James watched the total annihilation of the Cartel vanguard with absolute, blank indifference.
He dumped his empty magazine, slammed a fresh one into his M4, and racked the bolt. He pointed his rifle toward the coordinates of the subterranean facility.
"Maintain forward momentum," James ordered. "Bauer, what is your status at the secondary objective?"
"Infiltrating now," Bauer's voice crackled through the earpiece, accompanied by the distinct, metallic whir of a portable angle grinder. "The exterior air-raid shelter entrance utilizes a military-grade electronic lock, but the architecture is antiquated. My breaching element can bypass it in exactly two minutes."
"Something feels fundamentally wrong about this topography," James whispered, scanning the dark tree line. "You have exactly one minute."
"Oh, shit."
James's Vanguard resumed their cautious advance deeper into the mountains, while August's element remained behind to execute the surviving Cartel stragglers on the ridges.
Miles's tactical squad melted entirely back into the shadows of the forest, holding their position as the hidden, heavily armed reserve.
The deafening roar of the Cartel's unsuppressed gunfire gradually subsided, replaced entirely by the agonizing groans of the wounded and the wet, shallow gasps of the dying.
The Vanguard finally arrived at a massive, relatively open mountain valley.
It appeared to be a long-abandoned logging camp. The skeletal remains of several rotting wooden cabins and a massive, rusted industrial crane stood like tombstones in the moonlight.
Directly in the center of the valley wall lay the physical entrance to the "Hunting Ground" explicitly marked on the Triad's tactical map.
It was a massive, heavily reinforced concrete blast door, ingeniously disguised with artificial rock formations to resemble a natural fissure in the mountain face. At its widest point, the fissure was large enough to accommodate a mechanized transport truck.
James flashed a sequence of hand signals. The Vanguard instantly dispersed, aggressively seizing the elevated tactical high ground encircling the valley floor.
James crouched low behind the rotting timber ruins of a cabin, intensely observing the concrete blast doors through his thermal binoculars.
A faint, unnatural strip of incandescent light bled through a microscopic crack in the door seal, accompanied by the muffled, thumping bass of heavy, frenzied club music playing deep underground.
James raised his hand, preparing to signal August on the opposing ridge to initiate the synchronized breach.
Suddenly, the massive concrete blast doors slowly began to grind open.
Brilliant, blinding halogen light violently poured out from the subterranean tunnel, entirely illuminating the frosted valley floor.
A towering figure entirely clad in hyper-advanced, matte-black tactical armor stepped out of the doorway.
He was immediately followed by a dozen equally armored, heavily mechanized guards. Every single one of them carried a specialized, short-barreled HK416 assault rifle equipped with high-end holographic sights and heavy suppressors.
James didn't care who the opponent was or what syndicate they represented. The moment the armored squad stepped into the kill box, James raised his M4 and swept the doorway with a sustained, five-round burst.
To James's absolute horror, the 5.56mm rounds didn't penetrate.
The high-velocity bullets violently impacted the guards' black armor, immediately sparking and deflecting harmlessly into the concrete walls, completely failing to pierce the material.
"Fuck!" James cursed, his eyes widening. The armor is functionally a mobile tank.
"Your standard ballistics are entirely useless," the armored commander sneered, his voice amplified by a localized external speaker built into his helmet. "This proprietary High Table armor utilizes localized NIJ Level IV plating. It is rated to withstand direct impacts from 5.56mm armor-piercing rounds at point-blank range."
The commander raised his armored hand.
Four of the Black Armor guards instantly raised their HK416s, their muzzles flashing rapidly as they returned fire.
Despite James's operators wearing highly expensive, specialized Kevlar and ceramic plates, their localized protection simply could not withstand the enemy's specialized ammunition at such close range.
The guards weren't firing standard ballistics. They were firing proprietary, tungsten-core armor-piercing rounds specifically designed to defeat Level IV body armor.
James had absolutely no idea that this was Marquis de Gramont's personal, elite High Table enforcement echelon: the Black Armor Army.
Four of James's Vanguard operators were violently pierced by the tungsten rounds, their bodies thrown backward into the snow as their chest plates shattered.
The Black Armor guards abruptly ceased their sustained fire, but the dark, smoking muzzles of their HK416s remained locked dead onto the surviving PMC operators.
James had deployed all over the Middle East, but he had never witnessed a protective "bulletproof suit" capable of so easily shrugging off rifle fire without causing the wearer massive kinetic trauma. His standard PMC weaponry posed absolutely zero threat to these men.
James gritted his teeth so hard his jaw popped. He glanced desperately at his four bleeding teammates lying in the snow. He didn't even authorize Mike, his heavy sniper, to fire, knowing the .308 round would likely just deflect off the commander's helmet.
"If you refuse to surrender immediately, I do not mind executing every single one of you in this valley," the armored commander's voice boomed through the speaker.
The commander paused, his hidden smile practically audible.
"Did you honestly believe the idiotic Mexican Cartel was the only security force protecting this facility? You willingly walked into our Hunting Ground. Now, you are the prey."
The exact microsecond the words left his mouth, over a dozen massive, military-grade halogen searchlights violently ignited along the elevated ridges entirely surrounding the valley.
The brilliant, blinding white light was so intensely focused that the PMC operators were physically forced to shield their eyes.
In the final fraction of a second before his highly sensitive night-vision goggles violently overloaded and burned out, James saw the horrifying truth.
There were at least fifty heavily armed figures perfectly encircling the Vanguard from every conceivable high-ground vector.
Their tactical equipment was vastly superior to the Cartel Sicarios. They wore uniform, matte-black combat BDUs, highly modular tactical plate carriers, and wielded suppressed, heavily customized carbines. Furthermore, there were over a dozen more Black Armor guards dispersed among their ranks.
The flawless, overlapping cross-covering gait these men exhibited clearly proved they were elite, highly professional tier-one operators.
"Drop your weapons. I possess no inherent desire to slaughter you pointlessly," the armored commander said, his voice dripping with condescension. "If you fully cooperate, you might actually survive the night."
"Okay," James shouted, ensuring his voice was loud enough to carry across the freezing valley. "We surrender."
But James absolutely refused to lower his M4. Instead, he maintained his firing stance and smiled coldly at the armored commander.
"Before we lay down our arms... why don't you try calling the billionaire VIP hunters currently hiding inside your little air-raid shelter?"
The Black Armor commander paused, his helmet tilting slightly as he processed the bizarre demand.
Seeing the commander's obvious hesitation, James pulled his encrypted satellite phone from his vest, dialed Bauer's direct line, and placed the device on speakerphone for the entire valley to hear.
"Bauer. Did you successfully breach the secondary objective?" James asked calmly.
"Of course, Boss," Bauer laughed, the sound echoing through James's speaker. "These aristocratic idiots were throwing a massive, drug-fueled party in the lower levels. My squad currently has the entire VIP betting syndicate zip-tied to the floor, and I'm actively forcing them to wire their offshore accounts directly to the Tarasov syndicate."
Heavy, frantic club music could clearly be heard bleeding through the phone's background, accompanied by the panicked, terrified screaming of the High Table billionaires.
"Well, Bauer," James said softly, his eyes locked dead onto the armored commander. "It appears we are the actual idiots tonight. My Vanguard is currently trapped inside a tactical tin can, and we are heavily outgunned. Do not allow a single VIP to leave that bunker."
"These bastards just critically wounded four of my operators. I want you to execute four of the VIPs immediately in retaliation."
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the Black Armor commander roared, taking a massive step forward and raising his rifle.
James completely ignored him.
"Bauer," James commanded into the phone. "Identify the four VIPs who wired the lowest ransom amounts, and put a bullet in the back of their heads."
"Understood!" Bauer shouted aggressively over the phone. "How dare these aristocratic fucks shoot Tarasov operators! You! You! You! And the fat one in the tuxedo!"
"I don't care if you refuse to transfer the money! Do not fucking scream at me that you're an honored guest of the High Table!"
"I am a sanctioned, sovereign member of the High Table!" a terrified, aristocratic French voice screamed over the phone line. "I am a personal, distinguished guest of Marquis de Gramont! If you touch me—"
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
Four deafening, point-blank gunshots echoed through the speakerphone. The screaming instantly ceased.
"Hey, James?" Bauer asked casually over the line. "What the hell is the High Table? I've literally never heard of them."
"Also, since when does America recognize archaic, aristocratic titles like 'Marquis'?"
James maintained his dead-eyed stare at the enraged armored commander. "He's just bluffing you to save his own life, Bauer. Tell him the President of the United States is your biological son!"
"I will slaughter every single one of you!" the Black Armor commander roared, his finger tightening on the trigger of his HK416.
James didn't even flinch. He coldly lowered his weapon and turned his back on the armored commander, entirely ignoring the fifty guns pointed at his head. He looked down at his four bleeding operators in the snow.
"Status?" James asked calmly.
Several of the Vanguard operators had already rushed forward, frantically unzipping the wounded men's plate carriers and deploying heavy trauma dressings under the glaring halogen lights.
"Black Wolf and Groundhog are critically wounded; the tungsten rounds bypassed the plates and hit their lungs. They likely won't survive transport," a medic reported, his voice tight with suppressed grief. "The other two are stabilized and can be saved with immediate MEDEVAC."
James waved his hand dismissively. "Extract them."
The PMC operators completely ignored the Black Armor guards and the fifty heavily armed High Table enforcers surrounding them. They hoisted their wounded brothers onto their shoulders and began slowly walking backward toward the tree line.
"Do you require me to order the execution of a few more of your precious billionaire hunters?" James asked the armored commander, his eyes completely devoid of human emotion.
The Black Armor commander stared at James, his chest heaving as he took two deep, furious breaths, desperately trying to control his rage. The lives of the VIPs were paramount; if they all died, Gramont would literally flay him alive.
"Hold your fire," the commander snarled into his localized comms, ordering the snipers on the ridges to stand down. "Permit them to extract their wounded."
"Are you truly the mysterious, specialized armed element employed by the Tarasov syndicate?" the commander demanded.
He was genuinely bewildered. Gramont's localized intelligence explicitly stated that Tarasov's elite PMC element was comprised of a single, localized fireteam. Yet James had a massive Vanguard in the valley, and a secondary breach team currently holding the subterranean bunker hostage.
There had to be a minimum of forty heavily armed operators operating in the mountains.
Furthermore, the Black Armor commander had absolutely no idea that Miles's fully fresh, heavily armed Third Squad was currently concealed in the deep forest directly behind his perimeter, waiting to strike.
James feigned confusion. "So what if we are? Does the High Table honestly believe they can just dunk on the Tarasovs without taking casualties?"
"Release the VIP hostages inside the bunker, and I will permit your Vanguard to peacefully evacuate the Adirondacks," the commander offered, his voice vibrating with barely contained fury.
James let out a harsh, barking laugh. "I'd be an absolute fucking idiot to trust a single word you say."
"Until every single one of my surviving operators is safely seated inside our armored Suburbans, your precious billionaires belong entirely to us!"
James smoothly slung his M4 behind his back. Utterly ignoring the dozens of laser sights dancing across his chest, he walked directly up to the Black Armor commander until they were inches apart.
James aggressively examined the hyper-advanced tactical suit. He actually reached out and violently rapped his knuckles against the heavy, matte-black chest plate. The material emitted a dense, incredibly dull thud.
"Get your fucking gun out of my face," James whispered softly, yet the threat carried the sheer, uncompromising lethality of a true apex predator.
James violently grabbed the commander's wrist, aggressively pushing the HK416 away from his chest.
As he did, James's hyper-trained tactical mind analyzed the armor's construction. The joints of the black suit were incredibly flexible, relying on soft Kevlar weave rather than the heavy, rigid plating protecting the torso. It allowed the guards to retain their mobility without sacrificing center-mass protection.
James had never personally encountered High Table enforcement units, but he instantly recognized the fundamental design flaw.
The armor utilized the absolute highest-grade, proprietary materials on the planet to forge protection vastly superior to standard military gear. However, to maintain human mobility, they were forced to leave the microscopic joints at the armpits, neck, and inner thighs dangerously exposed to precision fire.
It was the exact same fatal weakness John Wick would eventually exploit to slaughter these elite enforcers utilizing only a specialized handgun.
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz