Russian Mob Headquarters
Viggo Tarasov stood at the window of his office, staring out at the New York skyline without really seeing it. His phone sat on the desk behind him, silent and accusatory.
No calls. No check-ins.
The twelve men he'd sent to kill Smith Doyle had simply... vanished.
"Boss?" Avi, his legal advisor and fixer, stood in the doorway with a tablet in hand. "Still no contact from the hit squad. It's been over an hour."
Viggo's jaw tightened. He didn't need Avi to spell it out. After an hour of radio silence, there were only two possibilities: they were all dead, or they'd all defected. And Russian mob soldiers didn't defect.
"The operation failed," Viggo said flatly, turning from the window. "Again."
The word tasted bitter. Everything had failed lately. The entire chain of disasters that started with his idiot son stealing a car had cost him:
The initial break-in team at John Wick's house: dead.
The Red Circle nightclub assault: thirty men, dead.
The Little Russian Church stronghold: fifty men, dead.
The warehouse guards protecting Iosef: dead.
And now twelve more for the Smith Doyle ambush: presumably dead.
Over a hundred trained soldiers. Not street thugs or low-level enforcers, but capable men with assault rifles and combat experience. All gone. All because of a fucking car and a dog.
Viggo walked to his desk and poured himself three fingers of vodka. He didn't drink it yet—just held the glass, feeling its weight.
"What's the plan, boss?" Avi asked carefully.
Viggo set the glass down untouched and looked past Avi to his brother, who'd just entered the office.
"Abram," Viggo said. "Are all your men in position?"
Abram Tarasov nodded, though he looked distinctly uncomfortable. He was younger than Viggo by five years, stockier, with the kind of face that made people think "criminal" before they even heard him speak. He ran a crew of thieves and robbers—smash-and-grab specialists, not soldiers.
"My boys are downstairs," Abram confirmed. "But I thought this John Wick thing was settled? You canceled the contract, didn't you?"
The name made something twist in Abram's gut. He knew exactly what John Wick was capable of—the Baba Yaga, the man you sent to kill the Boogeyman. Abram had stayed far away from that situation, and he'd only brought his crew here now because Viggo had suffered such catastrophic losses.
Viggo took a slow breath. "John Wick and I have an... understanding. The contract is canceled. This isn't about him anymore."
"Then who—"
"Smith Doyle." Viggo's voice hardened on the name. "He's the one who freed John Wick from my warehouse. Ruined everything. The ambush I sent failed to take him down."
Viggo's expression turned bitter. He gestured vaguely with one hand, as if trying to wave away an unpleasant memory.
"I killed Marcus."
Abram's eyes went wide. "Marcus? The old sniper? Why the fuck would you—"
"He betrayed me!" Viggo's voice cracked like a whip. "I paid him to kill John Wick, and instead he saved him. Fired warning shots at the Continental. Helped John escape. Marcus chose John over the contract, over me, over his own word."
Viggo's hands curled into fists on the desktop.
"So I dealt with him. Called John Wick while I was doing it, made sure he knew. Marcus died because he broke faith."
Abram stared at his brother like he'd lost his mind. "You called John Wick to taunt him while you killed his friend?"
"I made a point about loyalty."
"Jesus Christ, Viggo." Abram ran a hand over his face. "So now John Wick might be coming here too?"
"Possibly." Viggo finally picked up the vodka and drained it in one swallow. "Which is why I need everyone here. Full strength. We eliminate Smith Doyle first—he's the immediate threat. Then we handle John Wick if he shows up. After that, I'm leaving New York for a while. Let things cool down."
He turned to Anatoly, another senior member who'd been standing quietly by the door.
"Anatoly, how many men did you bring?"
Anatoly shifted his weight. "Boss, I run the chop shop operation. We steal cars, we don't fight wars. I've got maybe ten guys who can handle themselves in a fight. They're outside now."
Viggo nodded. It wasn't ideal, but combined with Abram's crew and his own remaining soldiers, they had maybe sixty or seventy men in the building. That should be enough to handle one assassin.
"Everyone stays alert," Viggo ordered. "Full security protocols. Nobody in or out without clearance. We—"
The sound of gunfire from the front entrance cut him off mid-sentence.
Ten Minutes Earlier
Smith Doyle stood across the street from the Russian mob headquarters, studying the building with cold, analytical eyes.
It was a private club, the kind that didn't advertise, didn't welcome walk-ins, and definitely didn't let law enforcement past the front desk. The structure was three stories of reinforced concrete and brick, with narrow windows and multiple exits. Defensible, but not impenetrable.
Four guards stood at the main entrance, trying to look casual while their eyes constantly scanned for threats. They wore suits, but Smith could see the tell-tale bulges of shoulder holsters underneath.
Smith had left Fox at the textile factory under medical care, taken one of the Fraternity's unmarked sedans, and driven straight here. No backup. No elaborate plan. This was his assessment—his mission—and he'd handle it alone.
The Assassin's League had been preparing him for eighteen years. It was time to show them why.
Smith crossed the street with measured, unhurried steps.
One of the guards noticed him approaching and straightened slightly. "Sir, this is a private establishment. Not open to the public."
Smith didn't slow down. His hand moved to the pistol holstered at his hip—a smooth, practiced draw that took less than a second.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
Four shots. Four headshots. The guards dropped in sequence, their bodies crumpling to the ground before their brains could process what had happened.
Smith holstered his weapon, stepped over the bodies, and pushed through the front doors.
The main hall of the club was exactly what he'd expected—expensive furniture, dim lighting, the lingering smell of cigars and expensive liquor. A dozen more security personnel were scattered throughout the space, some sitting at tables, others standing near doorways.
They all turned to look at the intruder.
Smith drew both pistols and opened fire.
His movements were a blur of precision. The bullets flew from his guns at angles that seemed to defy physics, curving slightly in mid-air as Smith manipulated their trajectories with subtle wrist adjustments—a technique the Fraternity had perfected over centuries.
Each shot found its mark. Headshots, all of them. The security personnel barely had time to reach for their weapons before they were falling, dead before they hit the floor.
Smith moved through the hall like death incarnate, his pistols barking methodically. By the time the last body hit the ground, he'd fired twenty-four rounds and killed twelve men. The entire engagement had lasted less than fifteen seconds.
Without pause, Smith headed for the stairs to the second floor.
Second Floor
A group of Russian mob soldiers sat in a break room on the second floor, assault rifles leaning against the wall, bottles of vodka on the table between them. They were laughing about something—some joke about a job they'd pulled last month.
One of them, a thick-necked man named Sergey, took a long pull from his bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Is it just me, or has Viggo been acting weird lately?" Sergey asked. "I've seen three different crews show up today. What's going on?"
Another soldier, Ivanov, shrugged. "The boss made peace with the Baba Yaga, but the war cost us big time. Maybe he's planning to hit another gang, show everyone we're still strong."
Ivanov picked up his weapon and checked the magazine. "Sergey, you need to drink less. One of these days, you're going to be too drunk to pull a trigger when it matters."
Sergey opened his mouth to respond—
The alarm system blared to life, red lights flashing in the corridors.
"ATTENTION: Intruder in the building. All personnel to the second floor. Intruder in the building. Shoot on sight."
The soldiers abandoned their drinks instantly, grabbing weapons and rushing toward the door. Ivanov led the way, his assault rifle already raised and ready.
Stairwell
Smith climbed the stairs with measured steps, listening to the alarm system announce his presence. He wasn't surprised—the security cameras in the lobby would have shown his massacre. Viggo would know he was here now.
Good. Smith wanted him to know.
At the top of the stairs, the entrance to the second-floor corridor waited. Smith could hear movement beyond it—multiple footsteps, weapons being readied, orders being barked in Russian.
Four men rushed to the entrance, taking positions on either side of the doorway. They had the high ground, cover, and numerical advantage. Anyone coming up those stairs would be walking into a kill zone.
Smith stopped just before the landing, still hidden from their line of sight. He could visualize their positions based on sound alone—two on each side of the doorframe, weapons aimed at the stairs, fingers on triggers.
He raised both pistols and fired without stepping into view.
The bullets curved out of the stairwell in impossible arcs, bending around the doorframe with the Fraternity's signature curved-bullet technique. The rounds struck two of the guards in the head with perfect precision.
Before their bodies even started falling, Smith burst through the entrance in a low, fast rush.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
His pistols spoke in rapid succession. The remaining two guards at the entrance went down. Smith continued forward into the corridor, already tracking his next targets.
More soldiers poured out of rooms along the hallway—six, eight, ten of them, assault rifles chattering as they opened fire. The corridor became a storm of bullets and muzzle flashes.
But Smith moved like water, flowing between the shots. His own return fire was surgical—one bullet per target, each one finding a skull. Bodies dropped in his wake.
A soldier appeared from a side room, swinging his rifle toward Smith at point-blank range.
Smith's pistol clicked empty.
The soldier grinned. "Out of ammo, asshole!"
More men emerged from the stairwell to the third floor—three of them, weapons raised. They all fired at once.
Smith smiled coldly. "I don't need bullets."
Instead of reloading, he hurled the empty pistol at the nearest attacker with devastating force. The weapon hit the man in the face like a brick, caving in his nose and sending him sprawling backward.
The other two soldiers kept firing, their submachine guns spitting lead in a continuous stream.
Smith drew the machete from his belt—a wicked blade with a slight curve, perfectly balanced for combat. He charged directly into the gunfire.
His arm moved in controlled, precise arcs. The machete blade sang through the air, intercepting bullets mid-flight.
Ting. Ting. Ting.
Each round was deflected or split in two by the blade's edge. The split bullets fell harmlessly to the floor, still glowing hot from the friction.
The soldiers' eyes went wide with disbelief. Their fingers froze on the triggers—not from training or tactics, but from pure, instinctual terror. They were watching something impossible, something that violated every understanding of how the world worked.
Smith closed the distance in two strides.
The machete flashed once, twice.
Two heads separated from their bodies in clean cuts, arterial spray painting the walls red. The decapitated corpses remained standing for a surreal half-second before collapsing.
Smith stood in the corridor surrounded by bodies and blood, breathing steadily, completely calm.
From somewhere deeper in the building, he could hear more footsteps, more shouting. More soldiers coming to die.
He pulled fresh magazines from his belt, reloaded both pistols with smooth, practiced motions, and sheathed the machete.
"Viggo!" Smith's voice echoed through the building, amplified by the corridor's acoustics. "I'm coming for you!"