marcus and his provocative call to John Wick, acknowledging the fresh threat. He had planned to eliminate Smith Doyle, let the dust settle, and then leave New York. Now, Smith Doyle was unresolved, and John Wick was a certainty.
Abran asked in confusion, "Didn't they reconcile? I saw you even withdrew the reward."
Viggo dismissed him and turned to Ario, another high-ranking member in charge of the stolen car ring. "Ario, how many people did you bring?"
"I'm in charge of stolen cars. Not many who can fight or kill," Ario quickly reported. "Only about ten. They've already gathered outside."
Viggo nodded, unsurprised by the lack of capable fighters. He had to assume the worst: he was surrounded, and he was the target.
Just as Viggo was formulating his defensive strategy, Smith Doyle arrived at the club's large, unmarked entrance.
He walked straight up to the four armed security guards.
"Sir, this place is not open to the public," one guard warned, reaching for his sidearm.
Smith said nothing. He smoothly drew his suppressed pistol and fired four shots in swift succession. The guards had no time to react; they were all shot in the head before their weapons cleared their holsters.
The sound of four bodies falling alerted the personnel inside. Smith pushed the door open, entering the spacious club hall without hesitation. He pulled out a second pistol and opened fire on the security guards scattered throughout the hall.
Bullets flew, each one lethally accurate. Smith's firing rate was phenomenal, emptying half of his magazines in an instant. The security personnel were mowed down—the first two dying before the others could comprehend the attack, the last one dropping just as his finger tightened on the trigger.
Having cleared the hall, Smith immediately headed for the stairs to the second floor.
Upstairs, several Russian men were gathered, submachine guns slung over their bodies, bottles of vodka in their hands.
"Is there something wrong with Ivanov recently?" one of them, Sergey, slurred. "We've had several groups of brothers come here today. The boss reconciled with that Night Demon, but he took a heavy loss. Is he going to target other gangs to establish authority?"
Ivanov shook the weapon in his hand. "Sergey, we might be about to take action. Drink less. I'd hate for you to be too drunk to pull the trigger."
Just as Ivanov finished speaking, the club's alarm system blared through the internal speakers.
"ALERT! ENEMY INVASION! SECURITY PERSONNEL ARE HEADING TO THE SECOND FLOOR TO KILL THE INTRUDER!"
Everyone in the room instantly dropped their bottles and grabbed their weapons, rushing out.
Smith Doyle, already climbing the stairs, wasn't surprised by the alarm. If Viggo hadn't had a proper alarm system, he wouldn't be alive today.
At the landing to the second floor, four gunmen rushed over. Hearing the loudspeaker's warning, they flipped their safeties off, ready to shoot the moment the enemy showed their head.
Smith looked at the entrance but didn't enter. Instead, he snapped his arms out, and two bullets flew out in impossibly tight arcs, killing the two enemies guarding the center of the entrance.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
After those two quick shots, Smith dodged and burst onto the second floor, emptying his remaining rounds at the enemies gathering in the corridor.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Each bullet found a target, but enemies kept pouring out, blocking the attack and firing from concealed positions. Smith's accurate fire kept them pinned, but his pistols soon clicked empty.
"Click, click."
A gunman hiding at the staircase to the third floor shouted: "He's out of bullets! Get out there!"
Smith sneered. "You can't deal with it without bullets?"
Without reloading, Smith hurled one of the empty pistols like a lethal projectile toward the first man who appeared, knocking him to the ground with immense force.
But this time, more than one man had rushed out. Three others followed. The two men in the back immediately raised their submachine guns and opened fire on Smith Doyle.
"Da, da, da!"
Smith didn't attempt to dodge the submachine gun fire. He pulled a long, razor-sharp machete from his waist and charged forward, swinging the blade directly into the hail of bullets.
"Ding! Ding! Ding!"
Smith chopped the incoming submachine gun bullets out of the air one by one. Once he closed the distance, he brought the machete down in a blur, and two heads flew up instantly.