[Teammates eliminated 21 Blood Skull Mercenaries. Awarding 31 Attribute Points.]
[Teammates eliminated 53 Crips Gang members. Awarding 26.5 Attribute Points.]
Anthony read the floating blue text in his mind. The math was simple.
Elite mercenaries yielded three points each. Standard street-level gangsters yielded one point each. Because his proxy forces executed the kills rather than Anthony doing it personally, the system halved the payout.
Killing Santino had been an exception. Because Anthony used the Blood Oath Marker to bind Marcus into executing the hit, the system registered it as Anthony's personal kill and awarded the full sum.
His current accumulated Attribute Points stood at 123.
In the study of the old Tarasov estate, the air hung thick with cigar smoke.
Anthony poured himself a measure of vodka into a crystal glass and took a slow sip.
Behind him, Abram sat in his wheelchair. His hands gripped the armrests tight enough to turn his knuckles white. His eyes were dark.
"That bitch Anya," Abram rasped. "Are you really not going to deal with her now, Anthony? Because she was your father's woman?"
Anthony stood over the map of New York spread across the mahogany desk, his back to his uncle.
On the map, the Crips' primary holdings in Queens were crossed out in red marker. The Bloods' territories were similarly struck through. Over the mark representing the Pritzker Group's corporate headquarters, Anthony drew a small snake.
He didn't turn around. He just raised his free hand and made a brief, downward pressing gesture.
"Calm down, Uncle."
Anthony turned and leaned against the windowsill, swirling the vodka in his glass.
"She has no further use to us. But she still has immense value to our 'friends.'"
"What do you mean?" Abram stared at his nephew's silhouette. A strange realization flickered in his eyes. "You want... you want the Crips to kill her?"
Anthony wanted more than that. He wanted Boris dead, too. But moving against a captain of Boris's rank internally would require navigating Abram, and Anthony didn't have the time to wage a political war inside his own house.
Anthony nodded.
"The Crips have suffered massive losses tonight. The Bloods betrayed them. Their leader, Preston, is dead. And Gramont's elite security element was wiped out at the casino."
He looked toward Queens and raised his glass.
"How do you think the rat hiding behind the curtain is going to view the woman who provided him with such disastrously 'false' intelligence?"
"An angry viper will always bite the bait that led it into the trap. Let Gramont's dogs clean up our mess for us."
Abram frowned. "Who is Gramont?"
"A king cobra hiding in the corner," Anthony laughed softly. "Instead of striking from the open, he is busy learning how others build their traps."
The Crips. The Bloods. The Tarasovs. The Pritzkers. Gramont had woven his fingers into all of them.
Anthony hadn't expected the Marquis de Gramont to resort to localized military strategy. Gramont's actions clearly went beyond merely choking the Tarasovs to get to John Wick.
Like Santino D'Antonio before him, Gramont was making a play for the entire city.
But Anthony couldn't understand the logic. Gramont's current authority under the High Table was absolute. Why go through the exhausting theater of proxy gang wars when he could simply step out of the shadows and claim the throne?
His phone buzzed.
Anthony answered, listened to three words, and said, "I'm on my way."
East Rutherford technically belongs to the New York metropolitan sprawl, but it sits across the river in New Jersey.
One of Anthony's three newly acquired black-site farms was located here. It served as the primary staging ground for James's PMC element.
It was also where John Wick was currently staying. Marcus had taken the Upstate property.
An hour later, Anthony's SUV pulled through the reinforced gates. James and Mike stood waiting in the gravel driveway.
It was past two in the morning. The farm and the autumn tree lines were swallowed in pitch black. The only sounds were the wind and the occasional restless shuffle of livestock from the far pens. The barn loomed like a fortress in the moonlight.
"Boss," James said as Anthony stepped out of the vehicle. "If you hadn't briefed us on the target's profile, we wouldn't have walked out of that room."
James wiped a smear of dried blood off his jaw. His tactical rig was torn and stained dark brown across the chest and forearms.
"Mason's tibia is shattered. Compound fracture. He's going to need three months of rehab, minimum."
James's voice held a tight, defensive edge. He was worried Anthony was going to cut Mason loose for becoming a liability.
"Make sure he gets the best medical care money can buy," Anthony said without hesitation. "He stays on full payroll during his recovery. As long as you boys want to stay with the Tarasovs, I will take care of you."
Mike stepped forward. "Anthony. The team at the nightclub only pulled about seven million in cash. It's a good haul, but it doesn't cover the twenty million we lost when the refinery burned."
Anthony smiled. "Nick's team pulled over nine million from the casino. It balances out."
"The problem is we also bought three massive properties to house these guys," Mike pointed out, doing the math on his fingers. He looked at Anthony. "New York has a lot of other gangs holding cash..."
He left the suggestion hanging. Anthony understood perfectly.
"The timing isn't right for an expansion war," Anthony said.
He looked out over the dark fields, his mind turning over the mechanics of the High Table.
To claim one of the Twelve Seats, "bloodline" was the insurmountable wall. But if a candidate amassed enough raw financial gravity and territorial power, the Table might eventually be forced to build a door in that wall.
A sudden realization struck him.
Is that what Santino was doing? Is that what Gramont is doing right now?
New York was the crown jewel of the American underworld. It boasted the highest density of wealth, population, and illicit commerce in the country. Last year, its regional GDP had surpassed Tokyo to become the largest in the world.
No wonder both Santino and Gramont obsessed over controlling the city.
Once you held the New York underworld in an iron grip, ancient bloodlines and global logistics networks didn't matter. The Elders at the High Table ultimately worshipped one thing: the uninterrupted flow of capital and resources.
Anthony decided right then. He needed to expand his PMC army. Sixty-three men wouldn't be enough for what was coming.
Inside the converted barn, Bertrand Laroche sat on the concrete floor. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly with heavy industrial chain.
The Marquis's immaculate proxy was gone.
His bespoke suit was shredded, stiff with dried blood and concrete dust. His perfectly combed blond hair was matted to his forehead. His nose was broken, canted sharply to the left, and both of his eye sockets were swollen black and purple. He could barely open his eyes.
"Boss. I tried interrogating him," James said, standing over the prisoner. "He hasn't given us a single word. We probably won't crack him."
At the sound of James's voice, Bertrand raised his head.
He strained to focus on Anthony's face through his swollen eyelids. There was no fear in the Frenchman's expression. Only a cold, venomous fury at the indignity of his capture.
"Heh," Bertrand rasped, coughing up a drop of blood. "Anthony Tarasov. Your dogs bite hard."
Anthony ignored the insult. He walked forward, his face an unreadable mask, and looked down at the man on the floor.
"Delta Force. And an Army Ranger," Bertrand said, forcing his tone back into a fractured imitation of his usual elegance. "I did not expect a Russian street boss to field a tier-one private military. You are more interesting than I anticipated, Mr. Tarasov."
I underestimated you, too, Anthony thought.
Sergei dragged a folding chair across the concrete and planted it half a meter in front of the prisoner.
Anthony sat down. The two men stared at each other.
"You are the black glove for the rat pulling the strings," Anthony said quietly. "Hiding behind the Crips and the Bloods. Feeding them guns, intelligence, and elite shooters. What, has the Marquis given up on hunting John Wick to play mafia boss instead?"
At the word Marquis, Bertrand's pupils contracted. A ferocious glint flared in his bruised eyes.
"Fils de pute," Bertrand hissed. "You ignorant bastard. Do you actually believe you've won a victory tonight? You are playing with fire you cannot comprehend."
He surged upward against the chains.
James stepped forward and slammed the stock of his rifle into Bertrand's jaw, knocking him back to the floor. Even chained and broken, the Delta operator didn't trust the Frenchman to stay down.
Anthony didn't flinch. He slowly drew a cigarette from his jacket.
Sergei snapped a lighter and held the flame.
"The Bloods you bought are dead," Anthony said, exhaling a plume of gray smoke into the space between them. "The Crips are gutted. They will never recover."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.
"The spy you planted inside the Pritzker family? I will drag him into this barn next."
Anthony smiled. It was a cold, empty expression.
"I will break every piece your master places on the board. He wants to turn New York into his personal theater? I will not allow it."
Bertrand laughed. The sound was wet and broken, distorted by his shattered nose.
"In the eyes of the man I serve, crushing you is no different than stepping on an insect."
"Didn't your master teach you?" Anthony asked softly. "A dog must remember it is a dog. Especially when it finds itself in a hunter's cage."
Bertrand tilted his head, his bloody lips curling into a grin.
"I will admit, Anthony, I misjudged you. The restaurant... that performance was entirely fabricated, wasn't it?"
"Anger. Impulsiveness. Incompetence." Anthony ticked them off on his fingers. "I showed you exactly what you needed to see."
"And I happen to be a very good actor."
"Bravo," Bertrand nodded, entirely unbothered by his status as a prisoner of war. "But do not delude yourself into believing that because John Wick stands in your shadow, you can wage war against us."
He locked his gaze on Anthony's cold eyes.
"Do you truly believe you can order the execution of High Table operatives simply because you hold a Blood Oath Marker? Ask John Wick if he dares to pull that trigger!"
Anthony looked at Bertrand, his expression flat. "Can I?"
Before Bertrand could sneer a reply, a flat, exhausted voice drifted out of the shadows at the back of the barn.
"No."
John Wick stepped into the dim light.
"He's right," John said, staring at the Frenchman on the floor. "Even with a Marker, you cannot order a strike against a sanctioned agent of the High Table. If you do... both the issuer of the Oath and the man who executes it will be hunted until they are dead."
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