Inside the Queens warehouse, James pulled up a secondary satellite thermal image, zooming in on the northern slope of the Adirondack Mountains.
A deeply rutted, abandoned dirt road—almost entirely obscured by heavy, overgrown shrubs and pine canopy—wound its way into the remote wilderness, terminating exactly three kilometers from the pulsing red dot of the subterranean facility.
It was positioned directly underneath the blue marker reading: VIP Hunters.
"We will drive the armored Suburbans as far up this logging trail as physically possible," James instructed, scanning the fifty heavily armed PMC operators. "Once the terrain becomes impassable, we dismount. We execute a three-kilometer tactical ruck march through the mountains, fully loaded, under the cover of darkness. Any questions?"
No one spoke.
"Excellent," James snapped the projector off. "Final gear check. We roll out in ten minutes."
The operators were all uniformly dressed in matte-black, non-reflective tactical BDUs. They wore soft-Kevlar under-layers designed to house heavy ceramic strike plates for active combat.
In addition to their standard loadouts, every single operator was equipped with a black balaclava.
"James," Silas asked, checking the action on his suppressed rifle. "Why did the Boss explicitly order us to operate openly under the Tarasov syndicate banner? If we're hitting a High Table facility, wouldn't it have been vastly more strategic to stage a false flag and masquerade as another gang?"
James was meticulously adjusting his heavy modular plate carrier, not bothering to look up.
"You need to understand the Boss's psychology," James replied smoothly. "Only absolute idiots expose themselves without a layered deception. By aggressively screaming our identity to the world, the High Table won't believe it. They'll assume someone else is trying to frame us."
The operators nodded slowly, beginning to grasp the terrifying, counter-intuitive genius of Anthony's strategy.
Midtown Manhattan, 9:47 P.M.
Anthony sat quietly in the back seat of a heavily armored, black Cadillac Escalade. Nick, the former Delta Force sniper, was behind the wheel.
Carl Miller sat in the passenger seat, rapidly checking his tactical PDA, while two additional Delta operators sat on either side of Anthony, entirely silent and focused.
"One57," Nick said, staring up at the massive, glittering glass skyscraper towering over the street. "Floors 76 through 90 are entirely comprised of ultra-luxury penthouse suites."
"If Gramont is truly operating out of this building, he will absolutely occupy a minimum of two interconnected floors. He will have access to private, biometric elevators leading directly to a secure subterranean garage, and the localized security detail will likely be staffed entirely by High Table or Blackwater contractors."
"What are the infiltration vectors?" Anthony asked calmly, checking the suppressed Glock 17 in his shoulder holster.
"Three primary access points," Carl replied, pulling up the architectural blueprints provided by the Triad hacker.
"Vector One: The subterranean VIP parking garage. Vector Two: The heavily guarded private elevator in the main lobby. Vector Three: The 76th-floor exterior sky bridge, which connects directly to the helipad of the adjacent luxury hotel."
"A dedicated helipad..." Anthony frowned slightly, a cold smile touching his lips.
"No wonder Old A referred to Gramont as the 'Mastermind.' An aristocrat who maintains the constant ability to simply fly away from his problems certainly deserves the title."
"Boss, are we executing a loud, frontal breach?" asked Xavier Montgomery, a massive Delta operator recently transferred from the Long Island farm.
Anthony laughed softly. "We can hardly expect the Blackwater security guards to politely swipe their keycards and hold the elevator doors open for us!"
Nick smiled, shifting the Escalade into drive and pulling into the subterranean garage.
One57. The absolute pinnacle of hyper-luxury real estate in Midtown Manhattan.
The average price per square meter hovered around $73,600, with the ultra-exclusive penthouse suites regularly selling for nearly one hundred million dollars. The skyscraper offered unparalleled, panoramic views of Central Park, the Hudson River, and the glittering Manhattan skyline.
High above the street, Marquis de Gramont stepped out of his sprawling, marble master bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of hot steam. He casually tightened the belt of his plush velvet bathrobe.
Chidi, who had been standing in the living room like a patient gargoyle, immediately stepped forward. The harsh blue light from his secure tablet illuminated a terrifying, barely suppressed excitement on his usually stoic face.
"My Lord... the fish has finally taken the bait!"
Chidi's voice was tight with anticipation.
"Over in the Adirondack Hunting Ground. The localized perimeter surveillance cameras have just captured a heavily armed, twelve-man tactical squad rapidly approaching the Eastern and Western observation posts. They are physically dismantling and destroying the cameras along their vector of approach."
Hearing the news, Gramont paused, lazily drying his wet hair with a towel. He glanced at the massive, curved surveillance monitors mounted on the wall. Several of the exterior camera feeds had already dissolved into static snow or gone entirely black.
"What is the tactical purpose of destroying the cameras if they know we are already watching them?" Gramont chuckled softly.
"It appears Anthony's precious 'ghosts' have finally lost their patience. Or... perhaps the legendary boogeyman who volunteered to act as Tarasov's attack dog is leading the vanguard."
"Contact Emilio Vargas immediately," Gramont ordered, tossing the damp towel onto a leather chair. "Inform the Cartel boss that his golden opportunity for vengeance has arrived."
"Tarasov's sharpest claws have willingly reached directly into my iron cage. Order Emilio to mobilize his absolute best Sicarios immediately. Encircle the PMC element, crush them, and leave absolutely no survivors."
"I want Anthony Tarasov's vaunted war machines entirely converted into fertilizer for the Adirondack forest tonight."
Gramont paused, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "And emphasize to Emilio that this is the absolute, uncompromising will of the High Table."
"Once the massacre is complete, I will personally guarantee the Cartel permanent control over a minimum of two New York boroughs."
Chidi immediately complied, his fingers flying across the encrypted tablet to transmit the orders.
Simultaneously, Chidi opened a secondary, localized channel directly to the Hunting Ground administrators.
"Attention all Game Administrators. The 'Prey' has officially breached the primary operational area. We have confirmation of a twelve-man tactical vanguard vectoring toward the Eastern and Western observation posts, utilizing the abandoned logging road on the Northern slope."
"Initiate the 'Hunter Clearance Protocol.' I am fully authorizing the deployment of all non-explosive heavy weaponry. Coordinate your defensive perimeters with the Mexican Cartel proxies operating on the exterior. Eradicate the hostile element. Repeat: Leave zero survivors."
Gramont strolled over to his private bar, poured himself a generous glass of vintage Burgundy, and swirled it gently.
"John Wick..." Gramont whispered to the empty room. "If you are truly hiding among those trees... it would be absolutely perfect. It would save me the exhausting trouble of hunting you down myself."
Gramont stared intensely at the static screen where James's vanguard team had last been spotted, a supremely arrogant smile spreading across his face.
"Once I permanently cripple Anthony Tarasov's private army... let us see exactly how long you can remain hidden."
Gramont paid absolutely zero attention to the rapidly expanding number of destroyed cameras.
In his arrogant, aristocratic mind, the PMC's tactical approach was nothing more than the pathetic, futile struggle of a cornered beast attempting to fight back.
The entire Adirondack Mountain range was his personal playground. To Gramont, the heavily armed PMC operators were simply fresh, high-value prey willingly delivering themselves directly to his doorstep.
He was genuinely looking forward to watching the high-definition blooms of arterial blood spray across the surveillance monitors; it would serve as the most exquisite appetizer for the evening.
Suddenly, on the massive curved screen, the two pulsing green dots representing the heavily fortified Eastern and Western sniper observation posts simultaneously vanished, instantly replaced by glaring, flashing red crosses.
Connection Terminated.
Exactly thirty seconds later, a pre-set security signal—three long pulses followed by two short pulses—suddenly chimed across the encrypted communications channel.
Gramont swirled his wine, a deeply pleased smile stretching across his face.
He strolled casually over to the master control panel and tapped the console with a single fingertip. The primary screen instantly switched to the live, interior feeds of the subterranean core facility.
The main lobby of the facility—cleverly disguised to look like a rustic, luxurious mountain ski lodge—was brilliantly lit.
Through the feed, Gramont watched Renato "Ghost" Sanchez, the bald, heavily scarred Cartel commander, violently kick one of his Sicarios in the shin, violently verifying that the man's ceramic bulletproof plates were seated correctly in his carrier.
"Let us inform our Mexican friends who traveled so very far to be here," Gramont said, taking a slow sip of his red wine.
"A group of aggressive 'New York tourists' have arrived early to admire the scenery of the Hunting Ground. Please instruct the Cartel to extend their absolute best hospitality... and permit them to unleash whatever atrocities they desire upon the guests."
Gramont's smile deepened. His heart pounded with a dark, euphoric anticipation for the impending, heavily militarized carnage.
"Anthony. The stage is perfectly set for you."
Gramont whispered to the void, his eyes gleaming with the toxic, psychotic excitement unique to apex predators.
"Let us see if your pathetic band of battlefield ghosts possess the teeth to tear open this iron cage... or if they will simply become fresh 'exhibits' slaughtered under the Cartel's shotguns."
Gramont pulled a Cuban cigar from a humidor, placing it between his teeth. He reached for a silver lighter, eagerly awaiting the glorious news of the Adirondack massacre.
Suddenly, without a single microsecond of warning, every single light inside the sprawling, hundred-million-dollar penthouse violently snapped off.
The massive, panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows still offered a brilliant view of the glittering city skyline below, but the luxurious interior of the penthouse was instantly swallowed by a thick, suffocating darkness.
The localized, heavy-duty backup generators entirely failed to engage.
"What is the meaning of this?" Gramont demanded, his elegant composure vanishing instantly. His voice cracked with a sudden, sharp edge of shock and anger.
Chidi blindly rushed through the dark toward the master control panel, frantically tapping the glass. The surveillance screens were completely dead.
"Total localized power failure, My Lord! The primary grid and the redundant backup generators have been simultaneously severed! Secure communications are down. The internal security system is entirely paralyzed!"
For the very first time since arriving in America, a note of genuine, raw panic bled into Chidi's voice.
This was absolutely no accident.
Gramont's arrogant, smug expression instantly shattered, freezing into a mask of pure terror. A violent, icy chill ripped down his spine.
He slowly turned, his eyes locking sharply onto the heavy, reinforced oak doors leading to his private biometric elevator and the emergency security stairwell.
An impossible, terrifying thought exploded in the Marquis's mind.
How could Anthony Tarasov possibly know I am here?
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