New York Time.
21:45.
The back gate of Simms Church's courtyard opened.
A lone figure rode out on a motorcycle, quickly vanishing into the night.
Moments later, the gate closed again—
as if nothing had happened.
Five minutes later, the gate opened once more.
This time, one car after another rolled out.
Through the windows, it was clear—
every seat was filled, each car at capacity.
The convoy moved fast.
In the blink of an eye, they disappeared from sight.
Santos Club.
A wildly popular entertainment venue in Uptown Manhattan.
It had three levels:
Basement: training rooms for combat and firearms, tactical chambers, an armory, and a long corridor connecting directly to the underground parking garage.
First floor: a deafening party—blaring music, pounding DJ beats, and a dance floor full of chaos, covering up all the sounds below.
Second floor: private lounges for the wealthy, shielded with soundproof glass. So private, in fact, that regulars nicknamed them "pleasure rooms."
At the far end sat an office, serving as the Camorra Family's local headquarters.
But that wasn't the full picture.
Through the kitchen at the back, a hidden door led straight into the kitchen of the Sully Hotel next door.
That's right—
the club and hotel were connected.
Every Camorra hitman arriving in New York rested and received assignments there.
The priest's documents had marked all of this out in detail.
21:58.
The convoy pulled onto Santos Avenue.
Fifty meters ahead—
the front entrance to Santos Club.
The convoy split.
Three cars accelerated past the club, pulling up on the opposite side of the street.
The other four cars carried on.
At the red light, they turned, heading down into the Sully Hotel's underground garage.
"Mr. Cross, we've reached the hotel garage," Anna's voice came through the earpiece.
Alex lifted his wrist, checked the time.
22:00 sharp.
No hesitation.
He spoke clearly into the comms:
"Move."
At once, the doors of six cars swung open in unison.
Centered on the Santos Club entrance—
two teams of fifteen killers each surged forward in formation, sweeping in from both flanks.
Forty meters.
Thirty-five.
At thirty meters, the club guards finally sensed something was wrong.
One reached for his earpiece to sound the alarm—
Crack!
A bullet drilled perfectly into his forehead, leaving a neat round hole.
The other turned, gun half-drawn, rushing for the doors.
Crack!
Another round smashed through the back of his skull, his body crashing to the ground lifeless.
Only then did Alex step out of the car.
Beside him: Susie Glass, Margarita, and… John Wick.
Susie held a pistol in one hand and the club dossier in the other.
Margarita was far more professional—
submachine gun raised, scanning her surroundings with sharp precision.
And then there was John Wick.
The man didn't even flinch.
Hand tucked inside his suit jacket, posture relaxed as ever, he looked as though none of this mattered to him.
As for Alex—
he wasn't nervous at all.
Not with the Baba Yaga himself standing at his side.
And besides—
ten minutes earlier, Duggan had already set up nearby with his sniper rifle.
Any threat to Alex's safety…
would be erased before it even reached him.
The two assault squads reached the doors.
Left and right.
They breached in tandem.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
The rhythmic chatter of Heckler & Koch MP5Ks spilled out from inside the club.
Within moments, chaos erupted.
Partygoers stampeded out, hands over their ears, scrambling in every direction.
Alex stood still, watching, waiting.
Only when no one else came running out—
did he stride toward the entrance.
The instant he crossed the threshold, Duggan's calm voice buzzed through the earpiece:
"Mr. Cross, I've only got line-of-sight on your right. Stick close to the right-hand windows as you move."
A faint gunshot cracked in the background.
Two seconds later—
on the second floor near the stairs, a Camorra gunman had just stood to take aim.
A single round punched through his skull.
His corpse tumbled down the staircase with a heavy thud.
Duggan's voice came again, steady as ever:
"Mr. Cross, your right flank is clear. Recommend you assign a few men to cover your left blind spot."
Damn.
Alex couldn't help but grin.
In just the short time since stepping inside, he'd already experienced the precision of a top-tier assassin.
Right then, he felt an urge to sling an arm around Duggan's shoulder and shout:
"See that? Now this is what I call professional."