Two motorcycles—
one left, one right—
closed in fast on the convoy.
Just as their riders pulled out submachine guns, ready to unleash a hail of bullets—
VROOOOM!
A civilian SUV shot across the street, slamming directly into them.
CRASH!
The brutal impact sent both bikes crashing to the center of the road.
The SUV's driver's door opened.
Duggan stepped out calmly, walked to the front bumper—
BANG! BANG!
Two shots.
Two dead killers.
He turned.
Three more motorcycles bore down on him, engines screaming.
Duggan drew a deep breath.
Raised both pistols.
Took aim.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three flawless headshots.
In the same heartbeat, he dove back into the SUV, slammed the door, ducked low, arms covering his head—
The riders collapsed mid-charge, bullets tearing through their helmets.
Their bikes skidded, lost control, and smashed brutally into the SUV's side.
BOOM!
The collision rocked the vehicle so hard it nearly flipped.
It shook.
Settled.
Without missing a beat, Duggan scrambled out the passenger side.
Bent low.
Grabbed a still-intact motorcycle.
Twisting the throttle, he roared forward to catch up with the convoy.
The second wave came fast.
Even as Duggan finished off the five bikers, another car slipped out of a side street into traffic.
In the passenger seat—
a female killer with a SIG-Sauer MPX Copperhead.
RATATATATA—!
Bullets sprayed in torrents, shredding the rear SUV of the convoy.
TING! TING! TING!
The rounds hammered against the armored body, sparks flying.
The woman cackled wildly—
A blade slashed.
A knife pierced her throat.
Duggan flew past on his bike, never slowing, ripping the SMG from her dying grip.
He gunned the throttle, pulled ahead, raised the weapon—
BRRRRT!
A burst shredded the driver's skull, blood exploding across the windshield.
The car swerved out of control, flipping violently into the median.
Duggan's face remained stone cold as he twisted the throttle again, speeding to rejoin the convoy.
They broke past the Arc de Triomphe, heading toward the airport.
Barely a few hundred meters out—
The third wave hit.
This time, far heavier.
Four cars. Over a dozen motorcycles.
Engines howling.
Closing in.
Duggan slowed, slipped into another lane, didn't fire.
Because from the front—
Four black SUVs identical to the convoy's swept in, flanking the convoy cars—
And slammed head-on into the pursuing killers.
Inside the convoy SUV, Caine turned, peering through the rear window.
In the wreckage, the four SUVs disgorged a squad of assassins.
The same ones who had shielded him inside the Continental.
Each wielded Cohary CA-415 automatic rifles.
They moved like a unit, weaving through the crossfire,
masking their faces with forearms,
raising rifles,
firing in disciplined bursts—
Efficiently mowing down Paris assassins as they scrambled from wrecked cars to return fire.
Caine exhaled slowly, clutching his daughter tighter.
For the first time since it began, he felt a flicker of relief.
New York.
Lower Manhattan.
Viggo stood by the office window, cigar smoldering between his lips, gazing at the streets below.
Behind him, on the floor—
three corpses lay sprawled.
The same men who had gone to capture Bruno, the Deli Gang boss, for Night Demon last night.
They had vanished after phoning Viggo.
This morning, a "Waste Disposal Company" truck had dumped their mutilated bodies at his gang's doorstep.
Each had four or five fingers broken.
Achilles tendons cut.
Throats slit wide open, hideous wounds carved deep.
Viggo knew instantly.
This was Night Demon's work.
But he couldn't be sure—
Did Night Demon already know about his secret plotting?
Either way…
Opposing Night Demon, killing Night Demon, destroying his organization—
had become Viggo's only path forward.
He drew in a lungful of smoke.
Picked up his phone.
Dialed Irene.
"Mr. Viggo, what can I do for you?"
She answered within seconds, calm, almost as if she had been waiting for this call.
Viggo shoved aside his suspicions.
Pressed his lips together.
After a long pause, he said firmly:
"My time is running out. Night Demon killed the three men you sent to deliver my message last night. Soon, I'll have the Viggo gang move. I need your three crews to hit them with me—front and back. The Vietnamese gang too…"
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