"Anthony, listen to me. Do not execute any reckless operations," John warned, his voice incredibly grave.
"The faction orchestrating this assault is fully aware that the Tarasov syndicate operates under the official protection of the High Table. Yet, they still blatantly targeted your most lucrative enterprise. Whoever is orchestrating this is completely insane."
A madman?
Anthony felt as though he had just been struck by lightning. A specific name instantly materialized in his mind.
Damn it. Could it actually be him? Did he enter the timeline early as well?
Unaware of the catastrophic implications of his own words, John pressed on. "Do you have any confirmed intelligence on who is operating behind the curtain?"
"I have to officially verify my primary suspect first," Anthony replied grimly, before abruptly ending the call.
John had specifically used the word madman, and it had triggered Anthony's meta-knowledge.
The Marquis de Gramont!
That French aristocratic bastard was genuinely, clinically insane! He was an aristocratic sadist operating at the very pinnacle of the High Table!
In the canon timeline, Gramont possessed the sheer, apocalyptic authority to completely destroy the New York Continental—the absolute "Neutral Sanctuary" of the underworld.
He utilized the most despicable, sociopathic methods imaginable to force the legendary blind swordsman, Caine, out of retirement to fight as his proxy.
And while John was actively being hunted by hundreds of assassins around the Arc de Triomphe, Gramont sat safely in a luxurious control room, casually watching the slaughter on a massive monitor, observing the killers hunt the Baba Yaga like starving hyenas.
The primary logical flaw in Anthony's deduction was that the Marquis de Gramont didn't officially appear until John Wick: Chapter 4.
The events of Chapter 2 hadn't even fully concluded yet, let alone the excommunicado events of Chapter 3.
However, Anthony quickly re-calibrated his logic. Since the Adjudicator (who technically didn't appear until Chapter 3) had already intervened early to verify Anthony's ascension, it wasn't entirely impossible that the psychotic Marquis was utilizing the chaos of Santino's coup to preemptively establish his own power base in New York.
So, you want to utilize New York City as your personal chessboard, Marquis? Anthony thought, a freezing smile spreading across his face. Then I am going to violently eliminate your pawns first.
Anthony slowly looked up and saw Abram staring at him with profound nervousness.
"The Bowery King refused to provide any actionable intelligence?" Abram asked, his voice hoarse.
"The King is incredibly disciplined," Anthony stated, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket.
"Unfortunately, he still doesn't realize that every single rule in this world was specifically designed to be violently broken."
Anthony casually beckoned Sergei forward. "I need the direct, personal cell phone number of Officer Jimmy Simmons of the NYPD."
Sergei immediately pulled out his encrypted phone, rapidly retrieved Jimmy's private contact information, and handed the device to his boss.
Abram looked utterly bewildered. "Anthony... it is incredibly inconvenient for us to involve local law enforcement in High Table conflicts."
Anthony let out a dark laugh. "I don't need the police to conduct a formal investigation, Uncle. I simply need an official notary present to ensure that the rabid dogs operating out of Brooklyn don't bite us before I've properly trained them."
He took the phone and pressed the dial button.
The line connected after several rings. A man's heavily annoyed, groggy voice came through the speaker.
"Damn it, Sergei, I am trying to sleep. Call the precinct if you need cleanup."
Jimmy's voice was rough and hoarse, heavily tinged with the deep impatience of a cop being disturbed off the clock.
"Officer Jimmy," Anthony's voice was entirely steady and completely devoid of warmth. "This is Anthony Tarasov."
"Oh, by the way... it was a genuine pleasure formally meeting you at John Wick's residence the other night."
There was an instant, terrifying silence on the other end of the line. The only sound was Jimmy's suddenly suppressed, panicked breathing.
A few seconds later, Jimmy's voice completely tightened. He was instantly, violently awake.
The sound of a chair violently scraping against the floor echoed through the receiver; Jimmy had clearly scrambled out of bed and rushed into a more private room.
"Anthony? Listen to me very carefully. I literally just clocked out of my shift, and I absolutely do not want any trouble. The entire federal government cannot help you with the magnitude of problems you are currently facing. You know exactly how the rules of your world operate."
Jimmy's voice was low, but the sheer wariness in his tone was pulled as tight as a piano wire.
"This isn't about the harbor incident," Anthony interrupted smoothly.
"I am currently en route to Bloods territory to have a polite conversation with Deshawn. I require your physical presence there."
Jimmy's voice spiked violently, filled with poorly suppressed, absolute terror.
"Anthony, are you out of your fucking mind?! Are you seriously dragging me directly into a Bloods stronghold?!"
"That absolute psychopath, Deshawn, literally just hung the severed head of his former boss from the rafters of the Brooklyn Bridge! The precinct captain has officially ordered that standard patrol cars are not to enter Bloods territory without SWAT backup!"
Anthony could perfectly envision the terrified cop desperately wiping cold sweat from his brow.
"Jimmy," Anthony's voice dropped an octave, radiating lethal authority. "If I genuinely wanted to initiate a full-scale gang war, Sergei's shotgun squads would have already leveled the block before you even received my call."
"I require you to be in full uniform, actively driving a marked NYPD cruiser, parked directly across the street from the Bloody Carnival nightclub. I simply need to ask Deshawn a few very polite questions regarding the Staten Island incident."
"Are you absolutely positive you aren't going to start a bloodbath?" Jimmy's voice trembled slightly.
"Listen to me, Anthony. Street-level gangbangers like Deshawn have absolutely no idea that the High Table even exists."
"They don't comprehend the apocalyptic power your syndicate wields. They will not grant you any professional courtesy or respect."
Anthony's voice softened slightly, adopting a falsely reassuring tone. "I am specifically deploying you to ensure the situation remains strictly controlled, Jimmy. Not to add fuel to the fire."
"I literally just need you to sit in your cruiser and make the surrounding environment feel slightly more... legally restrictive. Do you understand my intent, Jimmy?"
Another heavy silence fell over the line.
Jimmy was desperately weighing his catastrophic options.
Option A: Get violently sucked into the political vortex of a terrifying mob boss.
Option B: Refuse the mob boss, and face an even more uncontrollable, apocalyptic bloodbath on his beat when the Tarasovs wipe out the Bloods.
"...Fuck!"
Finally, a crude, incredibly frustrated curse rang out through the receiver.
"The Bloody Carnival? What time, Anthony? I can sit outside the club for twenty minutes, max. If I stay any longer, internal affairs is going to designate that entire grid as a restricted zone."
"Twenty minutes is more than enough. I am en route now." Anthony hung up the phone and looked directly at Sergei, who was standing quietly in the shadows.
"Sergei."
The burly Russian instantly straightened his massive spine. He looked exactly like a brown bear that had just heard the hunting horn. His eyes flashed with undisguised, bloodthirsty excitement.
"Yes, Boss," Sergei replied in a low, rumbling voice.
"Let's go deliver a midnight greeting to 'Scar' Deshawn."
"Roger that," Sergei grinned. His stark white teeth flashed aggressively in the shadows as he turned and strode purposefully toward the syndicate's primary armory.
Abram pushed his wheelchair forward, his face etched with profound worry.
"Anthony, this operational approach is incredibly reckless. Deshawn is an unstable powder keg. A single NYPD badge is absolutely not going to be enough to keep that psychopath in check."
"I don't need him kept in check," Anthony replied casually, grabbing his tailored black cashmere overcoat from the back of the sofa.
He picked up the charred, blood-stained fragment of the red bandana from the coffee table and lazily twirled it between his fingertips.
"I simply want to personally warn the idiot that he is currently being utilized as a disposable pawn."
"Mike."
"Lieutenant!" Another rock-solid figure materialized instantly from the deep shadows.
"Deploy an overwatch team to the Bloody Carnival nightclub immediately. Secure a high-vantage sniper hide directly across the street," Anthony ordered, making a sharp, horizontal throat-slitting gesture. His eyes were vastly colder than the freezing night outside the window.
"If anyone decides to ignore my polite advice tonight... execute them."
"Understood," Mike replied flatly, his tone as casual as if he were accepting a routine grocery list.
Then, moving like a highly trained ghost, the Force Recon veteran silently retreated back into the deeper darkness of the safehouse to prepare his gear.
11:00 PM. The Red Hook District, Brooklyn.
Under the pale moonlight, the massive, abandoned dockside warehouses looked exactly like the rotting skeleton of a prehistoric beast. Towering stacks of rusting shipping containers formed a twisted, decaying labyrinth.
Amidst this profound scene of urban decay, a single building violently pulsed with glaring, aggressive neon lights.
The Bloody Carnival nightclub.
Midnight was the hour the club truly boiled over.
The suffocating stench of cheap perfume, stale sweat, and heavy marijuana smoke swirled violently amidst the deafening, bone-rattling bass of electronic music.
Beneath the dim, aggressively flickering neon strobes, hundreds of writhing limbs, chemically dazed eyes, and blatant, undisguised carnal desires clashed on the dance floor.
Scantily clad waitresses desperately navigated between the VIP booths, while massive, heavily tattooed Bloods enforcers stood guard. Cigarettes dangled lazily from their lips as their hyper-vigilant eyes constantly scanned the chaotic room for rival gang members.
Exactly one block away, two fully marked NYPD patrol cars sat idling quietly in the shadows, their blue emergency lights flashing silently.
The driver's side window of the lead cruiser was rolled down exactly two inches. Officer Jimmy's deeply exhausted face—which practically screamed, I am the unluckiest cop in New York—was vaguely visible.
He tapped his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. He had pulled his police cap low over his eyes, desperately attempting to minimize his presence, yet knowing he couldn't truly disappear.
Sitting in the passenger seat, Sheriff Calvin Rollins spoke up. "Stop sweating, Jimmy. As long as Anthony Tarasov doesn't actively fire the first shot, these street bangers won't possess the sheer courage to initiate a firefight with a police cruiser sitting out front."
Jimmy let out a bitter, wry smile. "Sheriff, you literally watched Anthony massacre three highly trained assassins using nothing but a steak knife and a fork. Do you genuinely believe he gives a damn about firing the first shot?"
"Anthony served in the Marine Corps, and he just successfully staged a violent coup to take over the Tarasov empire," Calvin analyzed clinically. "The kid possesses an incredible amount of kinetic potential."
"While we may never be able to fully integrate a legendary asset like John Wick as a reliable CI, it absolutely will not hurt the department to establish a working, transactional relationship with the new king of the Russian Mafia."
Jimmy's exhausted eyes lit up slightly with realization. "I suppose that makes a morbid kind of sense."
"Has the department managed to uncover any actionable intelligence regarding the Staten Island refinery assault?" Calvin asked, shifting the subject.
Jimmy shook his head in profound frustration. "Absolutely nothing. The Tarasov private security forces completely locked down the perimeter and refused to allow our crime scene units onto the facility. Furthermore, the external traffic cameras failed to capture a single clear image of the strike team."
Due to aggressive, ongoing privacy disputes, the vast majority of municipal CCTV cameras had been systematically removed from public spaces across America, resulting in an abysmally low surveillance coverage rate in the outer boroughs.
There were very few functional street cameras left, largely because ninety-one percent of the general public violently opposed their installation, citing extreme privacy violations.
Calvin slowly lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing brightly in the dark cabin. "Anthony is going to know exactly who hit him."
Calvin's eyes narrowed as he spotted Anthony's massive, jet-black Cadillac Escalade smoothly pulling up to the street corner directly outside the club.
Four heavily armed Bloods enforcers were currently leaning aggressively against the club's main entrance, smoking blunts. Their signature red bandanas fluttered noticeably in the biting night wind, and the heavy, extended magazines of the Glock pistols tucked into their waistbands were entirely unconcealed.
"Status," Anthony demanded quietly, stepping out of the Escalade.
"Overwatch is established. Southeast corner. Superior vantage point. I have a crystal-clear line of sight on the primary entrance," Mike's terrifyingly calm voice echoed softly through Anthony's earpiece.
Sergei stepped out of the driver's seat, pulling his leather jacket tight. "Boss, Nick and Tom have successfully infiltrated the club's interior with a four-man plainclothes detail."
"Furthermore, five of Viggo's elite-level assassins have successfully blended into the crowd on the dance floor."
Anthony gave a single, silent nod of acknowledgment.
He genuinely wasn't here to initiate a massacre tonight.
Since an unknown faction was desperately attempting to violently drag the Tarasov syndicate into a proxy war, Anthony fully intended to rip the veil of secrecy off the operation openly and honestly.
He simply could not afford to have Deshawn—an incredibly volatile, uneducated idiot—blocking his investigative path before he could successfully identify the true mastermind.
If Anthony engaged in a pointless, bloody turf war with the Bloods, the French Marquis orchestrating the chaos would be laughing in his sleep, mocking Anthony for being a predictable, easily manipulated fool.
Sergei, looking exactly like an upright, incredibly lethal grizzly bear in his tight leather jacket, fell into step perfectly behind his boss.
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