"We need to execute three objectives simultaneously," Anthony said, addressing the war council gathered in the barn.
"First, we ignite a total war between the Bloods and the Crips to draw the city's attention away from us. Second, we find the exact coordinates of the Hunting Ground. Third..."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the men.
"We assemble a strike force capable of raiding that compound and butchering every single hunter inside."
"Including the VIP bettors?" Marcus asked, leaning against the wall.
"The betting syndicate is scattered globally. We cannot track them all," Anthony's voice was devoid of emotion. "But if any of them are physically present in New York... if they pay for the privilege to hunt human beings, they should be prepared to become prey themselves."
John nodded slowly in agreement.
Marcus smiled, a terrifying expression that sent a chill through the room.
Anthony turned to the former Delta operator. "James, begin drafting a raid template. We must assume the compound is secured by a Tier One private military contractor, backed by a closed-circuit surveillance grid and heavy emergency evacuation protocols."
"Treat it like a raid on a hostile military black site," John added.
"Worse," Anthony corrected, his eyes narrowing. "Military black sites operate under a loose framework of the rules of engagement. This place has absolutely no rules."
The meeting adjourned, and the men scattered to begin their preparations.
Anthony and John remained alone in the command center. Anthony picked up the tablet and played the dark web video again.
He watched the accountant running through the forest. He looked at the absolute, paralyzing despair etched into the man's face. He watched the aristocratic hunter nock the arrow with elegant, practiced cruelty, treating a human life like a Sunday sporting event.
Anthony remembered the things he had seen during his deployments in Afghanistan. The war crimes. The senseless collateral damage. The absolute tyranny of the strong crushing the weak.
He had foolishly believed that returning to New York would distance him from that kind of raw, uncut barbarity.
He realized now how incredibly wrong he had been.
The atrocities were still here. Only in New York, they were packaged as high-end entertainment, slapped with a million-dollar price tag, and treated as an exclusive weekend getaway by men who considered themselves the pinnacle of civilized society.
His secure phone vibrated.
The caller ID belonged to the burner he had given Dion.
"Boss," Dion's voice came through. He sounded nervous, but there was a new, hard edge of authority beneath it.
"We successfully took the 18th Street territory in Queens. We secured the nightclub, the two underground casinos, and several of the local protection rackets. As you ordered, we are actively tearing down the heroin and fentanyl supply lines."
"Did you encounter resistance?" Anthony asked.
"Some of Chico's older lieutenants refused to fall in line," Dion paused for a second. "We... we handled them. The territory belongs to us now."
"Excellent," Anthony said. "Now listen closely. I need you to execute a psychological operation."
"Tell me."
"Put a bounty on the street for Patrick Donald, the current boss of the Crips. Set the price at one hundred thousand dollars."
Dion gasped over the line. "Boss, let us take the contract! We can hit him!"
"You stay entirely out of the crossfire," Anthony commanded smoothly. "Keep the origin of the bounty vague. Plant rumors on the street implying that the Bloods put up the money. I want the Crips to believe that DeShawn has officially allied with the Tarasovs to wipe them off the map."
Dion was silent for three seconds as he processed the strategy. "You're inciting a proxy war between the Bloods and the Crips."
"Smart kid," Anthony smiled. "Execute the rumor mill. Ensure absolutely no one traces the bounty back to 42nd Street. And Dion? The Crips' territory is going to become a meat grinder over the next forty-eight hours. Keep your crew's heads down."
"Understood."
Anthony ended the call and walked back over to Radar's workstation.
The walls of the makeshift command center were covered in massive topographical maps of the five boroughs. The territories of the various street gangs and the last known locations of the missing victims were marked with color-coded pushpins.
Radar and his three-man cyber team were operating at a frenetic pace. A dozen monitors scrolled with endless streams of decryption code and data packets.
"Boss," Radar said, pointing a laser pen at his primary monitor. "We found a potential vector."
"The video feed was heavily encrypted, but I ran a spectral analysis on the background audio. We managed to isolate a very specific, high-frequency bird call."
"What does that prove?" Anthony asked.
"It's the call of the White-Throated Sparrow. Ornithological databases confirm that this specific species only nests at a very specific altitude within a certain type of old-growth coniferous forest."
Radar brought up a satellite map.
"We cross-referenced the sparrow's habitat parameters with the ecological data of upstate New York. We narrowed the search grid down to three potential zones."
Three massive red circles bloomed across the topographical map of the Adirondack Mountains.
"What's the square mileage on those zones?"
"The smallest sector is two hundred square miles. The largest is over five hundred," Radar admitted, rubbing his tired eyes.
"Furthermore, these are heavily restricted, uninhabited wilderness preserves. There are zero access roads and zero cell towers. If Gramont's compound is out there, they have to be moving the hunters and the prey via private helipad or a hidden bush airstrip."
Anthony stared at the three red circles.
Searching five hundred square miles of primeval forest for a camouflaged black site was worse than finding a needle in a haystack.
But it was a start.
"Keep shrinking the grid," Anthony ordered. "Focus entirely on the logistics. If they are transporting dozens of kidnapped victims and billionaire VIPs, they are leaving a logistical footprint."
"Hack the FAA radar logs. Pull the flight plans for every private helicopter charter operating out of Teterboro and Westchester. Buy commercial satellite imagery of those three red zones and look for recent canopy disturbances."
"We're already running the algorithms," Radar said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "But it's going to take time. The cyber-security team guarding this operation is elite. If they deployed a counter-surveillance worm, we might trip an alarm."
"Then you better make sure we are smarter than they are," Anthony said coldly.
"I do not care what it costs. Hire the best black-hat mercenaries on the dark web. Purchase priority time on commercial spy satellites. Burn through our entire operational budget if you have to."
Radar nodded sharply and spun back to his monitors, diving back into the code.
Gramont and his wealthy benefactors had crossed the final line.
They were no longer content with standard corporate warfare. They required a more exotic thrill. They required human blood.
"We are going to find them," Anthony said to John, who was leaning against the doorway.
"And then what?" John looked at him, his dark eyes unreadable. "You plan to execute everyone in the compound? That could include High Table emissaries, prominent US politicians, and international billionaires."
"Then I will execute them," Anthony replied, his voice a flat, dead calm.
"If the rules of this world allow the elite to treat human beings as disposable livestock, then those rules need to be violently broken."
John smiled. It was a rare, genuine expression, but it held absolutely zero warmth.
"You know something, Anthony?" John said softly. "Sometimes I think you are far more suited to the title of 'Baba Yaga' than I ever was."
The Baba Yaga. The Boogeyman. The mythical creature Viggo Tarasov used to describe the man you sent to kill the fucking Boogeyman.
Anthony shook his head. "New York will be mine eventually. I simply refuse to let anyone else treat it like a slaughterhouse."
"You are protecting more than just your family now," John noted. "The people trapped inside that forest... they have absolutely nothing to do with the Tarasov syndicate. Are you trying to save them?"
Anthony laughed softly, shaking his head. "I am not that benevolent."
"John, I honestly do not care if the people in that forest live or die. Even if they survive the hunters, most of the homeless out there will freeze to death in the coming winter anyway. That is the reality the US government and the so-called elite have designed."
Anthony pulled two cigarettes from a silver case and handed one to John.
"I am not Jesus Christ, John. I cannot save the world. If someone has nothing to do with my family, I don't care who kills them. I'd kill them myself if they stood in my way."
He lit his cigarette, staring into the flame of his lighter.
"But if the ultra-rich believe they have the divine right to suck the blood out of this city... then I am going to become a vampire. And I am going to bleed them dry."
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