Off to the side, Alex Cross glanced calmly at the time.
Not a second more, not a second less—exactly three minutes.
Rat-tat-tat!
The gunfight upstairs had erupted again.
The good news was, in those three minutes neither the underground garage nor the Santos Club entrance had shown any movement.
That meant the squads in both corridors were still holding firm.
But time waits for no one.
If the killers outside broke through and the squads were forced to retreat into the underground passage… then they would all be trapped in this training base.
That would be the worst scenario: blind to the enemy's numbers and positions, even a breakout with full ammo would bleed them heavily.
Alex couldn't afford to waste a second.
He barked out orders:
"Everyone—swap your gear now! Add an extra layer of body armor under your suits. Primary weapons: Kohrari CA-415 automatic rifles, load your magazines to full!"
"First and Second squads—once re-armed, rotate with Third and Fourth on the first floor of the club!"
"Sixth, Ninth, Tenth squads—re-arm and head to the hotel garage to rotate with Fifth, Seventh, Eighth, Eleventh, and Twelfth!"
At his word, the armory exploded into action.
Fresh vests were hauled from the stockpiles, heavy CA-415 rifles handed into every waiting hand.
Rat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat!
Bang—Bang—Bang—!
Upstairs, the gunfire swelled again, sharp and relentless.
The first wave of bounty hunters had arrived.
They joined forces with the Camorra soldiers, hammering the seven squads still holding outside.
[Ding! Notice: One of your White-tier assassins has died.]
[Ding! Notice: One of your White-tier assassins has died.]
[…]
The first to falter were Eleventh and Twelfth squads at the garage.
Within moments, four were down.
They were the ten White-rank mercs Alex had recruited earlier in the day—injured to begin with, and now the first to be sacrificed.
Hearing the system chime, Alex felt a twist in his chest.
Those ten had worked like oxen for him all day.
He clenched his teeth and snapped another order:
"Move faster! Our brothers outside are at their limit! Each squad take one RPG—blast them before they close in!"
The urgency lit a fire under them.
Moments later, squads marched out of the armory fully armed.
When they returned topside, the tide turned instantly.
BOOM!
BOOM!
In the garage, an SUV carrying four bounty hunters had barely rolled inside before an RPG turned it into flaming debris.
At the elevator shafts and stairwells, the Camorra's attackers were blown apart in smoke and gore.
Rat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat!
The RPG tubes were tossed aside, the CA-415 rifles roared.
Their superior fire rate and piercing power shredded the bounty hunters who had taken cover behind cars, cutting them down where they crouched.
In an instant, a crumbling line had been reforged into a fortress.
The same scene played out inside the Santos Club.
BOOM!
One RPG vaporized the Camorra fighters who had just broken through the kitchen.
At the front doors, the bounty hunters who stormed in met the same fate—one rocket, and their courage evaporated.
They no longer felt like hunters.
They felt like conscripts being hurled against a heavily armed private army.
In the underground base, Alex stood with arms akimbo, watching the rotation.
One squad after another shed their old gear for new armor and fresh rifles.
It was a sight that thrilled him.
From here forward, the Camorra Family's New York branch would know only slaughter.
He turned his head, eyes on John Wick.
And raised their earlier conversation again.
"Mr. Wick, the same question—when the Camorra realize that even every killer in New York can't save their branch from annihilation… what will they do?"
"They'll send Rome's best. Their most elite assassins. To kill you."
Wick frowned as he said it.
Alex shook his head slowly, letting out a dry chuckle.
"Mr. Wick… it takes ten years to train an elite assassin. But a few million dollars to hire one."
"You mean—?"
"The deadliest assassin in the world. The Baba Yaga himself. John Wick. And you're already in New York."