John Wick leaned out—then instantly pulled back.
His eyes swept across the bar counter area.
No sign of the Night Demon.
No muzzle peeking out either.
He crouched, carefully sliding along the side of the sofa…
Behind the bar, the Night Demon checked his pistol's magazine, drew a steadying breath.
Like Wick, he suddenly snapped his head out from cover—
And spotted Wick shifting forward.
He raised his gun to fire—
Then froze.
A chilling instinct ripped through his mind.
He jerked his arm up reflexively, covering his head—
BANG!
A bullet slammed into his hand, pain detonating in his skull. The impact forced the pistol from his grip.
Shock shot through him.
Another assassin?! Not just Wick—someone else was in the room!
But there was no time to process.
Through sheer will, he reached for the second pistol tucked at his waist.
Rolling across the floor, he yanked up his bulletproof jacket for cover and charged straight at Duggan.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He fired in a wild burst, driven by one thought—
Even if he took a hit, he had to drop at least one of them. One against two meant certain death.
Facing Wick one-on-one, he wasn't even sure he could win. But this? He had no choice.
The three men were the top killers in the world.
The Night Demon's mad rush toward Duggan opened his flanks to Wick.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Two shots tore into his legs and ankle, another into his back. Wick hadn't gotten a headshot—but the hits crippled him, slowing him down.
At the same time, Duggan reacted with equal speed.
Unlike others, he didn't retreat.
He raised his own bulletproof jacket as a shield and countered head-on.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rounds slammed into legs, back, arms—
The vest held, but the raw impact left the Night Demon reeling in pain.
Neither side yielded. Neither slowed.
They collided.
Both fired at point-blank range—each bullet slamming into the other's chest.
The Kevlar absorbed the shots.
But that was when John Wick struck.
His arm coiled around the Night Demon's throat. He forced him down, pistol jammed against his forehead.
One pull of the trigger—and it would be over.
But once again, the Night Demon's ferocity exploded in a desperate counter.
He twisted his pistol downward, jammed it against his own side—
Bang!
The round punched through his own shirt—into Wick's abdomen behind him.
Both men staggered, collapsing onto the floor.
Blood spread across Wick's white shirt.
Yet the Night Demon had no chance to breathe—
Because his chest was now fully exposed to Duggan.
Duggan raised his gun—
Bang! Bang!
Two more bullets smashed into the Night Demon's back, sending him sprawling.
This time, before he could rise again, Duggan pounced.
His gun clattered away as his arms locked tight around the Night Demon's throat.
A brutal chokehold. A crucifix strangle.
The Night Demon thrashed violently, every nerve screaming with the terror of suffocation.
But his strength was bleeding away. His hands were torn, his body battered, blood seeping from his abdomen. His will to live fought on instinct alone—
Until despair finally consumed him.
Wick, clutching his wound, forced himself upright.
He drew a backup pistol, leveled it at the Night Demon's head.
Bang! Bang!
No words.
No hesitation.
No last speeches.
Top assassins never gave enemies that chance.
The Night Demon twitched twice—then went still.
His lifeless eyes froze wide open, blood pooling beneath him.
Duggan released his grip, gasping for air, muscles trembling from the strain.
Though the fight had lasted only moments, the tension had been unbearable.
He and Wick both collapsed against the floor, panting heavily.
"Hhh—over… It's over. John… can you keep going?" Duggan asked, propping himself up.
"Yeah…" Wick groaned, pressing his bleeding side, struggling to sit.
Duggan reached over, hauling him up.
Together, they looked at the Night Demon's corpse one last time.
Weapons holstered.
Side by side, leaning on each other, they limped out of the strip club.
New Delhi, India – Salih Hotel
Another branch of the Camorra family.
Since arriving here, Santino had known nothing but misery.
The stench of urine in the air, the endless honking in the streets, the overpowering curry smell clinging to everyone—
all of it gnawed at his nerves.
Diarrhea, fever, weakness.
In just a few days, the city had nearly broken him.
But as if in divine pity—news arrived from Ares.
[Alex Cross has provoked the High Table while trying to protect Cainee and his daughter. He's about to face the High Table's Special Enforcement Squad.]
Santino's eyes lit with hope. His chance for revenge had come far sooner than expected.
Clinging to reason, he made contact with the Night Demon.
But just after their call ended, his stomach lurched again.
He vomited violently, until nothing but bile burned his throat.
Collapsing weakly onto the toilet, drained and trembling, he eventually staggered to the couch.
Looking at Ares, he rasped:
"This trip to New York… be careful. Bring me back good news."
Ares nodded silently, signing with his hands:
[I'll finish the job. I'll kill Alex Cross. You stay safe here, manage the family branch. I believe you'll rise again.]
"Good… Once I get used to this food, I'll recover…" Santino muttered—before bolting for the bathroom again.
Ares shook his head in silent frustration, then turned and walked out of the room.
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