Chidi finally understood Gramont's layered, psychotic intention.
Gramont intended to physically drag both factions—the Tarasov PMC and the Cartel Sicarios—into the Adirondack Hunting Ground for an active, unrestricted shootout.
This caliber of highly trained, tactical confrontation was vastly more exhilarating to watch than the one-sided slaughter of untrained homeless vagrants. Furthermore, if Anthony's PMC operators were forced to fight a massive Cartel army in the remote wilderness, it would severely weaken Tarasov's grip over New York City, potentially forcing John Wick out of hiding to assist them.
Gramont visualized the impending carnage and let out a dark, unrestrained laugh.
He was incredibly eager to watch Mexican Cartel mercenaries violently clash with Russian-American PMC operators inside his private sandbox. Regardless of the final outcome or the casualty ratio, the resulting data and betting revenue would be entirely beneficial to Gramont.
He glided over to his mahogany desk, unlocked a concealed humidor drawer, and pulled out a pristine High Table gold coin.
The obverse of the coin featured a beautifully raised relief of Diana, the Roman Goddess of the Hunt. The reverse bore the bold Latin inscription: VENATIO.
The Hunt.
"Anthony genuinely believes he is engaged in a standard, terrestrial gangster war," Gramont smiled, elegantly rolling the heavy gold coin back and forth across his knuckles.
"He remains blissfully unaware that from the exact moment his former brothers-in-arms opened fire in Brooklyn... he had already stepped onto my Hunting Ground."
Gramont tossed the gold coin high into the air, watching it spin under the chandelier before catching it smoothly in his palm.
"And the most dangerous prey in the forest..." Gramont whispered, "...are usually the ones who mistakenly believe they are the hunters."
Simultaneously, across the country in Los Angeles.
Emilio Vargas slammed the encrypted satellite phone down onto his desk, his face completely ashen.
Two other men were sitting in the heavily fortified cartel office.
The first was the Cartel's primary military commander: former Mexican Army Special Forces Lieutenant Renato "Ghost" Sanchez.
The second was Raymond Caldwell, a notorious American smuggler known as the "Border Wolf," responsible for managing the Cartel's cross-border logistical operations.
"You both heard the Marquis," Emilio growled, looking at his military commander. "That Russian bastard isn't running a street gang. He's commanding a privately funded army. Sanchez, give me your tactical assessment."
Sanchez was a hard, forty-year-old veteran with a shaved head and a jagged, pale scar that tracked from his left brow bone down to his jawline. He sat perfectly rigid in his chair, his posture still dictated by his military training.
"Judging from the incredibly brief duration of the Brooklyn engagement, the enemy utilized textbook Tier One urban assault tactics," Sanchez said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion.
"A ten-man assault element, utilizing four distinct sectors of overlapping crossfire, supported by a minimum of two highly proficient snipers dominating the vertical high ground. Achieving a zero-casualty wipeout against our thirty-four-man sweep team under those parameters is entirely mathematically possible."
"Can you counter them?" Emilio demanded.
Sanchez remained silent for several seconds, calculating the logistics.
"We require operators of an equal or superior caliber. I currently possess several former GAFE (Mexican Special Forces) operators, and two Sicarios who previously operated as private military bodyguards for American defense contractors in Baghdad."
"However, we lack the necessary volume of Tier One manpower. We require a minimum of thirty operators of that specific caliber to guarantee a decisive victory in a dense, hostile urban environment like New York."
Sanchez stood up and began pacing the room, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"My primary concern is the unknown variable: exactly how many former Delta Force or Navy SEALs are embedded within Tarasov's ranks? I strongly suspect the force that wiped out our team in Brooklyn was merely their vanguard."
"Are you implying that the French Marquis failed to secure complete intelligence regarding the enemy?" Raymond the Border Wolf chimed in. "Or did he intentionally feed us false intel because he simply views us as disposable pawns?"
"Gramont needs a very fast, very sharp knife to cut through the Russian's armor," Sanchez looked up, his eyes cold. "He used us to test the blade."
Emilio exhaled a thick cloud of cigar smoke and nodded slowly.
"Gramont was deployed to New York specifically to execute John Wick. But Wick has apparently vanished. And Gramont hasn't issued a global open contract on him yet. What the hell is he waiting for?"
"I need to consult the Boss before we commit to a full-scale war," Emilio said, pulling out a secondary, highly encrypted cell phone.
He dialed the number. It rang exactly three times before a smooth, remarkably calm voice answered.
"Emilio."
"Boss Carlos," Emilio took a deep, steadying breath.
"Our preliminary operation in New York was a catastrophic failure. All thirty-four Sicarios were executed. I believe Marquis Gramont intentionally manipulated us into an ambush."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by a soft, sophisticated chuckle. "The Marquis is testing us."
"Testing us?" Emilio was stunned.
"Do you honestly believe an aristocrat like Gramont cares about the Cartel losing a few dozen street-level Sicarios?" Carlos Mendoza's voice carried a distinct, chilling sarcasm.
"He is actively stress-testing the geopolitical strength of the various syndicates currently operating in New York. His primary objective is to utilize Anthony Tarasov as bait to draw John Wick out of hiding."
"But we suffered catastrophic losses, Boss," Emilio argued.
"Losses?" Carlos sneered, his tone dropping. "Emilio, you are thinking like a petty street thug."
"On the grand chessboard of the High Table, every single one of us is a piece. But certain pieces are inherently vastly more valuable than others."
Carlos paused for a moment. "What explicit promises did Gramont make to you during your latest negotiation?"
"Total control of the Tarasov syndicate's territory in New York, and expedited American diplomatic citizenship..."
"He is lying to you," Carlos interrupted sharply.
"The High Table will absolutely never permit a localized proxy to amass that much inter-state power. Gramont is simply manipulating the rival gangs into slaughtering one another to weaken the New York underworld entirely."
"Should I refuse his contract?" Emilio asked tightly.
"No. Do exactly as he commands," Carlos's tone suddenly softened into something far more dangerous. "But we must prepare for the inevitable betrayal."
"I am authorizing the deployment of a five-man 'Reaper' element."
"The Reapers?" Emilio's voice actually trembled. "Boss... that specialized element is strictly reserved for..."
Carlos cut him off.
"This operation is no longer about assisting Gramont, Emilio. This is about proving our absolute lethality to the High Table."
"Gramont represents the European Seats. I represent the Latin American Seat. If our Cartel cannot even successfully dismantle a localized Russian mafia, what right do we possess to stand behind that Table?"
Emilio finally understood the grand strategy. "You intend to demonstrate our geopolitical strength to the High Table by annihilating Tarasov?"
Carlos chuckled smoothly.
"Gramont desires to use us as pawns. We will utilize his logistical infrastructure to deploy into New York, obliterate Tarasov's elite forces, and decisively prove the martial value of the Cartel to the Eleventh Seat."
"Always remember, Emilio," Carlos concluded softly. "In the eternal game of the High Table... we are not pawns. We are striving to become the Players."
"Gramont has forgotten that fact. But you cannot."
Deep within the labyrinthine streets of Manhattan's Chinatown, on the second floor of the highly exclusive "Dragon Star Teahouse."
A middle-aged Chinese man sat quietly at a carved mahogany table, his fingers gently resting against the lid of a steaming purple clay teapot. The rising vapor obscured his features, but it couldn't hide the deep, troubled furrows carved between his brows.
His name was Chen Zhengming. To the residents of Chinatown, he was simply "Master Chen."
In reality, he was the Dragon Head of the New York Chinese Triads.
The Triads, much like the Italian Camorra and the Russian Bratva, held one of the twelve sacred seats at the High Table. Chen was the High Table's localized Eastern Enforcer.
Spread out across the table in front of Chen were over a dozen glossy photographs. Every single photo depicted a Chinese face. They were the faces of the people who had mysteriously vanished from his territory over the past month.
There were restaurant dishwashers, corporate office workers, underground boxing apprentices, and even two young university students who had just immigrated to New York.
They had vanished without a trace, as if swallowed whole by the concrete stomach of the city.
Chen knew exactly where that stomach was located.
He also knew that Marquis Gramont, the Special Envoy of the High Table, had arrived in New York, and he knew exactly what the Frenchman was orchestrating.
Gold coins gleamed in the dark, powerful billionaires placed obscene bets, and living, breathing human beings were hunted and slaughtered for amusement inside iron cages.
But Chen couldn't act.
If he mobilized the Triads to attack the Hunting Ground, he would be directly interfering with an operation sanctioned by a High Table Envoy, violating the sacred rules and risking the destruction of his own syndicate.
"Master Chen," his most trusted lieutenant, Ah Gui, pushed open the teak doors and stepped into the room, lowering his voice respectfully.
"Old A just reported in. The external party currently investigating the physical coordinates of the Hunting Ground... they aren't federal law enforcement, and they aren't VIP billionaires trying to buy their way into the game."
"Who is it?" Chen asked softly, not looking up from the photos.
"It's the Tarasov syndicate. Specifically, the Russian prince. Anthony."
Chen's hand, which had been slowly twisting the lid of the teapot, froze completely.
That arrogant hothead who publicly humiliated Gramont's assassins and orchestrated the massacre at Pritzker Pharmaceuticals?
A dark, dangerous light suddenly flickered deep within Chen's eyes. A reckless, brilliant idea began to coil around his mind like a poisonous vine.
Chen gestured sharply for Ah Gui to close the doors. He stood up, walked into the soundproofed inner office, and picked up a heavily encrypted landline.
"Old A," Chen spoke into the receiver, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper.
"Transmit the exact physical coordinates of the Adirondack Hunting Ground directly to the Tarasov syndicate. Let's see if Anthony is genuinely insane enough to kick the hornet's nest."
"Understood, Mr. Chen," Old A's voice replied, heavily distorted by a digital scrambler. "The Tarasovs employ a dedicated cyber-warfare technician, but his intrusion methodology is incredibly sloppy. He's relying on outdated military-grade brute-force tactics. My firewalls are running circles around him."
"Just feed him the coordinates when the timing is optimal," Chen ordered, staring down at the photographs of the missing Chinese students. His eyes were devoid of all warmth.
"Ensure the data packet is flawlessly detailed. Provide them with the exact perimeter schematics. We want to minimize their initial casualties when they breach the facility."
"Are you... using the Russians as a proxy weapon?" Old A asked cautiously.
"No," Chen slowly exhaled a long breath of stale air, staring out the window at the mottled, rain-slicked neon signs of Chinatown. "I am simply pointing a rusted, volatile knife in the correct direction."
"Anthony's blade is incredibly sharp, and he is undeniably a madman. If he actually breaches the Hunting Ground, regardless of whether he succeeds or dies trying... he will ensure those aristocratic, man-eating beasts feel genuine agony."
"As for the Triads..." Chen gently hung up the receiver, his fingers lightly tracing the bewildered, innocent face of a missing student in the photograph.
"We are simply humble businessmen in Chinatown. We know absolutely nothing."
Outside the teahouse, the thick, heavy night fog rolled off the East River.
A carefully disguised, heavily encrypted data stream—moving like a silent water snake through the dark web—slipped past Gramont's digital tripwires and swam directly toward Brooklyn, locking onto the flashing blue screen of Radar's laptop.
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