CHAPTER 26: RED CIRCLE — Part 1
The Red Circle's bass hit me from a block away.
A converted warehouse in the Meatpacking District, all exposed brick and industrial chic. The line stretched around the corner—beautiful people in expensive clothes, desperate to get inside and pretend they were part of something dangerous.
If they only knew.
I'd spent the day preparing. Memorized the security schedule from Sergei's files. Plotted entry and exit routes. Loaded both Glocks with fresh magazines—thirteen rounds in the primary, fifteen in the backup I'd strapped to my ankle.
The Ledger showed Viktor Ivanov's location: VIP section, second floor, table near the back. Three bodyguards. Predictable positioning based on Tarasov security protocols.
In and out. Sixty minutes before Wick's most likely arrival window.
The front entrance was a non-starter. Bouncers checked IDs, patted down suspicious patrons. The Tarasov security detail inside would notice a newcomer climbing to VIP.
I needed the side entrance.
Ghost Mode activated as I rounded the corner.
The familiar cold washed through me—four minutes of electronic invisibility. The security camera covering the side alley flickered, its red light going dark. Two bouncers smoked near the employee entrance, breath fogging in the October air.
They can still see me. Ghost Mode only handles the tech.
I approached at a casual angle, timing my arrival to match a group of servers returning from a smoke break. Fell into step behind them like I belonged. One bouncer glanced my way—I kept my head down, posture loose—and looked away.
Just another staff member. Nothing to see.
The servers badged through. I caught the door before it closed, slipped inside.
The interior was sensory assault.
Strobe lights painted the dance floor in epileptic bursts. Bodies packed together, moving to music that vibrated through the concrete. The smell hit next—sweat, alcohol, expensive perfume trying to mask desperation.
They have no idea what's coming.
I skirted the edge of the crowd, avoiding the worst of the crush. The VIP stairs were on the far side—marked by two more security guards and a velvet rope that probably cost more than my apartment's monthly rent.
Ghost Mode's timer pulsed in my awareness. Three minutes left.
I checked the security schedule against my mental map. Shift change in eleven minutes. The two guards at the VIP stairs would rotate, leaving a thirty-second gap while their replacements got situated.
Not enough time.
The Ledger offered another option.
[SIDE ENTRANCE: SERVICE STAIRS] [ACCESS: THROUGH KITCHEN] [SECURITY: ONE GUARD, STATIONARY]
I adjusted course. The kitchen entrance was past the bar, through a door marked STAFF ONLY. Nobody paid attention to someone walking with purpose.
The door swung open. Heat and noise—industrial ovens, shouting in Spanish, the clatter of plates. I moved through the organized chaos like I'd done it a hundred times. Head down. Confident stride.
Act like you belong and you belong.
The service stairs were at the back. One guard, just like the Ledger said. Big guy, bored expression, checking his phone.
Ghost Mode: ninety seconds remaining.
I walked past him. He didn't look up from his screen.
The VIP section was quieter. Plush couches, lower music, the kind of exclusivity that cost serious money. A few clusters of well-dressed patrons sipped overpriced cocktails while bored-looking women pretended to be interested.
Viktor Ivanov wasn't hard to spot.
Table in the back corner, exactly where the contract said he'd be. Mid-thirties, receding hairline, the kind of soft body that came from too much product and not enough discipline. He laughed at something, head thrown back, while three bodyguards formed a perimeter around his booth.
Target confirmed.
I claimed a spot near the bathroom hallway, back to the wall, sight lines on Viktor's table. The primary Glock sat in its shoulder holster, suppressor already attached. Thirteen rounds. Three guards plus the target.
Math's not great. But I've had worse.
Ghost Mode expired. The cameras came back online, but I was already in position—just another patron nursing a drink in the VIP shadows.
Viktor did another line off the table. His bodyguards watched the room with professional boredom. None of them were looking at me.
Yet.
The bass from downstairs vibrated through the floor. Actually good music—heavy electronic, the kind of thing I might have danced to in another life. Before the transmigration. Before the System. Before killing became Tuesday night's to-do list.
Focus.
I checked my watch. Fifty-four minutes until Wick's most likely arrival. Plenty of time if I moved now.
Three bodyguards. One target. Ninety seconds to complete and exit.
I stood.
Viktor was laughing at something one of his girls said.
The nearest bodyguard's attention drifted toward a woman at the bar.
Now.
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