{1500 Power Stones bonus chapter }
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High Table.
Headquarters.
All twelve seats were present.
On the large screen of the conference room was a freshly transmitted video from New York.
With the click of a button, the footage began to play.
On screen—
At the entrance of the Continental Hotel, one after another, heavily armored figures appeared. Each carried a Gatling gun, lined up shoulder to shoulder like war machines.
They leveled their weapons at the hundreds of High Table enforcers present.
The triggers were pulled—
Scarlet flames erupted, bullets sweeping across the battlefield.
The proud enforcers of the High Table fell in rows, unable to resist in the slightest.
Then, buses burst into flames one after another.
Screams.
Wails.
The sounds pierced through the video feed, echoing in the ears of the twelve.
Until, finally, silence.
The "war machines" withdrew back into the hotel.
The video ended.
Everyone understood—
The third wave of battle had concluded.
So sudden.
So decisive.
So shockingly brutal.
No one had expected that the Lighthouse Organization would be hiding such terrifying forces.
At this moment—
The meeting room was silent.
The twelve High Table seats sat in collective silence.
In just seven hours, they had lost 360 elite enforcers under the High Table banner.
Of course—
This amount of attrition was far from crippling to the High Table.
But deep down—
They all felt the sting.
Especially since the third wave of enforcers…
Had simply been sent to their deaths.
This had gone completely against the original plan.
The plan was supposed to be:
First wave: probing.
Second wave: wearing them down.
Third wave: exhausting John Wick, Caine, and other top-tier killers.
Finally—
The fourth wave: unleashing 500 enforcers to crush them.
This way, the High Table could both showcase their absolute intolerance for rebellion—
And display overwhelming dominance.
But now—
The enemy had fielded ten "war machines."
With one swift, brutal slaughter, they had told not just New York, but the entire world of assassins:
The Lighthouse Organization is not to be provoked.
Sure, the High Table could theoretically replicate such killing machines…
But who could say—
That the Lighthouse only had ten?
Or that they didn't have even stronger cards left unplayed?
Each of the twelve High Table members carried different thoughts.
Some—were merely watching from the sidelines.
Some—saw potential in the Lighthouse, even wishing to recruit them.
And some—like the Camorra family—were sworn enemies, destined to fight to the death.
But most of them were thinking the same thing:
Was it still necessary to continue this "cleansing operation"?
After a long silence, a refined middle-aged man finally stood.
He smiled and spoke gently:
"Ladies and gentlemen, perhaps we should first hear what Russia has to say?"
Continental Hotel.
Top Floor.
The same question appeared—
This time, from Susie's lips.
"Mr. Cross, that one-sided massacre just now—surely the High Table has seen the entire thing. They've already lost 360 men, half of them slaughtered in broad daylight. Will they really send more?"
As she helped Alex Cross remove his suit jacket, she asked curiously.
Alex Cross only smiled faintly.
He rolled up his sleeves and poured himself a small nightcap.
"Susie, you still don't understand the rules of this world. Since the High Table agreed to 48 hours, they will absolutely abide by it."
"But… they must know, with that kind of firepower, no matter how many enforcers they send, it's just sending them to their deaths, right?" Susie pressed.
Alex Cross didn't keep her guessing.
Holding his whiskey, he took a light sip before replying.
"You're right. Against the ten war machines, sending more squads will end the same way. But at the same time—if each wave they send is just a few dozen enforcers, do you think it's worth using such a devastating weapon every single time?"
He paused, took another sip, and continued:
"The truth is, our Lighthouse only took the hotel and the club a few days ago. There's no way our stockpile of 12.7mm heavy machine gun rounds can support continuous deployment of ten war machines.
If the High Table only sends dozens of enforcers at a time, we won't waste precious ammunition on them."
By now, Susie understood.
The High Table wouldn't gamble on whether the Lighthouse had more war machines.
But they would gamble—that the Lighthouse wouldn't waste them on small skirmishes.
After all, no one could guarantee—
That after a few probing attacks, the High Table wouldn't suddenly launch another large-scale assault of hundreds.
And regardless of what the High Table decided—
For the next 24 hours, Alex Cross could not summon another ten war machines anyway.
Realizing this, Susie quickly asked:
"Then… does that mean the High Table will soon launch their next strike?"
"No."
Alex Cross shook his head, downed the rest of his whiskey, and replied with certainty:
"On the contrary—within the next 24 hours, the High Table will not strike. They'll want me to believe they've abandoned their operation.
Then—when we lower our guard, cleaning bodies and clearing the hotel—
That's when they'll attack.
The numbers each time won't be large.
But the intervals between attacks… will grow much shorter."
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