New York.
Santos Club – Underground Training Base.
After hanging up the call, Alex Cross immediately handed the phone back to John Wick.
He remembered well—this was the man who once wiped out an entire mob over a dog.
Who knew what might be in that phone? If he forgot to return it and accidentally set Wick off… all his carefully built momentum would go straight to hell.
Thankfully, John Wick said nothing.
He simply pocketed the phone and stood quietly, as calm as ever.
The second wave of strike teams had already rearmed.
Alex didn't plan on waiting any longer.
With a look, he signaled Anna and Duggan.
They both understood.
Each took two squads and pushed upstairs into the hotel.
The club was a vision of hell.
Severed limbs scattered everywhere, the stench of blood choking the air. The floors and walls slick with gore.
Gunfire was less frequent now.
The city's bounty hunters weren't fools.
Driving from miles away, anyone who saw the streams of blood running into the street knew immediately—this was no fight for amateurs.
Even the stubborn ones—who parked their cars and peeked through the doors—ended up vomiting into the gutter before fleeing.
Still, some greedy or arrogant ones thought themselves strong enough.
Their fate was always the same: death.
As for the underground garage?
Not a single intact car remained.
Windows shattered, bullet holes riddling every chassis, tires shredded beyond use.
It wasn't as grotesque as the club above, but still enough to make anyone's heart race.
Now and then, scattered gunfire marked a few stubborn killers still fighting back.
BANG!
On the sixth floor, a gunshot split the silence.
Anna, one hand steady on her pistol, kicked a killer out of the stairwell doorway and into the hall.
She fired into his skull, then swept the corridor with her eyes.
No one else. Every door shut tight.
She pressed her back to the wall, reached for the nearest handle, and said with practiced ease:
"Room service…"
BANG BANG BANG!
Rounds blasted through the door, punching into the wall opposite.
Anna didn't flinch.
She waited a few seconds, until the gunfire stopped.
Then she pivoted, raised her gun, and aimed at the peephole.
BANG!
A single shot.
THUD.
A body hit the floor inside.
Anna slipped a stolen master keycard from her pocket—lifted from the front desk—and swiped it.
Door unlocked, she pushed in, confirming the corpse.
Bathroom door—kicked open.
A naked woman crouched in the corner, clutching a knife.
Anna froze for half a second.
Then raised her gun.
BANG. BANG.
One shot through the back, another through the head.
CLANG.
The knife clattered onto the tile.
So stupid.
Anna shook her head.
The woman hadn't even bothered to hide the Camorra family mark tattooed on her arm.
Meanwhile, Duggan was on the seventh floor.
A pistol in hand, suppressor attached.
He picked a door at random, swiped the keycard, and opened it—without stepping in.
He pressed to the wall, waiting.
Moments later, a man leaned halfway out with a pistol, checking the hall.
PFFT!
The silencer coughed.
Duggan shoved the body back into the room, using it as cover while he swept the bathroom.
Clear.
He slipped inside.
THUD.
The corpse collapsed.
Five seconds later, footsteps approached.
Another killer bent to check the body—
PFFT. PFFT.
Two shots through the bathroom door gap.
Another corpse hit the floor.
Calmly, Duggan stepped out, confirmed the bedroom empty, and moved on to the next room.
Compared to them, the other four strike teams were far less subtle.
Each squad swept a floor—second, third, fourth, fifth.
No finesse.
They knocked.
If bullets flew from inside, they waited for the enemy to empty their mags—then kicked the door down and stormed in.
With bulletproof suits and extra armor underneath, as long as they didn't take a headshot, they'd be fine.
As for terrified tourists who opened the door nervously?
If confirmed not to be Camorra, they even got a polite farewell:
"Sorry for the disturbance. Sweet dreams."
Then the squad moved on.
In just minutes, an entire floor was cleared.
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