"Ah--"
Hanson let out a ragged, inhuman scream.
The gunshot echoed violently through the sixteenth floor. Outside the office, the frantic typing and low hum of corporate chatter ceased instantly. The glass walls offered zero soundproofing. Footsteps scrambled in the hallway, followed by a chorus of panicked shouting, but no one dared approach the open door.
"Wait!" Hanson screamed, clutching his shattered knee. "I... I'll call him again!"
He blindly reached for the desk phone, his voice pitching into a hysterical, sobbing register.
He hammered the extension into the keypad and waited for the pickup.
"Robert, fuck you!" Hanson shrieked into the receiver, spitting blood onto the dial pad. "They shot me! My leg is broken! You deny the claim, you're signing my death warrant! Robert, I will swear to God--"
Hanson froze. Sergei stepped forward and pressed the hot barrel of the Glock directly against Hanson's temple.
Sweat poured down Hanson's face, mixing with the blood. He looked up at Anthony, his good eye wide with terror. "Mr. Tarasov. Sir. I cannot authorize the transfer. Senior Vice President Robert Clemens is on the twenty-eighth floor. He has the codes."
Anthony stood up. "Bring him. We'll go pay Robert a visit."
Sergei grabbed Hanson by the collar of his suit jacket and hauled him backward out of the chair.
Hanson's ruined knee dragged across the polished marble, leaving a thick, slick trail of bright red blood that looked violently out of place under the sterile fluorescent office lights.
Anthony and John walked out into the corridor. Their footsteps echoed loudly in the sudden silence of the open-plan office.
Hanson's whimpering echoed down the hall like a slaughtered animal.
The employees trapped inside their glass cubicles were paralyzed. Some stared at their monitors, pretending they were deaf and blind. Others huddled beneath their desks, shaking.
Dozens of eyes tracked them in sheer terror.
"Boss. Someone's recording," Sergei murmured, not breaking his stride.
Anthony stopped. He kept his left hand in his jacket pocket.
"I have no grievance with the concept of insurance," Anthony said quietly, his voice carrying easily across the silent room. "But I have a deep grievance with people who rig the rules."
His right hand moved in a blur.
He drew his customized Taran Tactical Glock 34 from the small of his back and leveled it.
Crack. Crack.
Two unsuppressed shots.
To their left, an iPhone shattered in a junior analyst's hands, sending glass shrapnel and a spray of blood across a gray filing cabinet.
To their right, a Samsung phone dropped to the carpet, the screen still glowing with an active camera feed.
Both men slumped backward over their office chairs, perfectly symmetrical coin-sized holes punched through their chests.
"You have security cameras mounted in the corners," Anthony said, lowering the pistol and racking the slide. "Why would anyone be stupid enough to use their phone?"
John frowned at him but kept his silence.
The entire floor dissolved into absolute panic.
People clamped hands over their mouths to stifle their screams. Someone in the back corner began dry heaving into a trash can. A group of middle managers burst through the emergency stairwell door, took one look at the blood trail and the corpses, and scrambled backward over each other in sheer terror.
"The elevator," Anthony said, his tone perfectly even.
"The executive car... end of the hall," Hanson gasped, barely conscious as Sergei dragged him forward.
They reached the heavy steel doors of the private elevator. Sergei hit the call button. It arrived empty.
They stepped inside. The polished steel walls reflected their faces -- cold, hard, entirely detached from the violence they had just inflicted.
The numbers ticked upward.
Anthony looked down at the bleeding, pale-faced man collapsed in the corner of the car. "I assume MetLife provides its executives with comprehensive accident coverage?"
Hanson was too weak to answer. He just stared blankly at the digital floor display.
The elevator chimed and opened on the twenty-eighth floor.
It was a different world. The frantic energy of the bullpen was replaced by absolute silence. The carpet was a deep, absorbing crimson. Abstract oil paintings lined the walls. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive cologne.
At the far end of the hall sat a massive set of double walnut doors. A brass plaque read: Robert Clemens, Senior Vice President.
Anthony pushed the doors open. John followed him inside.
The office was sprawling. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Manhattan skyline like a conqueror's painting.
Behind a massive mahogany desk sat a man in his sixties. His silver hair was perfectly styled. He wore a bespoke dark blue three-piece suit. He was gripping the arms of his chair, staring at them with a mixture of outrage and fear.
Anthony walked to the desk, picked up a heavy brass paperweight, and weighed it casually in his hand.
"Mr. Clemens," Anthony said. "Your claims department seems to have forgotten how to process a payout."
"You know perfectly well the Tarasov family does not run a polite business. But we paid the premiums. The refinery burned. We expect the check. It's a very simple transaction."
Robert Clemens leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach in a desperate attempt to project authority.
"Listen to me, young man. I have been with this firm for thirty-two years. I have never been threatened by street thugs." His voice trembled slightly, but he pushed through it. "Your refinery was the site of a paramilitary firefight. Twenty men died. That is gang warfare. We do not underwrite criminal syndicates. That is our final position."
Smash.
Anthony slammed the brass paperweight down onto the tempered glass covering the mahogany desk. The glass exploded outward in a spiderweb fracture.
Robert jumped, his carefully maintained composure shattering along with the desk.
"I am not interested in your corporate policy." Anthony leaned over the desk, planting his hands on the fractured glass until he was inches from Robert's face.
"Twenty million dollars. Wired directly to the Tarasov accounts within three hours. Do that, and you get to keep sitting in this chair and admiring your view of the city."
Sergei dragged Hanson into the room and dropped him onto the pristine carpet. He pulled a folded settlement agreement from his jacket pocket and slapped it onto the ruined desk, tossing a pen on top of it.
Robert looked at the legal document. Then he looked at Hanson, who was bleeding out onto the rug. Finally, he looked at the dead, flat expression in Anthony's eyes.
He took a shaky breath. "Twenty million... a transfer of that size requires board authorization..."
Sergei racked the slide of his Glock and pressed the hot barrel directly against the center of Robert's forehead.
Robert closed his eyes. He knew two of his employees were dead downstairs. He had already triggered the silent alarm to the NYPD, but he knew with absolute certainty the police would not arrive in time to stop the bullet.
The sunlight streaming through the massive windows caught the dust motes hanging in the air, but the room felt freezing cold.
Robert let out a long, defeated exhale.
He picked up the pen, ignored the typed terms entirely, and slashed his signature across the bottom line.
"Excellent," Anthony said, snatching the paper and handing it to Sergei. "It's always refreshing to find a rational man in corporate management."
Robert dropped the pen and leaned his head back against his chair, his eyes still closed.
"The wire will clear by this afternoon. Now get out of my office."
Anthony didn't move.
"Mr. Clemens," Anthony said softly. "Who told you to deny the Tarasov claim?"
Robert's eyes snapped open. "What?"
"Do not play games with me." Anthony picked up his Glock 34 from the desk and spun it lazily around his trigger finger. "I want a name. Who gave you the order to choke my cash flow?"
Robert's Adam's apple bobbed. "I... I don't know what you mean."
Sergei dug the muzzle of his pistol harder into Robert's skull. The executive whimpered.
Anthony smiled. It was a terrifying expression. "You watch the news, Robert. You saw the body count in Queens last night. Do you really want to find out what the NYPD is going to find in your office tomorrow?"
Robert's pupils contracted to pinpricks.
"Last chance." Anthony picked up a silver letter opener from the desk and pressed the sharpened tip under Robert's chin.
Robert broke. Sweat poured down his face.
"I only know his surname! Laroche!" Robert gasped out. "He's a European consultant. He... he convinced the board to expand our operations into France. He promised us backing from a massive syndicate in Paris if we starved the Russian accounts here."
Anthony paused.
Winnie had mentioned that name during their lunch at the restaurant. Bertrand Laroche. The blond man with the snake ring. The man Anthony had executed in the barn the night before.
Gramont had used Bertrand to buy off the MetLife board with promises of European expansion, systematically cutting off the Tarasovs' legitimate financial lifelines.
"Thank you for your honesty," Anthony said.
He flicked his wrist.
The letter opener sliced cleanly across Robert's throat. Anthony stepped back smoothly to avoid the arterial spray.
Robert collapsed over his ruined desk, clutching his neck, drowning in his own blood.
John Wick stared at the dying executive. His brow furrowed deeper, but he said nothing.
Anthony turned his back on the corpse and headed for the door.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
He pulled it out. The caller ID read: Officer Jimmy Simmons.
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