"My Lord Marquis," Emilio Vargas's voice vibrated through the secure satellite phone, sounding dangerously close to a roar.
"Every single one of my operatives is dead! Thirty-four of my best Sicarios! You explicitly briefed me that they would be engaging standard street bangers. Why did they run into a heavily fortified Special Forces element?"
"Calm yourself, Emilio," Gramont interrupted, his voice laced with freezing, aristocratic condescension. "I am compensating you to solve my logistical problems. I am not paying you to listen to your pathetic complaints."
"This is not a complaint!" Emilio roared back. "My brothers were slaughtered in the streets of Brooklyn because of your fatally flawed intelligence!"
"The intelligence was not flawed, Emilio." Gramont raised a single, elegant eyebrow. "I simply did not anticipate that the Tarasov syndicate would so aggressively annex the Queens territory to protect their southern flank."
A heavy, tense silence stretched across the encrypted line for several seconds. When Emilio finally spoke, his voice had dropped an octave, tight with controlled fury.
"Are you implying... that the people who just butchered my entire hit squad... were the Tarasovs?"
"Of course," Gramont strolled back to his leather reading chair and sat down leisurely.
"Therefore, if I may be so bold, Emilio: the abysmal tactical capabilities your men just demonstrated are certainly not worth a United States Green Card."
"They were my absolute best!" Emilio argued vehemently. "They were elite gunmen drafted directly from the Mexican Brigade!"
"Elite?" Gramont scoffed, letting out a dry, mocking laugh.
"Elite units are not entirely eradicated during their very first engagement. Elite units do not die without even managing to inflict a single casualty on their opponents."
Gramont paused, his voice suddenly dropping into a dangerous, razor-sharp register. "The most pathetic detail, Emilio, is that the opposition fielded no more than a six-man fireteam."
"Emilio. I am generously offering you an opportunity for redemption. A chance to exact your vengeance, and to prove that the Gulf Cartel is actually worthy of stepping foot on American soil."
"What kind of opportunity?" Emilio's voice tightened with suspicion.
"We are businessmen, Emilio," Gramont's tone shifted, becoming strictly professional.
"I offered you a contract: full U.S. citizenship, five million dollars in clean cash, and total control over the Queens narcotics transit lines."
"I paid for a razor-sharp blade capable of tearing through flesh. I did not pay for a cheap piece of tin that shatters upon the first strike."
Emilio remained dead silent.
"The Tarasov syndicate currently employs a highly specialized tactical element," Gramont continued smoothly. "These men are not standard mob enforcers. They are authentic, tier-one military professionals."
"I suspect Anthony Tarasov recruited them from the survivors of the Afghan theater. Former Army Rangers. Former Delta Force operators."
"So?" Emilio's voice suddenly went terrifyingly calm.
"So, I require you to drastically escalate your operational strategy," Gramont chuckled softly.
"The dining table in New York is massive, Emilio. The seating arrangements may be strictly regulated by the High Table, but who explicitly decreed that the Mexican Cartels are only permitted to act as proxies on the West Coast?"
"You want the Cartel to declare open war against the Tarasov syndicate," Emilio stated bluntly.
"I am offering you the opportunity to do so," Gramont corrected. "An opportunity to establish a permanent, legitimate stronghold on the East Coast."
"The High Table requires aggressive, capable proxies who can enforce order. They have zero use for second-rate syndicates who cannot even avenge their slaughtered brethren."
"I read the intelligence reports this morning. Anthony Tarasov raided your organ harvesting factory," Emilio's voice turned freezing cold for the first time. "He burned your entire logistical infrastructure to the ground."
"Now your primary avenue of profit is blocked. The High Table will not authorize you to utilize official, sanctioned military force to cross territorial lines to fix your own mess. Therefore... I apologize, Marquis. But I am not capable of serving as your disposable weapon."
Gramont's expression instantly darkened.
Emilio's verbal knife had slipped perfectly between his ribs.
The dozen elite hackers Gramont had hired at exorbitant prices, the two highly specialized High Table bodyguards he had deployed to Enrique, and the hundreds of millions of dollars invested in the pharmaceutical front—all of it had been completely vaporized by Anthony Tarasov in less than an hour.
Chidi noticed the sudden, murderous shadow cross Gramont's eyes and understood that the Cartel boss had just ripped open a fresh psychological wound.
"The sacred rules of the High Table, naturally, cannot be transgressed," Gramont forced his polite smile back onto his face.
"However, Emilio, you must understand... if the Mexican Cartel is too cowardly to accept the contract, I will simply summon the Italian Camorra to handle it. I strongly suspect they possess vastly more courage than you do."
Emilio hesitated. He fully understood the terrifying, absolute authority Gramont wielded as the Adjudicator's special envoy.
The entire underworld knew that Santino and Gianna D'Antonio had died at the hands of John Wick, and that Gramont had been deployed to New York specifically to exterminate the legend.
"We are merely narcotics traffickers and proxies," Emilio said, desperately trying to maintain his final boundary. "We will absolutely not target John Wick. And I will not blindly throw my men into a meat grinder against the entire Russian mafia."
"John Wick is my personal prey," Gramont laughed darkly. "When the time is right, every assassin on the planet will be hunting him."
"As for Tarasov?"
"I only care about his PMC element," Gramont's eyes gleamed with a toxic light in the dim room.
"That specific fireteam operates as private mercenaries, Emilio. They are ghosts Anthony dragged back from the desert. They operate entirely outside the jurisdiction of the High Table rules. Wiping them out carries zero political consequences."
Emilio remained silent for a long, agonizing minute.
"How much manpower do you require?" Emilio finally asked, capitulating to the pressure.
"Every single elite operative you can successfully mobilize," Gramont ordered.
"But this time, do not send me your second-rate street trash. I want your absolute best 'clean-up crews.' I want the Sicarios who actively deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan. I want the men who know how to hunt soldiers."
"The financial budget is unlimited. The Green Cards remain on the table."
"And what physical territory do I gain?"
"The entirety of the Tarasov syndicate's portfolio in New York," Gramont laughed, sealing the pact.
"Every single drug trafficking network, underground casino, and loan-sharking operation currently controlled by the Russians will be officially handed over to the Cartel."
"All I require in return is that the Hunting Ground continues to operate without interruption. And... I require the severed heads of Anthony Tarasov and John Wick. I intend to use them as centerpieces to decorate my new office."
The distinct clack of a Zippo lighter echoed over the line, followed by the heavy exhalation of cigar smoke.
"I will need to import heavily armed personnel directly from the border. And I require a massive influx of military-grade weaponry."
"That is easily arranged," Gramont said without hesitation.
"I will secure the weapons caches in New York. You simply move the personnel across the border. I will authorize a fast-track diplomatic visa process to bypass federal customs."
Emilio paused. "My Lord Marquis... you do not intend to utilize us as disposable pawns, do you?"
Gramont's voice suddenly sharpened into a lethal blade.
"John Wick must die, Emilio. Anthony Tarasov is actively shielding him. I am officially authorizing the Cartel to eliminate anyone standing between me and the Baba Yaga."
He paused, letting his voice soften into a velvet promise. "As for how much territory you physically conquer in New York... that depends entirely on your own lethality."
The communication abruptly ended.
Gramont set the satellite phone down, interlaced his fingers across his stomach, and slowly closed his eyes.
"My Lord," Chidi asked softly. "Will Emilio actually deploy?"
"He will come," Gramont replied, not bothering to open his eyes.
"The notoriously bloodthirsty Gulf Cartel was just utterly humiliated by a localized Russian-American gang. Even if Emilio is terrified, Carlos Mendoza's ego will absolutely not tolerate such a public insult."
"My Lord," Chidi pressed. "The PMC fireteam protecting Tarasov..."
"That is precisely the point," Gramont opened his eyes. The aristocratic boredom was gone, replaced by a hyper-focused, predatory intensity.
"Chidi, we made a severe tactical error. We treated Anthony Tarasov like a standard mafia don. We assumed we could simply crush him with overwhelming financial capital and political authority."
Gramont swirled the red wine in his glass. "But Anthony is not a reactionary idiot like DeShawn."
"He returned to New York with a standing army. An army composed entirely of highly lethal, traumatized war machines. And to eradicate an army... one must deploy another army."
"The Mexican Cartels may not possess that level of tactical capability," Chidi warned.
"They have been fighting a brutal, highly mechanized war against the Mexican Federal Military and the U.S. Border Patrol for over two decades," Gramont turned around, a deeply anticipatory smile stretching across his face.
"The Cartels heavily recruit former Mexican Special Forces operators, dishonorably discharged federal commandos, and veteran hitmen who were forged in the Sinaloa mountains. These men absolutely understand how to hunt and dismantle professional soldiers."
"Furthermore..." Gramont chuckled darkly, his eyes flashing with a hidden secret. "The Cartel won't be the ones delivering the killing blow!"
Chidi instantly understood the layered deception. "Then what is the status of the Hunting Ground?"
"Operations continue precisely as scheduled," Gramont said smoothly.
"Inform the VIP betting syndicate that we are launching a 'Special Broadcast Event' within the next forty-eight hours."
"Los Angeles Cartel Sicarios versus New York PMC Operators. High-definition, live-streamed urban warfare. The VIPs can place wagers on which faction will secure the victory, which syndicate boss will be executed first, and the exact mathematical casualty ratios."
Gramont's smile widened into a terrifying, psychotic grin.
"This caliber of bloodsport... is infinitely more exhilarating than betting on a simple football match."
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz