New York.
Santos Club.
The first wave of battle erupted!
Basement stairwell.
Over twenty Camorra killers burst through the door, boots pounding the steps as they charged upward.
The man in front gripped a pistol in his right hand, a grenade in his left.
The instant he saw enemies, he would lob the grenade, clearing a path for those behind him.
But fate had other plans.
As he reached the top of the stairs, grenade raised high—
Crack!
A spinning bullet punched straight through his skull.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The grenade slipped from his hand, clattering down the steps.
The killers behind him didn't even have time to retreat back to the basement.
Behind them, more men were pushing forward, blocking any escape.
"Oh, shit!"
"Fuck!"
Those were the last words they managed to scream.
BOOM!
The grenade exploded.
The stairwell became a storm of shredded flesh and blood.
Meanwhile, Sully Hotel kitchen.
Another twenty-plus Camorra killers, armed to the teeth and armored in Kevlar, steadied themselves.
The first man flung the door open toward the alley.
"Go! Go! Go!"
The next second—
Rat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat!
Bullets poured into them like rain.
The first two men collapsed instantly, their bodies riddled with holes. Even body armor couldn't save them.
Their corpses provided momentary cover for those behind, who surged forward toward the club's back entrance.
But the bottleneck—
that narrow, one-man-wide doorway—
had become the gates of hell.
Alex's men, each with at least LV2 marksmanship, didn't miss.
Every Camorra soldier who tried to cross that threshold was cut down mercilessly.
The alley between the two kitchens became a slaughterhouse.
With the first wave of bloodshed, the open contracts Alex had predicted went live.
In the corner where the four of them sat, Alex's phone chimed.
Ding!
[You have a new "KillMe" order! Please accept promptly…]
It was a dark little joke Alex had set up earlier that day, with Anna's help.
Whenever a [Bounty Contract] went out, the ringtone would announce it.
The sound, cutting through bursts of gunfire, felt strangely out of place—
adding a layer of dark humor to the tension.
Even John Wick, ever stone-faced, nearly spat out his drink when played.
Setting his glass down, Wick pulled out his own phone.
Two contracts lit up his screen.
[Type: Open Contract]
Target: Anna Poliatova
Identity: Assassin
Reward: $2,000,000
Time Limit: 24 Hours
Location: Sully Hotel Underground Garage (Live Updates)
[Type: Open Contract]
Target: Alex Cross
Identity: Assassin
Reward: $2,000,000
Time Limit: 24 Hours
Location: Santos Club (Live Updates)
Exactly as Alex had said.
Wick's expression flickered, glancing at Alex.
Setting his phone down, he actually cracked a joke:
"To be honest, it's almost a shame… part of me regrets taking your contract."
Alex smirked, pouring himself a drink.
"Mr. Wick, in this world there's no such thing as regret pills."
Wick leaned back, his eyes sharp, voice heavier than before.
"Tell me, Mr. Cross… how did you know the Camorra would issue open contracts on you and Anna?"
This time, Wick wasn't the silent boogeyman.
His eyes studied Alex closely.
This man was shrewd, ruthless, decisive—yet with an almost childish streak at odd times.
At first, Wick had viewed him as a forgettable client.
Now? He classified Alex as a dangerous man—
one better to work with than against.
Alex sipped his drink, then countered with a question:
"If you were the head of the Camorra, and your branch overseas was under siege… what else could you do but this?"
"…Yeah."
Wick nodded.
He understood.
But Alex wasn't finished.
"Then let's make another bold guess—when they realize every assassin in New York still can't save their branch… what do you think they'll do next?"