"On your right, under the pavilion—four men smoking. You can wait for them to leave… or take them out."
John Wick hadn't even stepped out of the alley before Duggan's calm voice came through the earpiece.
"Yeah…" John answered simply.
He drew his pistol, screwed on the suppressor, and pressed himself against the wall. A quick glance at the street corner…
A flash of lightning split the night sky.
Wick moved instantly.
Pfft! Pfft! Pfft! Pfft!
Four muffled shots.
But just as his sights aligned on the last man—
Rumble!
Thunder rolled overhead. A bullet tore through the fourth man's forehead—before Wick could fire.
"No need to thank me," Duggan's voice crackled in his ear.
For the first time since they'd begun working together, John Wick spoke more than a single word:
"You remind me of an old friend. Only… younger. And stronger."
"Oh yeah?" Duggan asked.
"You'd get along. His name's Marcus. A killer, like us. I'll introduce you someday."
"Yeah…"
High above, Duggan calmly disassembled his rifle, still chatting through the comms.
"I'll be there in three minutes. You can wait for me, or go in first."
Wick wasn't one to wait.
He holstered the pistol, swapped a fresh mag, chambered a round. Then tucked it away.
His hand closed around a tactical knife instead.
Moving silently, he slipped toward the San Dian Strip Club.
Inside the entrance, behind the curtain—
a lookout.
The knife flashed. A hand clamped the man's mouth, steel kissed his throat.
The body sagged. Wick lowered it carefully, then moved on.
At the corner—two more guards.
He checked his watch. One minute had passed.
Decision made, Wick strode right into their path.
They started to block him. Too late.
His right hand lashed out—the blade punched through one man's throat.
His left hand clamped the other's larynx, cutting off sound.
A crushing punch to the kidney dropped him. Wick slipped behind, locked in a chokehold, and squeezed until the man went limp.
He rose, yanked his knife free from the first corpse, glanced at his watch again. Two minutes thirty seconds.
No time to waste.
Through the next door—
Music slammed into him, deafening.
On stage, strippers writhed around steel poles, barely covered in scraps of cloth.
"Take it off!"
"Take it off!"
The crowd howled, lost in lust and liquor.
Wick pushed through, heading for the hallway that led to the back offices.
Just then—Duggan arrived, slipping to his side.
From his coat he pulled a flashbang, yanked the pin, cracked the door open just enough.
He tossed it in. Closed the door.
Whump!
A muffled blast.
They moved as one, guns up, door swinging wide.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Shots snapped in rhythm with the pounding club music.
Four of the Night Demon's men dropped instantly.
As Wick strode past, he coolly delivered insurance shots to the last two bodies. Only then did he move with Duggan toward the office door.
Inside, the Night Demon had already sensed something wrong.
Years in the underworld honed his instincts razor-sharp.
Gun in hand, he pressed himself to the wall, peering through the glass pane on the office door.
He saw Wick's silhouette. Not Duggan's.
Still, it was enough to put him on edge.
He reached for his phone—then froze.
The club was nearly empty. Only a dozen men left to watch the place. Everyone else had been sent out to quell the chaos across the city.
"Damn it… that bastard Alex planned this from the start."
He cursed under his breath.
The pieces fell into place: the deaths of two assassins under his hand, the growing pressure on his turf.
Tonight was meant to corner him.
A life-or-death duel.
Excitement lit his eyes.
One on one… maybe he could kill the Baba Yaga.
Outside, Wick glanced at Duggan.
Held out his hand. Gestured.
"What?" Duggan asked.
"Flashbang."
"None left."
Wick didn't reply.
Instead, he lifted a boot and slammed the door open.
He raised his bulletproof suit jacket like a shield and charged in.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rounds slammed into him, stopped by the Kevlar weave. Pain lanced through his ribs.
He dove behind a sofa, drew his pistol, snapped off two wild shots. Enough to keep the pressure on.
Bullets whistled past the Night Demon, shattering a bottle of wine in the bar.
Cursing, he ducked under the counter, pausing his fire.
In that brief silence, Duggan strolled in calmly, taking cover behind a safe.
Three men now formed a deadly triangle—Wick, Duggan, and the Night Demon.
Duggan leveled his sights. Patient.
The moment the Night Demon showed his head—
he was ready to put a bullet straight through it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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