Brooklyn. Deep inside Bloods territory.
Inside a dilapidated, fifth-floor apartment building, Radar sat cross-legged on a sunken sofa.
Three heavy-duty laptops were lined up on the coffee table in front of him, the harsh blue glow of the screens reflecting off his stubble-covered face.
Behind him, Marcus stood in the shadows, his eyes locked onto the flashing, encrypted chat window on the center screen.
Deep within the dark web, they were currently negotiating with a user known as "Ghost Weaver"—whose avatar was a constantly shifting, hypnotic digital vortex.
The hacker's asking price was simple and blunt: $100,000 to trace the three heavily encrypted burner phones recently recovered from the corpse of Bertrand Laroche and pinpoint the physical coordinates of the recipient. The terms demanded a thirty percent deposit upfront.
"Deal," Marcus instructed.
Radar typed the reply and initiated the transfer, routing thirty thousand dollars through a dozen randomized Bitcoin tumblers.
This was the fifth elite dark-web hacker they had contacted in the past forty-eight hours. The Tarasov syndicate's money was disappearing like water droplets falling into a vast ocean, but Anthony had authorized unlimited funds for this specific psychological operation.
Almost immediately, a new message popped up on the screen.
Ghost Weaver: "Transaction verified. Tracking initiated. Complete physical coordinates will be provided within 24 hours."
"Tell him we will authorize the final payment the second we physically verify the coordinates," Marcus ordered. "And tell him to notify me the absolute microsecond he has a lock."
Radar typed the message. A moment later, the hacker responded.
Ghost Weaver: "Confirmed."
At that exact second, Radar's eyes narrowed. He noticed a microscopic, highly sophisticated anomaly in his firewall readouts. The hard drive indicator light on his secondary laptop flashed out of sequence, breaking its regular read-interval rhythm.
"Marcus," Radar whispered, his fingers flying across the keyboard to isolate the breach. "We have a hostile intrusion. The other party is actively pinging our hardware MAC addresses and attempting to triangulate our local Wi-Fi signals."
"Gramont is truly expending a massive amount of capital to locate John Wick," Marcus smirked coldly.
Marcus waited exactly two minutes, letting the hacker solidify the digital trace. Then, he pulled a cheap, easily traceable burner phone from his pocket and dialed John's number.
"John," Marcus spoke clearly into the receiver, knowing the hacker was likely attempting to intercept the audio. "Tell Anthony I successfully contracted the hacker. He is currently geolocating the transport docks and the primary hunting ground."
"Why the hell don't you just call Anthony and tell him yourself?" John's voice came through the speaker, sounding genuinely irritated. "You have his secure line."
"Are you unhappy with the accommodations?" Marcus asked, suppressing a smile.
"What the hell is Anthony thinking, forcing us to hide in Bloods territory?" John sighed heavily. "I strongly dislike this borough."
"He is deploying us strategically for our own protection. The High Table is not an organization you fight head-on," Marcus said, lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke toward the ceiling. "I would prefer to be sleeping in my own bed right now, John, but you are the one who dragged me into this apocalyptic mess."
"Fuck you," John muttered, terminating the call.
Marcus tossed the burner phone onto the coffee table. He walked over to the dirty window and peeked through the cracked plastic blinds.
Outside lay the heart of the Brooklyn Bloods' territory. The street was bathed in the harsh, flickering pink and purple glow of neon liquor store signs.
They were currently sitting in an apartment building directly adjacent to DeShawn's primary headquarters. Only a single brick wall separated them from the Bloods' inner sanctum.
Marcus signaled Radar to close the chat window, but explicitly ordered him not to shut down the laptops, leaving the digital beacon blazing.
The two men quickly packed their essential gear and slipped out the back door, leaving the traceable burner phone sitting alone on the sofa.
"Marcus," Radar said as they descended the fire escape. "Based on the intrusion signatures, I'm confident at least two of the five hackers we contracted were actually counter-intelligence operatives bribed by the High Table."
Radar only knew that Anthony was hunting for the location of Gramont's Hunting Ground. He had absolutely no idea that this entire operation was a highly elaborate trap designed to lure the Marquis into a kill box.
The two men climbed into a discreet sedan parked in the alleyway. Marcus pulled out a heavily encrypted satellite phone and dialed Anthony's private line.
"The bait has been taken," Marcus reported. "I just completed the staged call with John. Our 'location' has been successfully compromised and handed to the enemy."
"Excellent," Anthony replied calmly. "Now we see if Gramont sends rats or lions to investigate."
Marcus chuckled. "You are manipulating Gramont into doing the Tarasov family's dirty work. Using the High Table to wipe out your street rivals. It is a highly unorthodox tactic."
"When engaging the devil, you must be willing to utilize demonic strategy," Anthony said smoothly. "Gramont will likely deploy his newly acquired Mexican cartel assets to probe the perimeter."
"I merely point the gun," Marcus said. "You are the one moving the pieces on the board."
Simultaneously, inside a sprawling, hyper-modern penthouse on Manhattan's Upper East Side.
Chidi's secure tablet vibrated with an incoming, top-tier intelligence report.
"Target coordinates confirmed," Chidi read aloud, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Marcus Esteban is currently hiding deep inside the Bloods' territory in Brooklyn, adjacent to the 17th Street bar. His terminal is online and we are tracking the signal in real-time."
Gramont stared out at the city lights. "What is his operational objective?"
"He is attempting to utilize Laroche's burner phone to back-trace our encrypted communications and geolocate the Adirondack Hunting Ground."
"Exactly as I predicted," Gramont sneered. Despite his composed exterior, a violent surge of anger boiled in his chest every time he remembered that Anthony had slaughtered two of his elite assassins in the Pritzker lab.
It also confirmed his suspicion that Anthony had personally executed Marcus Pembroke.
Gramont frowned slightly, his aristocratic mind analyzing the geometry of the situation.
"Anthony Tarasov... do you genuinely believe I am an imbecile?" Gramont whispered to the glass. "You deliberately positioned the legendary assassins inside the Bloods' headquarters. You are attempting to manipulate my forces into wiping out your rival gang for you."
Chidi's expression hardened. "My Lord, that is a highly probable tactical assessment."
Hiding Marcus Esteban inside the heart of the Bloods' territory was undeniably a brilliant, layered strategy. No one in the underworld would ever suspect a legendary, sophisticated assassin to be hiding in such a filthy, chaotic slum.
Furthermore, Gramont had absolutely no way of confirming if John Wick was also hiding in that apartment.
If John and Marcus were entrenched together, heavily fortified by Anthony's PMC operators, assaulting that building would require the deployment of a mechanized infantry battalion.
"Anthony... I will grant you your wish this time," Gramont smiled coldly. "If I help you massacre DeShawn's gang, perhaps it will lower your guard."
Gramont turned to Chidi. "Deploy the Mexican cartel strike teams. They recently arrived in New York and require a 'warm-up' exercise to test their lethality."
Gramont's eyes narrowed. "However... do not inform the Cartel that John Wick or Marcus Esteban might be in the building. Let them kick down the door blindly."
Chidi understood the ruthless logic perfectly. If the Cartel knew they were hunting the Baba Yaga, they might refuse the contract out of sheer terror.
Late that night, in the heart of Brooklyn.
DeShawn was sitting in the VIP lounge on the second floor of his flagship nightclub, happily counting towering stacks of cash. It was the daily operational revenue seized from the casinos he had recently stolen from the Crips.
He was deeply intoxicated by the smell of the ink and the illusion of his own rising empire.
Suddenly, he heard a bizarre noise coming from the ground floor. It didn't sound like standard, booming street gunfire. It was a rapid, muffled, highly disciplined thump-thump-thump sound.
It sounded like heavy raindrops violently striking a tin roof.
DeShawn had survived the streets long enough to instantly recognize the terrifying acoustic signature of highly coordinated, suppressed automatic weapons.
He violently shoved the two half-naked women beside him onto the floor and sprinted to the reinforced window.
Down on the street, an unmarked, armored Chevrolet Suburban had completely smashed through the front glass doors of the club. Three more Suburbans had sealed off both ends of the intersection, establishing a perfect, inescapable perimeter.
Dozens of heavily armed men poured out of the vehicles. They were dressed like standard street thugs—wearing dirty denim jackets and oversized hoodies—but their tactical movements, their overlapping fields of fire, and their sheer mechanical precision gave them away instantly.
These weren't rival bangers. This was an elite, military-grade Cartel "clean-up squad."
A deep, primal chill ran down DeShawn's spine. He scrambled to his desk, grabbed his gold-plated Desert Eagle, and roared down the stairwell at his surviving lieutenants.
"Hold the fucking stairs! It's the Crips! They hired mercenaries! Hold them off!"
DeShawn frantically grabbed his phone and dialed Sergei's number. It rang three agonizing times before the Russian answered.
"What the fuck is it?" Sergei answered, his voice thick with an exaggerated, fake yawn.
"Sergei!" DeShawn screamed, his hands trembling violently. "The Crips are retaliating! They brought in heavy hitters! They're slaughtering my men! I need Anthony to send his tactical teams right now!"
"Fuck those crippled bastards! I'll skin them alive!" Sergei roared, acting perfectly enraged. "You have to hold the line, DeShawn! Give me ten minutes! Just hold them off for ten minutes, and I'll have our PMC element breach their flank!"
"Don't worry!" DeShawn laughed hysterically, terror bleeding through his bravado. "I'll hold this fucking club for ten minutes even if I have to die doing it!"
In a luxury penthouse across the river, Sergei hung up the phone. He turned to Anthony, who was casually boiling a piece of marbled Wagyu beef in a massive, steaming hot pot on the dining room table.
"Boss, DeShawn is a dead man," Sergei chuckled. "Our internal PMC spies already fabricated a riot on the south side of his territory to draw his primary enforcers away. He's totally isolated."
"Come sit down, the broth is perfect," Anthony gestured with his chopsticks. "Eat while it's hot. John and Marcus are currently eating cold pizza in a safe house. They don't get this kind of VIP treatment."
Sergei eagerly sat down, using his chopsticks to pull a massive cut of mutton from the boiling, spicy broth.
"Boss," Sergei chewed happily. "Tobias, Alexander, and Alex just reported in. The spies successfully located DeShawn's primary vault beneath the club."
"I'm worried the Cartel hit squad is going to seize the cash before we do. DeShawn is a coward; he'll spill the vault combination the second they put a knife to his throat."
Anthony laughed softly, dropping a fresh piece of beef into the boiling water.
"Didn't you just promise him ten minutes? Let the Mexicans do the heavy lifting and clear out the Bloods. Once you're full, we will go collect the Cartel's heads... and DeShawn's money."
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