John's black suit was already soaked dark red with blood, but he still stood ramrod straight.
The seventh body lay at his feet, its throat neatly slit, arterial blood spraying a messy painting on the concrete floor.
John looked down at his cuff; a few drops of blood stained the otherwise clean, Italy-tailored fabric, making him frown.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and as he pulled it out, the wound on his knuckles was still seeping blood.
The name 'MR. ZHANG' flickered on the screen, while behind him, a Russian thug, his leg broken, struggled to crawl towards the door, his intestines trailing behind him like a red scarf.
"John!" The voice on the other end of the line was uncharacteristically calm.
John raised his 1911, the barrel still smoking.
He didn't answer immediately, instead, he checked the magazine with one hand.
Four rounds left.
"Zhang Jie..." John's voice was low and hoarse, as if squeezed from hell, "Don't get involved."
"Where the hell are you?"
On the underground garage's surveillance screen, three heat signatures were moving.
John's gaze locked onto the figure carrying a shotgun, calculating the distance: 28 meters, with two load-bearing pillars in between, and a Mercedes-Benz with a leaking fuel tank to the left.
"No time."
Bang!
He hung up the phone and retrieved two magazines from a body.
Makarov PM, 9mm, 8-round capacity. He weighed them, confirming they were full.
Not enough.
The Benelli M4 on the weapon rack gleamed coldly in the dim light.
John checked the chamber: 7 rounds of 12-gauge slugs, enough to blast a bulletproof car door into a sieve.
He tore off the hem of his shirt, wrapped it around the wound on his palm, and tied a dead knot.
The lights in the underground garage flickered, and the damp air was mixed with the smell of oil, blood, and gunpowder.
John's custom leather shoes stepped into a pool of blood without making a sound.
The first target hid behind an SUV, his hand clutching a glock trembling.
John could see the beads of sweat on his neck glistening in the red light of the monitor.
28 meters, no wind, 65% humidity, perfect conditions.
He slid out of the shadows, his 1911 tracing a beautiful arc in the air.
Two shots to the chest.
Bang! Bang!
The sound of bullets penetrating the bulletproof vest was like hammers striking a rawhide drum.
The thug fell beside the tire, at least three of his ribs broken.
John walked slowly closer, the barrel of his gun pressed against the man's forehead.
"Tell Viggo," his voice was calm, "I'm coming."
Bang!
Fragments of skull and brain matter splattered on the car window, like a post-modern oil painting.
The second target was smarter.
He was crouched behind a load-bearing pillar, only half of his gun barrel visible.
John drew a dagger from his waist, a Cold Steel "Black Bear," with a 7-inch blade.
He threw it with a flick of his wrist, the blade spinning as it cut through the air—
"Ah!!!"
It pierced his wrist precisely.
The sound of the shotgun hitting the ground echoed in the garage.
John walked unhurriedly, the rhythm of his leather shoes tapping the ground like a death countdown.
"Wait! I can—"
The sound of the gunstock smashing the Adam's apple was like a branch breaking.
The target knelt on the ground, clutching his neck, his eyeballs protruding.
John delivered another kick, the crisp sound of his cervical spine breaking was oddly pleasant.
The third one was already scared senseless.
He sprayed wildly into the shadows, bullets sparking off the concrete.
John leaned against the distribution box, counting the gunshots: 5... 7... the magazine was empty.
He darted out, three-round burst—
Forehead, heart, forehead.
A textbook execution.
The body fell backward into the leaking Mercedes-Benz, his finger still on the trigger.
John checked his watch: 1 minute 47 seconds, 12 seconds slower than expected.
At the Tarasov gang's stronghold, Viggo Tarasov poured a third glass of vodka.
"How many people did he kill?"
His subordinate's voice trembled: "Twenty-seven... no, twenty-eight... wait, three more found in the garage..."
The crystal glass shattered in Viggo's hand.
Blood mixed with alcohol dripped onto the Persian rug, staining it dark red.
"And..." The subordinate swallowed, "He didn't use a suppressor."
Viggo's cigar fell onto his custom usd 20,000 leather shoes.
Not using a suppressor, this was a blatant provocation.
John was announcing to all of New York: I don't need to hide, if you want to kill me, be prepared to become the hunted.
He knew exactly what John wanted to do. He glanced at his useless son, enraged!
"No one can save you now! Bastard!"
John was once the sharpest sword in his gang, now he had become the fastest knife cutting at his own neck!
And all of this... outside the floor-to-ceiling window, police sirens grew louder from a distance.
Blue and red police lights cast eerie shadows on the glass.
Viggo knew those police wouldn't come in.
The High Table's rules were above the law, and tonight, the rules sided with the boogeyman.
"Contact me—"
His phone screen suddenly lit up. A text message from an unknown number:
"Where are you?"
Viggo stood up abruptly, his Italy handmade leather shoes crushing the cigar.
His temples throbbed, and he suddenly realized this wasn't his phone.
It was his son's.
"Get the car ready! Immediately!"
John's cadillac streaked across the Queensboro Bridge like a black lightning bolt.
The speedometer pointed to 130 km/h, the engine's roar like a beast's growl.
The passenger seat phone lit up.
He didn't look.
In the rearview mirror, three black Escalades were like specters of death.
The sunroof of the first one opened, and a madman with an RPG poked out.
John swerved the steering wheel, the cadillac fishtailing across two lanes.
The rocket-propelled grenade flew past the rear of the car, exploding into a three-meter-diameter fireball on the bridge pier.
The moment the heatwave hit, John ejected the empty magazine with one hand, then slammed a new magazine against the steering wheel, and it clicked into place.
He rolled down the window, and the wind and rain poured in, wetting his suit.
The fuel cap of the lead SUV gleamed in the rain. John fired four shots—
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
The fourth bullet hit precisely.
The explosion's flash lit up half the sky, and the shockwave flipped the second car onto the guardrail.
Amidst the screeching of twisting metal, the third car braked sharply and turned, its tires screaming on the wet road.
John floored the accelerator, the cadillac's engine roaring at its limit.
The moment the two cars collided, he pulled out his Benelli M4, the barrel against the bulletproof glass—
Bang!
Steel pellets penetrated three layers of glass, and the driver's head exploded like a watermelon. Blood and brains splattered throughout the entire cockpit.
In the fog of the abandoned dock, the cadillac's hood was smoking white.
John checked his weapons: 1911 had two rounds left, the Benelli was empty, and the dagger was gone.
He picked up the phone from the passenger seat; the screen showed an unread message:
"Where are you? — Mr. Zhang"
John silently looked at the black waters of the Hudson River.
Three seconds later, he replied:
"Still alive."
Then he turned it off and threw the phone into the river.
With a 'plop,' the ripples were quickly swallowed by the night.
In the distance, police sirens grew closer.
John adjusted his tie, noticing a bullet hole in it.
He sighed, took a spare suit from the trunk, and changed into it.
By the time the black cadillac's headlights pierced the fog, John had already vanished into the New York night.