Inside the Brooklyn safehouse, Radar stared intensely at his primary monitor. The cooling fans of the three high-end laptops hummed softly in the dark.
"Incoming," Radar suddenly announced, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
A heavily encrypted data packet popped up in the center of the screen. The sender ID was the familiar, shifting vortex of the "Ghost Weaver."
The file size was suspiciously small—only 17MB.
"He actually had the audacity to contact us after we intentionally exposed his digital footprint to Gramont last time?" Marcus found the hacker's arrogance highly amusing.
Radar laughed. "It doesn't matter. He can't trace anything back through our current IP relays."
Radar swiftly decrypted the multiple layers of security on the packet, revealing a high-resolution satellite map and a single coordinate file.
The rugged outline of the Adirondack Mountains appeared on the screen, the lush green canopy of the forest giving way to the stark yellow and orange leaves of late autumn.
A solitary red dot pulsed deep within the remote mountain range, the physical coordinates accurate to six decimal places.
A brief line of text was attached to the file:
[Signal Convergence Point identified. Private, heavily fortified nature reserve. Subterranean facility extending approximately 30 to 50 meters below ground level. Entry/Exit access is military-grade encryption. Access can only be achieved via physical, forced entry.]
Marcus stared at the pulsing red dot for a long moment.
He pulled out his secure phone and dialed John Wick's number.
"The coordinates have been delivered by the hacker," Marcus reported. "Cross-reference them immediately with the intelligence gathered by the Bowery King's network."
"If the coordinates match perfectly, then Gramont is sending us a direct message. He is telling us that he knows exactly what we are doing, he knows we are trying to lure him out, and he simply doesn't care. He is inviting us in."
Deep underground, the Bowery King sat in his customized wheelchair, facing a massive digital wall comprised of over a dozen stolen, high-end monitors.
His subterranean "subjects" were buzzing around the room, rapidly typing across multiple keyboards. A large, heavily scarred stray dog sat loyally beside the wheelchair, quietly watching its master.
The Bowery King—an ancient intelligence broker who had survived the absolute worst of the New York underworld for nearly half a century—possessed an information network that rivaled, and occasionally surpassed, the resources of the Continental Hotel itself.
An old-fashioned, analog cell phone rang. The King answered it, listening to John Wick's request.
"Cross-reference the coordinates he just sent against our primary findings," the Bowery King ordered his technicians.
A few minutes later, the localized technical team completed the triangulation.
The Bowery King narrowed his eyes slightly as he analyzed the multiple layers of data superimposed over the satellite map.
"The physical coordinates provided by your hacker are a near-perfect match with our terrestrial intelligence," the King reported into the phone. "There is absolutely a high-security, subterranean facility located at that specific grid."
"What is the status of the perimeter guard?" John asked.
"Highly irregular," the King replied, his voice dropping into a serious register. "My scouts observed a minimum of thirty heavily armed contractors patrolling the exterior perimeter alone. Furthermore, their rotational schedules do not adhere to standard military doctrine. It looks vastly more like a private, corporate security firm. They could be Blackwater, or worse."
"It's a perfect match," Radar confirmed, receiving the text from John and relaying it to Marcus.
Marcus picked up his encrypted satellite phone. "Anthony. The verification process is complete. The coordinates provided by Gramont's hacker are genuine, and the Bowery King's terrestrial network has confirmed the exact same location."
"If Gramont intentionally allowed this intelligence to fall into our hands, he absolutely has a massive, lethal backup plan waiting for us in those woods."
Just as Marcus finished speaking to Anthony, a completely new message violently bypassed Radar's firewalls and popped up on the center screen.
This time, it wasn't an encrypted data packet. It was a plain-text email. The sender's IP address was a string of absolute, scrambled gibberish, and the subject line contained a single word:
[Gift]
Radar clicked the attachment.
A hand-drawn tactical map appeared on the screen. The lines were incredibly clean and crisp, resembling a highly simplified, intuitive military schematic.
The exact terrain of the Adirondack Mountains was outlined, marked with two primary red dots.
The location provided by the "Ghost Weaver" and the location confirmed by the Bowery King overlapped flawlessly.
However, two new blue dots appeared on this anonymous map, located on the elevated ridges to the east and west of the primary facility. Small, precise text was written next to the markers:
[1. Observation Posts / Sniper Overwatch. Significant altitude advantage. Fields of fire completely cover the primary subterranean entrance. Personnel: 2-3 operators per nest. 6 active nests total. Shift rotation: Every 6 hours.]
[2. VIP Hunters: Currently deployed 3 kilometers outside the primary Adirondack facility perimeter.]
[3. Game Administrators x2: Stationed within the East and West wings of the primary facility.]
[4. The Puppet Master: Marquis de Gramont is currently located on the top floor of One57 in Midtown Manhattan.]
At the very bottom of the tactical map, a line of handwritten text was visible, written so neatly it looked like a printed font.
[When you believe you are the one hunting, you are usually the one being hunted. Good luck. - Old A.]
"Who the hell is Old A?" Marcus leaned closer to the monitor, his eyes widening in genuine shock.
"I have absolutely no idea," Radar's fingers flew across the keyboard, his brow furrowing deeply as he tried to trace the ghost.
"The origin signal jumped through seven different countries and bounced off three dead satellites before finally emerging from a virtual terminal somewhere in East Asia. This guy's digital camouflage is vastly superior to the Ghost Weaver."
Marcus compared the three separate intelligence reports. "This 'Old A' is feeding us vastly more accurate, actionable tactical intelligence than Gramont or the King."
"Send everything directly to Anthony immediately."
Inside the Tarasov headquarters, Anthony stared at the hand-drawn tactical map provided by the Triad hacker. For the first time all week, he felt a genuine sense of relief.
"Sergei," Anthony ordered, not taking his eyes off the screen.
"Summon Nick and Carl to the armory. Select two more operators who specialize exclusively in high-altitude urban infiltration. We deploy in exactly ten minutes."
"Boss, John and Marcus are entirely correct..." Sergei began, desperately trying to dissuade him from walking into an obvious trap.
"I am fully aware of the mathematical risks, Sergei," Anthony interrupted, finally looking up. His expression was terrifyingly calm.
"Now that the precise intelligence has been delivered, even if it is a heavily fortified trap, I must verify it with my own eyes. If Gramont is truly operating out of the One57 penthouse... I need to see exactly what kind of New York he looks down upon every single day."
Anthony stood up, walked over to his executive desk, and pulled two heavily customized Glock 17s from the drawer, rapidly checking the action and the extended magazines.
"Contact James. Inform him that the Adirondack facility is absolutely an ambush. Instruct him to mobilize a minimum of fifty PMC operators and deploy to the Hunting Ground."
Anthony shoved the Glocks into his bespoke shoulder holsters. "Tell James that this is not a rescue operation."
"Every single VIP billionaire who placed a bet. Every single 'Game Administrator' carrying a weapon. Every single hunter roaming the outer perimeter..."
"Leave absolutely no one alive."
Sergei swallowed hard, looking nervous. "Boss, there are absolutely going to be High Table VIPs inside that facility. If we massacre them, the political blowback will be catastrophic. Why don't we instruct James to stage a false flag? He could disguise the operators as Mexican Cartel Sicarios."
"No. He will operate openly under the Tarasov banner," Anthony commanded, slipping his Kevlar-weave suit jacket over his shoulders.
"Since Gramont so desperately wants to frame me for starting a war, let's give the Marquis exactly what he wants. We will execute a massive, highly publicized syndicate massacre. I want the NYPD and the High Table Elders to genuinely believe that Anthony Tarasov has gone completely, violently insane."
Sergei paused for a fraction of a second, his tactical mind finally grasping the grand strategy. "You want the entire world to believe we have completely lost control."
"You still don't fully comprehend the depth of my strategy, Sergei," Anthony smiled. It was a strange, chilling expression.
"Perhaps... you will understand everything tomorrow."
Inside a sprawling, industrial warehouse in Queens.
James stood before a massive whiteboard, projecting the three combined intelligence reports onto the wall.
The Ghost Weaver's coordinates, the Bowery King's confirmation, and Old A's detailed tactical annotations. The three red dots overlapped perfectly.
"This is the central nervous system of the Hunting Ground," James said, utilizing a red laser pointer to circle the Adirondack facility.
"According to the architectural schematics, this was a decommissioned Cold War-era air-raid shelter. The VIP bettors, the Game Administrators, and the live prey are all housed within the subterranean levels. We are executing a synchronized breach at 2100 hours tonight, running concurrent with the Boss's localized operation in Manhattan."
James moved the laser pointer to the two blue dots situated on the elevated mountain ridges.
"These two points are the enemy's primary eyes. The sightlines completely cover the main subterranean entrance. Two to three snipers per nest. Standard six-hour rotation schedule. Old A explicitly marked them as heavy overwatch."
Fifty heavily armed men stood in the warehouse. In addition to Anthony's elite Tier One element, the "farm hands" (PMC operators) from all three Tarasov black sites had been successfully mobilized.
James turned to Silas, a former Navy SEAL.
"Silas. You will take two operators and infiltrate the perimeter directly beneath the Eastern observation post before 2200 hours. You hold position in the tree line and wait for my green light."
Silas nodded grimly. "Do we require them alive for interrogation?"
"No," James's voice was absolute ice. "Lethal force is authorized."
"The Boss confirmed that a massive Cartel strike team is highly likely to ambush us during the raid. Therefore, we are splitting the primary assault element into four distinct tactical groups. We will initiate staggered entry at ten-minute intervals to prevent total encirclement."
"Miles and August will each command a breach team. Bauer's team will act as the mobile, heavily armed reserve."
James turned to August Arnold, a former Delta Force operator.
"The Western observation post belongs to you. Remember, those two sniper nests are the primary eyes of the Hunting Ground. We must entirely blind them before the main assault element can even approach the blast doors."
"I will personally lead the vanguard team and cut in from the Northern slope," James concluded. "According to the Bowery King's terrestrial data, there is a heavily overgrown, abandoned logging trail on that ridge. It does not exist on standard topographical maps, but satellite thermal data confirms a distinct fault line in the vegetation. That is our primary vector."
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