Anthony stood perfectly still before the massive, bullet-proof windows of DeShawn's former executive office, looking down at the Brooklyn streets that were slowly returning to their grim, localized normalcy.
"The corporate integration proceeded much smoother than I anticipated," Sergei said, striding into the room holding a digitized inventory tablet.
"Our PMC squads successfully located and breached all of DeShawn's hidden vaults. We secured over thirty million dollars in hard currency, roughly twenty million in raw narcotics, and a substantial armory of heavy weaponry."
Anthony didn't bother turning around. He simply kept his eyes on the street.
"Issue a performance bonus of three hundred thousand dollars to every PMC operator who participated in the Brooklyn ambush," Anthony ordered smoothly. "Issue fifty thousand to every standard Tarasov enforcer who assisted in the territorial sweep. Funnel the remaining capital into the family's primary offshore accounts."
"As for the narcotics... dump the powder directly into the East River. We don't peddle poison. But hand all the seized weaponry over to Dion. Let the Purgatory Reapers arm themselves."
"Understood, Boss," Sergei nodded, tapping the screen to initiate the transfers.
"Furthermore, the logistical withdrawal from the New Jersey black site is complete. As you requested, all active PMC operators have been successfully extracted and dispersed across the newly acquired safehouses in Queens and Brooklyn. Dion also detached three of his military veterans to assist James with urban reconnaissance."
"And what is the current state of the black site?" Anthony finally turned away from the window.
"We executed James's scorched-earth protocol flawlessly," Sergei grinned. "The PMC operators utilized heavy excavators to entirely tear up the tactical CQB training grounds. They dug out the footprint and flooded it. It currently looks like a standard agricultural fish pond."
"The outdoor firing ranges were backfilled with topsoil, seeded with local turf, and completely erased. If anyone drives onto that property today, all they will find is a boring, failing apple orchard."
"I wonder how Marquis Gramont is going to react when he finds an empty cage?" Sergei chuckled.
"Gramont is likely vastly too preoccupied to worry about an empty farm," Anthony said, walking over to the conference table and staring down at a sprawling, 3D topographical map of New York City.
"He is currently waiting for his Mexican Cartel proxies to launch their retaliatory strike... or he is busy setting another layered trap for us to step into."
Suddenly, Anthony's secure burner phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.
He pulled it out and opened his highly encrypted email client.
There was a single, unread message in his inbox, sent from a heavily scrambled, untraceable server routing through the dark web. (Sent by Old A, the Triad hacker).
The subject line was blank. The body of the email contained a single, chilling sentence.
The prey is locked in the cage. The Hunting Ground is prepared.
Attached to the email was a highly detailed, military-grade topographical satellite map pinpointing a remote sector of the Adirondack Mountains, complete with thermal-imaging blueprints of the perimeter defenses.
Anthony's eyes narrowed. He immediately deleted the email, initiated a localized hard-drive wipe, and physically crushed the burner phone under his heel.
"Tell James to place all tactical elements on high alert," Anthony said softly. "The real war hasn't even begun."
Simultaneously, across the river in northern New Jersey.
Three rented, unmarked Ford SUVs drove slowly down a rutted, dusty country road, kicking up a thick cloud of dry dirt.
The lead vehicle rolled to a halt in front of the primary gate of the Tarasov agricultural property. Several men dressed in unassuming, casual civilian clothing stepped out onto the dirt.
The leader of the group was Renato "Ghost" Sanchez, the Cartel's military commander. He was flanked by Raymond Caldwell, the "Border Wolf."
"Is this the classified black site where the Russian trains his ghosts?" Sanchez muttered, his brow furrowing deeply as he surveyed the depressing, rusted landscape.
Raymond held up a high-resolution satellite photograph provided by Gramont's intelligence network, comparing it to the physical scene before him.
According to Gramont's brief, Anthony Tarasov had hidden a highly sophisticated private military infrastructure here, complete with live-fire training grounds, subterranean armories, and a fully operational tactical command center.
But the so-called "security gate" was nothing more than a rusted iron chain draped lazily across two wooden posts. A faded, peeling wooden sign hung from the chain, reading: PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING.
Sanchez walked up to the chain. There wasn't even a padlock. It was just hooked over a nail.
He casually unhooked the chain and let it drop into the dirt. The three SUVs rolled onto the property.
The fields were utterly barren, littered with the burnt, decaying stalks of harvested corn. A few rotting apples hung from the neglected trees near the farmhouse. The terrain was incredibly flat; anyone approaching could be seen for miles. There was zero tactical cover.
A few elderly, terrified farmhands were sitting on the porch of the main house. When they saw the armed Cartel operatives trespassing on the property, they stood up and began shouting in broken English, waving their hands.
"They're telling us the property is closed to the public," one of the Sicarios translated.
"Does this look like a fucking military base to you?" another Cartel operator muttered in Spanish, spitting into the dirt.
Sanchez raised his hand, commanding absolute silence.
He gestured to his men. A Sicario immediately drew a heavy pistol and racked the slide, pointing it directly at the old farmhands. The terrified workers instantly dropped to their knees, raising their hands in surrender.
"Are you the only people currently on this property?" Sanchez demanded, walking up onto the porch.
"The harvest season is over!" one of the farmhands stammered, staring in terror at the gun. "Everyone else went home to their families. We're just the caretakers paid to watch the tractors over the winter!"
"Who owns this property?"
"I don't know! A corporate shell company!" the worker sobbed. "The paychecks are signed by a Mr. Frost! But I haven't seen him in the three months I've worked here!"
Sanchez's expression grew increasingly grim. He turned to Raymond.
"Where is the specialized training ground? Gramont explicitly guaranteed there was a CQB obstacle course, a mechanized shooting range, and a mock tactical village."
One of the Cartel scouts jogged around from the back of the farmhouse, gesturing for Sanchez to follow him.
They walked to the rear of the property.
It was an open, muddy depression roughly half the size of a football field. It was filled with murky, stagnant water entirely choked with bright green duckweed and algae.
"It's a fucking fish pond," Raymond cursed violently, kicking a clod of dirt into the water. "We drove all the way from Los Angeles to assault a fucking fish pond?"
Sanchez didn't say a word.
He walked to the muddy edge of the pond, crouched down, and stared intensely at the murky water. His trained eyes picked up the subtle, artificial grading of the soil banks and the unnaturally fresh tire tracks from heavy excavators leading away from the water.
He stood up, slowly scanning the entire perimeter.
"Gramont," Sanchez spat the Marquis's name through clenched teeth. "He intentionally lied to us."
"Either Tarasov successfully evacuated this black site weeks ago, and Gramont's intelligence is fatally outdated... or this property was never a military stronghold to begin with, and Gramont deliberately sent us on a wild goose chase."
Raymond took several deep, shuddering breaths, desperately trying to contain his explosive anger.
"We are returning to Los Angeles," Raymond finally declared. "But before we board those planes..."
Raymond slowly turned around, his eyes locking onto the distant, glittering skyline of New York City visible on the horizon.
"Anthony Tarasov slaughtered thirty-four of our brothers. That blood debt cannot be left unpaid. It would destroy the Cartel's reputation."
"But Gramont explicitly commanded us to..."
"Fuck Gramont," Raymond snarled, turning and marching back toward the SUVs. "We are driving back into downtown Manhattan. Find a secure safehouse."
"I want to look into Anthony Tarasov's eyes and see exactly what kind of man he truly is."
The heavily armed Cartel convoy quickly turned around, kicking up dust as they sped away from the empty farm.
Half a mile away, buried deep within the thick canopy of a massive oak tree, a solitary figure dressed in a customized ghillie suit slowly lowered his high-powered binoculars.
He pressed the transmission button on his throat-mic.
"Target element has departed the AO. Visual confirms they are heading back toward the New York city limits. Over."
"Copy that, Overwatch," James's calm voice crackled through the earpiece. "Maintain your perimeter surveillance on the farm. If they don't return, initiate full extraction in forty-eight hours."
"Clear."
Inside the sprawling Manhattan penthouse.
"They completely fell for the deception?" Gramont chuckled softly, swirling his wine glass. "It appears Anthony Tarasov is vastly more cautious and intelligent than I gave him credit for."
"He proactively destroyed his own tactical infrastructure. Which means his private army has either successfully integrated into the Tarasov syndicate's main headquarters, or they have dispersed into highly compartmentalized cells across Queens."
Gramont laughed, a genuine sound of aristocratic delight.
"I must admit, my fascination with Anthony is growing exponentially by the hour."
Chidi frowned deeply. "My Lord, Emilio Vargas is absolutely furious. He attempted to contact you on the secure line three times to demand an explanation regarding the empty farm, but I intercepted the calls."
Gramont waved his hand dismissively.
"Let him scream. Blind rage destroys a man's tactical judgment. And warriors who operate without judgment are the easiest to guide into an early grave."
"But the Cartel remains our primary localized ally," Chidi warned.
"No, Chidi. They are our tools," Gramont corrected sharply.
"The Tarasov syndicate's roots are buried incredibly deep into the bedrock of New York. Unless we force Anthony to expend his military strength fighting a secondary opponent, John Wick will likely never surface from the shadows to protect him."
Gramont raised his glass in a mock toast. "Emilio just lost over thirty Sicarios. His pride will absolutely not permit him to abandon this vendetta."
Gramont glided over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his psychotic smile widening as he stared down at the city.
"Contact the Global Betting Syndicate immediately. Instruct the oddsmakers to launch an entirely new, highly publicized gambling tier."
"The Mexican Cartel versus the Tarasov Syndicate."
"Set the baseline odds at 1-to-1.5. And place my personal wager entirely on Anthony Tarasov. Let our billionaire guests learn that occasionally... the small, localized fish possesses the teeth necessary to devour the Great White Shark."
Back at the Tarasov headquarters.
Anthony's phone buzzed with a brief, encrypted text from Sergei.
The Cartel Vanguard has abandoned the New Jersey farm. They are currently establishing a forward operating base within the New York city limits.
Anthony casually deleted the message. He picked up a cup of black coffee from his desk and took a slow, deliberate sip.
The Cartel was in the city.
Gramont was watching from the penthouse.
The Triads had handed over the coordinates to the Hunting Ground.
The hunters and the prey were finally all locked inside the cage together.
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz