Anthony stood perfectly still by his penthouse window, watching the freezing autumn rain patter relentlessly against the reinforced glass. The rhythmic sound was like countless, tiny drumbeats tapping out a death march over New York.
The harsh glare from his smartphone screen illuminated the sharp angles of his face, his lips pressed into a bloodless, rigid line.
A high-resolution photograph of Mason's mutilated, dismembered corpse swaying beneath the neon sign of the Nightclub lingered on the screen for exactly three seconds before fading to black.
Dion was currently tearing through Queens in a rabid frenzy, desperately attempting to track down the strike team responsible for butchering his Vanguard brother. Anthony had explicitly ordered Dion to stand down, lock the perimeter, and wait.
Anthony slowly turned off his phone and picked up the heavy keys to his armored SUV.
Down in the foyer, Mike and several other Vanguard operators stood by the heavy oak doors, their eyes bloodshot, their chests heaving with suppressed, homicidal rage. They demanded to ride with him.
Anthony coldly ordered them to get the fuck out of his way.
He climbed into the driver's seat alone and violently accelerated out of the estate, driving like a phantom into the freezing Brooklyn night.
"Radar," Anthony spoke into the vehicle's encrypted comms system. His voice was vastly colder than the rain.
"Contact Old A immediately. Tell him I want his localized intelligence network to dig out every single one of Gramont's dogs operating within city limits. I do not care what it costs. Pay his premium."
"They are already digging, Boss," Radar's voice crackled through the speakers, laced with heavy static. "Old A just confirmed that Zero and his four disciples have successfully navigated back into Brooklyn. They are currently moving in an erratic transit pattern. Their specific destination remains unconfirmed."
"I know exactly what that bald freak is attempting to do," Anthony said, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. "Just authorize Old A to track them."
Anthony's mind processed the tactical geometry with terrifying speed.
Utilizing the High Table's vast resources, combined with localized deduction, Zero was methodically hunting down anyone who might possess actionable intelligence regarding the Vanguard's location.
Zero had failed to break Mason. Therefore, there was only one logical target left on the board who possessed administrative clearance over Tarasov's armed forces.
Viktor.
Anthony downshifted aggressively. The massive engine roared, tearing through the rainy night as the heavy SUV surged into the sparse traffic, its taillights leaving two violent, scarlet streaks across the wet asphalt.
Deep in West Brooklyn, Viktor and his son, Pavel, had arrived at a sprawling, deeply rusted, abandoned textile factory following an emergency protocol call from Anthony.
It was the Tarasov syndicate's deepest, absolute last-resort backup base—a heavily fortified concrete bunker completely unknown to ninety percent of the family's own capos.
Viktor stood under the dim, flickering light of a single bulb, meticulously inspecting the heavy magazine of a suppressed SIG MCX Rattler short-barreled rifle.
Pavel stood rigidly by a dark, shattered window on the opposite side of the room, gripping his customized Glock with both hands, staring nervously into the rainy darkness.
"Dad," Pavel whispered, his voice trembling slightly. "How much longer do we have to stay buried here?"
"You stay buried here until Anthony explicitly gives the order to surface," Viktor replied flatly. He violently slammed the magazine into the Rattler's mag-well and racked the heavy charging handle. "Or you stay buried here until you die."
The distinct, crystalline sound of shattering glass drifted up from the ground floor.
It was incredibly faint, severely muffled by the pounding rain, but inside the cavernous, silent factory, it echoed like a gunshot.
Viktor instantly raised a closed fist, signaling his son to freeze. He smoothly reached up and unscrewed the single lightbulb, plunging the room into absolute darkness. He pressed his back tightly against the decaying plaster wall, slowly sliding toward the heavy steel door. He peered through the microscopic peephole.
The long industrial corridor was completely deserted. The cheap, motion-sensor emergency lights flickered forlornly.
But Viktor immediately saw the blood.
Fresh, dark crimson droplets formed a perfectly straight trail leading directly from the stairwell. One drop exactly every half-meter. It looked perfectly natural, mimicking the erratic bleeding of a wounded man seeking shelter.
It was an ambush tactic.
Viktor violently threw his hand back, flashing an aggressive tactical signal to Pavel.
Window. Rappel. Evacuate now.
Pavel gave a terrified nod. He rapidly holstered his weapon and frantically began unfastening the heavy carabiner of the emergency rappel line staged by the windowsill.
At that exact second, the heavy steel door was violently kicked entirely off its hinges.
A lean, middle-aged Shinobi disciple dressed in pitch-black tactical gear stood framed in the doorway. His breathing was completely silent. The high-carbon short-sword resting in his grip was actively dripping fresh blood onto the concrete.
"Viktor Romanov." The disciple looked calmly at the veteran mobster, his dark eyes flashing with absolute, bloodthirsty intent.
"Tarasov's localized Vanguard. Where are they currently garrisoned? Who commands them?"
The disciple took a single, calculated step into the room, his heavy combat boot splashing into a puddle of rusty water.
"You will answer my questions now. Or you will personally experience the exact same biological deconstruction as your elite operative, Mason."
Viktor didn't offer a single syllable in response.
He simply raised the Rattler and squeezed the trigger.
The heavy, .300 Blackout subsonic rounds, perfectly suppressed by the integrated silencer, emitted nothing more than a series of dull, rhythmic thwips. Viktor executed a flawless, three-round burst aimed directly at the center of the disciple's face and chest.
Instead of retreating into the hallway, the disciple exploded violently forward.
He had perfectly anticipated the precise trajectory of the ballistics the microsecond Viktor's finger depressed the trigger. The assassin executed a blindingly fast sidestep, instantly transitioning into a low, sliding dive. All three heavy rounds violently grazed past his tactical vest, missing by mere millimeters.
Viktor didn't stop firing. He continuously walked the trigger, tracking the assassin's movement while roaring over his shoulder, "Pavel, go! Fucking jump!"
Pavel absolutely refused to waste the tiny window of survival his father was currently buying with his life. He threw his legs over the rusted windowsill and locked the rappel carabiner onto his harness.
But he never initiated the slide.
Four figures silently materialized out of the heavy rain, clinging effortlessly to the rusted exterior brickwork directly outside the third-story window.
One man. Two women. And one bald master.
Pavel let out a terrified gasp and instinctively raised his Glock.
Before he could align the sights, the youngest female disciple's steel whip lashed through the broken window frame. It instantly coiled tightly around Pavel's wrist.
She gave a single, violent yank.
The Glock was forcefully ripped from his grip, plummeting three stories down into the alleyway.
She gave a second, devastating pull.
Pavel was violently dragged backward through the window frame, crashing heavily onto the concrete floor of the factory.
The four assassins smoothly vaulted through the window, landing silently in the room. They didn't even bother looking down at the terrified boy.
Across the room, Viktor let out a feral roar and violently swung the barrel of his Rattler toward the new intruders.
Before he could pull the trigger, the middle-aged disciple he had originally engaged materialized directly in front of him.
The assassin's short-sword slashed downward in a blinding silver arc.
He didn't aim for Viktor's flesh. He aimed exclusively for the weapon.
The incredibly sharp, specialized blade struck the exact structural connection point between the Rattler's heavy barrel and its aluminum upper receiver. The sheer, overwhelming kinetic force of the strike cleanly pried the alloy receiver apart.
The rifle was catastrophically destroyed.
Viktor violently hurled the useless wreckage directly into the assassin's face and desperately reached for the Glock holstered on his hip.
But the disciple's blade was already resting heavily against Viktor's wrist.
It was the exact same joint-lock technique Zero had utilized against Mason.
A tremendous, immovable pressure forced Viktor's wrist aggressively downward, permanently locking the barrel of the Glock against his own thigh.
Operating entirely on feral survival instinct, Viktor violently drove his right knee upward, aiming a devastating strike directly into the assassin's abdomen.
The disciple instantly mirrored the movement, driving his own knee upward to intercept.
The two heavy kneecaps collided mid-air with a sickening, wet crunch.
Viktor let out an agonizing groan. He instantly felt his patella violently fracture.
But instead of collapsing backward, Viktor actively utilized the blinding pain as an adrenaline trigger. He rapidly drew a rusted trench knife with his free left hand and executed a cunning, desperate upward thrust directly toward the assassin's exposed ribs.
The strike was remarkably fast and incredibly vicious for a man his age.
The disciple was actually forced to execute a rapid backstep to avoid being gutted, the rusted blade slicing cleanly through his tactical vest, missing his flesh by a fraction of an inch.
The assassin looked up at Viktor. For the first time, a genuine emotion flickered across his dead eyes.
It wasn't anger. It was mild amusement.
"The Tarasov family's aging guard dog," the disciple sneered softly. "It appears you still possess a few of your teeth."
Viktor was panting heavily, his fractured right leg trembling violently, entirely unable to support his weight.
The disciple shook his head in mock pity. "Absolute loyalty is an admirable virtue. Absolute stupidity is not."
The assassin lunged forward, executing a brutal sweep.
Viktor was violently thrown to the concrete floor and dragged brutally across the room, ultimately being tossed like a sack of garbage exactly one meter away from his terrified son.
Viktor spat a thick mouthful of blood onto the floor. His eyes projected absolute, suffocating despair, layered over a deep, unbreakable ruthlessness.
"Go fuck yourself, you Japanese freak," Viktor hissed through his teeth. "I will die before I give you a single fucking name."
Zero slowly stepped forward out of the shadows. He smiled faintly.
"Then you will simply watch your bloodline die first."
The female disciple wielding the steel whip smoothly flicked her wrist. The razor-sharp, grooved tip of the cable shot forward, violently embedding itself directly into Pavel's left bicep.
"Aaaaaah!"
Pavel let out a high-pitched, agonizing scream as the steel actively chewed through his muscle tissue. He desperately bit down on his lower lip to stifle the noise, his face instantly draining of all color.
"If you refuse to speak, I will order her to systematically dismantle him over the course of an hour," Zero said calmly, standing directly over Viktor's prone form. "Then... it will be your turn."
Viktor stared at his son, watching the boy tremble uncontrollably in the growing pool of his own blood.
"We do not know where the Vanguard is garrisoned," Viktor said, his voice breaking. "We truly don't."
Zero sighed. He gave a microscopic nod.
The female disciple violently retracted the steel cable. She shifted her stance, aiming the razor-tip directly at Pavel's left eyeball, preparing to execute a blinding thrust.
BANG.
A deafening, booming gunshot violently ruptured the silence of the factory.
The heavy, high-velocity bullet impacted flawlessly against the female disciple's right forearm—the exact arm wielding the whip.
The hollow-point round performed exactly as designed. The moment it impacted her flesh, the nose cavity rapidly expanded, violently transferring massive kinetic energy. The bullet tumbled aggressively through her arm, entirely obliterating her bicep, severing the brachial artery, and shattering the humerus bone into dust.
She let out a sharp, genuine cry of pain and violently staggered backward, dropping her weapon as her arm hung uselessly by a few threads of meat.
Zero's brow furrowed slightly. Operating on pure, inhuman instinct—as if he possessed eyes in the back of his skull—he executed a flawless, blindingly fast pivot.
A second supersonic bullet violently tore through the exact physical space his head had occupied a microsecond earlier.
The remaining three disciples immediately dropped into aggressive defensive stances, but the factory was entirely shrouded in pitch-black darkness. They couldn't visually track the shooter's muzzle flash.
BANG.
The massive, heavily muscled male disciple was violently struck directly in the center of his abdomen.
The hollow-point bullet expanded catastrophically upon entry, violently shredding his intestines and completely blowing out his lower back, exiting his body like an exploding mushroom of blood and viscera.
Even if the disciple miraculously survived the initial hydrostatic shock, the sheer catastrophic tissue damage guaranteed he would slowly bleed to death within minutes. He collapsed heavily to his knees, coughing up dark blood.
Exactly thirty meters away, perfectly concealed within the deepest shadows of the factory floor, stood a man.
He was dressed entirely in heavy, matte-black tactical gear. His face was completely obscured by a seamless black balaclava, revealing only a pair of absolute, dead eyes.
He stood perfectly still in a flawless isosceles shooting stance. The extended barrel of his customized Glock 34 was still actively emitting a wispy trail of pale blue gunpowder smoke.
Zero slowly tilted his bald head. For the first time all evening, the master assassin's dead eyes truly focused. They locked intensely onto the sudden, masked intruder with absolute, predatory recognition.
Seizing the microsecond of distraction, Viktor grabbed Pavel by the tactical harness and violently dragged his son across the floor, sliding behind a massive, rusted textile loom for heavy cover.
Zero's remaining uninjured male disciple attempted to pursue them, but was immediately forced to violently dive behind a concrete pillar as three suppressed bullets tore through the space he had just occupied.
"Fucking animal," the female disciple with the destroyed arm hissed in Japanese. She dropped to one knee, clutching her bleeding stump.
Because her dominant arm was utterly destroyed, her physical balance and evasion kinetics were entirely compromised.
BANG.
A fourth hollow-point round violently punched directly through her thigh. Blood and shredded muscle violently sprayed across the concrete as she collapsed entirely.
Zero remained perfectly still. He didn't even glance down at his crippled disciples.
His entire physical being was exclusively fixated on the masked shooter.
The masked man didn't fire again. He simply stood in the shadows, calmly shifting the tritium sights of his Glock back and forth between the two surviving, uninjured disciples.
The sheer, suffocating, invisible pressure radiating from the shooter was terrifying. A thick layer of cold sweat began to bead across the foreheads of the Shinobi.
They possessed enough tactical experience to recognize the reality of the situation. The masked man had deliberately chosen to cripple the female disciple rather than execute a clean headshot. He had aggressively demonstrated that he possessed absolute, flawless marksmanship, but was actively choosing to draw out the engagement.
In broad daylight, the assassins would not have feared him. They would have rushed him.
But inside the pitch-black, cavernous factory, the environmental variables severely compromised their melee advantage.
The masked man didn't reload his weapon. He fluidly holstered the Glock at his waist, smoothly drew a heavy, serrated military Ka-Bar from his chest rig, and violently exploded forward.
He charged directly toward the massive male disciple who was currently bleeding out from the abdominal wound.
"Teme! Chikushou!" (You bastard!)
The uninjured male disciple roared in fury and aggressively charged forward to intercept, raising his short-sword for a lethal thrust.
The two men were mere inches from colliding.
The masked man violently feinted a heavy, forward thrust toward the defender's chest. The disciple immediately sidestepped to parry.
The microsecond the disciple shifted his weight, the masked man executed a flawless, blindingly fast slide-step, completely bypassing the defender.
He materialized directly in front of the crippled female disciple bleeding on the floor.
With a sickening, muffled thud, the masked man drove the heavy Ka-Bar deeply into the side of her neck, utilizing a brutal backhand grip.
The woman's eyes went wide. She desperately grabbed the masked man's forearm, her mouth opening in a silent scream as thick blood rapidly filled her trachea.
The masked man stood perfectly calm, staring down at her without making a single sound.
The male disciple roared in absolute fury, violently spinning around and charging the shooter again. The second uninjured female disciple flanked him, aggressively moving to cut off the masked man's escape route.
The masked man casually ripped the heavy blade free.
The violent extraction cleanly severed her carotid artery and sliced halfway through her vocal cords. Before she could even attempt to scream, her head slumped entirely sideways, entirely lacking muscular support.
The heavy, dead weight of her own skull pulled her body completely limp, and she collapsed heavily onto the blood-soaked concrete, dead before she hit the floor.
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