"Fuck, this armor is legitimately incredible," James said casually, stepping back from the Black Armor commander. "Can I requisition a set for myself?"
James looked directly into the dark, tinted visor obscuring the commander's face. "You cannot penetrate my tactical bunker, and my localized weapons cannot penetrate your proprietary plating. We have achieved a Mexican standoff, haven't we?"
"However... the Tarasov syndicate possesses virtually unlimited capital. If I asked my Uncle Abram Tarasov to cut a check for this armor, he would happily oblige."
The Black Armor commander clenched and unclenched his gauntleted fists. Beneath his mask, his face contorted with violent, suppressed rage.
Among the billionaire "VIP Hunters" currently being held hostage by Bauer inside the subterranean bunker, at least three were active, high-ranking Members of Parliament in Europe. Two were the primary CEOs of global multinational corporations. One was a direct blood relative of a prominent Middle Eastern Royal Family.
Furthermore, several of the VIPs were the collateral relatives of actual, seated Elders of the High Table.
If those specific individuals were executed in the Adirondacks tonight, Marquis de Gramont would personally skin the commander alive and leave his corpse to rot in the sun.
And more importantly... Marquis de Gramont himself was entirely unreachable, utterly failing to respond to emergency communications.
Seeing the armored commander entirely paralyzed by the geopolitical stakes, James chuckled and casually wiped his gloved hands together.
"Now. You are going to requisition several large transport trucks for us. Specifically, the heavy, reinforced rigs you utilize to transport your 'prey' into the mountains. I intend to take your precious VIPs for a lovely midnight drive until I feel reasonably secure..."
James deliberately paused, deeply enjoying the furious, impotent tension radiating from the armored guards surrounding him.
"Once we secure a sufficiently scenic location, we will allow the billionaires to disembark for a lovely woodland picnic. However, that relies entirely on a few strict prerequisites. No one follows us. No one engages us. And absolutely no one attempts to play the hero while we exfiltrate."
The Black Armor commander's fists clenched so tightly the Kevlar joints actually creaked. He didn't even dare attempt to contact Chidi again.
He genuinely believed Gramont had already witnessed the catastrophic hostage situation inside the bunker via the localized camera network. The truly terrifying variable was that neither Gramont nor Chidi had initiated emergency contact to override the commander's authority.
The commander stared intensely into the cold, dead eyes visible beneath James's balaclava.
"You must understand," the commander hissed, grinding his teeth. "If a single hair on the heads of those VIPs is harmed... the High Table will permanently eradicate the entire Tarasov family, and every single syndicate affiliated with your bloodline."
James laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "We are the Tarasovs! We are the apex predators of the New York underworld. Why the fuck would we be afraid of a bunch of aristocratic European snobs?"
"You think you can just slaughter me right now? Fucking try it!"
The Black Armor commander slowly turned sideways, his arm shaking as he pointed toward a heavily fortified motor pool positioned near the edge of the valley.
"The heavy transport vehicles are parked there. But I swear to God, if you attempt to deceive me, you will suffer consequences entirely beyond your microscopic comprehension."
"As long as my Vanguard is safe, your billionaires remain safe," James interrupted aggressively. "Now, order your mechanized infantry to fall back five hundred meters. They will passively observe our exfiltration."
The armored commander flashed a sharp tactical hand signal.
The fifty heavily armed High Table operatives instantly lowered their weapons and executed a flawless, synchronized tactical retreat, melting back into the shadows of the ridge, though their fingers remained hovering over their trigger guards.
James nodded to his surviving operators.
Deep inside the subterranean air-raid shelter, Bauer and his breach team had successfully corralled over thirty terrified, aristocratic billionaires, aggressively herding them alongside nearly one hundred of their surviving "prey."
The rescued prey—a diverse mix of kidnapped, traumatized civilians—were entirely intermingled with Miles's heavily armed Fourth Squad, providing perfect tactical camouflage.
"Drive the transport rigs directly to the primary blast doors," James commanded over the radio. "Force the billionaires into the cargo holds alongside the very people they intended to hunt. Let them taste the absolute terror of the cage."
After roughly thirty minutes of highly coordinated, aggressive logistics, the PMC successfully hijacked every single heavy vehicle in the High Table motor pool.
"Move out," James ordered, climbing into the passenger seat of the lead armored Suburban.
The massive diesel engines roared to life. The heavy convoy rolled out of the valley, the massive tires crunching over the frost-covered gravel, rapidly disappearing into the oppressive darkness of the pine forest.
The exact second James slammed the passenger door shut, a massive, involuntary wave of raw adrenaline and terror finally washed over him.
His tactical undershirt was instantly soaked in cold sweat.
If Bauer hadn't successfully breached the bunker and secured the VIP hostages exactly when he did, James and his entire Vanguard would have been utterly annihilated in that valley.
Jesus Christ, James thought, his heart hammering against his ribs. Gramont deployed nearly thirty invincible, literal steel super-soldiers.
Back in the valley, the Black Armor commander stared furiously into the dark forest, watching the red taillights of the convoy vanish. He pressed his earpiece.
"Eagle Eye. Initiate pursuit. Maintain a minimum distance of two kilometers. I require absolute confirmation of their final destination."
"Negative, Commander," the sniper's voice crackled back, laced with frustration. "We possess zero logistical transport. The Tarasov PMC systematically sabotaged the engine blocks of every single tactical motorcycle and ATV before they exfiltrated."
The red glow of the taillights completely vanished into the night.
The Black Armor commander roared in frustration, violently slamming his heavy, tungsten-reinforced fist into a steel communications relay box, leaving a massive dent in the metal.
He unclipped his secure satellite phone and dialed Chidi's emergency frequency one final time.
The sharp, persistent ringing of the satellite phone sounded exceptionally jarring inside the deathly silent, pitch-black expanse of the One57 penthouse.
Nick, standing perfectly still with his suppressed rifle raised, briefly glanced at Anthony.
Anthony was casually leaning against the massive marble wet-bar, slowly swirling a crystal glass of Gramont's vintage Burgundy. He elegantly tilted his chin toward the ringing phone resting on the floor.
Nick stepped forward, answered the call, and tapped the speakerphone icon.
"Chidi!" the Black Armor commander's voice blared into the dark room. "The Tarasov PMC successfully extracted all of the primary 'Chips.' Are we genuinely permitting them to exfiltrate? We possess the absolute firepower to completely..."
A freezing, terrifyingly calm voice interrupted the commander.
"I currently possess Chidi's phone," Anthony spoke smoothly toward the device. "What exactly do you intend to do about it?"
Nick immediately terminated the call, dropping the phone onto the carpet.
Miles away in the Adirondack mountains, the Black Armor commander entirely froze, clutching the satellite phone as the dead-air tone hummed in his ear. The unfamiliar, deeply arrogant voice sent a massive spike of terror straight through his chest.
"Fall back!" the commander roared to his surviving men, completely abandoning his tactical composure. "Everyone fall back to Manhattan right fucking now!"
Inside the One57 penthouse, Marquis de Gramont stood absolutely paralyzed, his mind failing to process the utter destruction of his reality.
Chidi, his hyper-lethal, A-tier High Table bodyguard of fifteen years, was lying crumpled five meters away.
Chidi was slumped awkwardly against a shattered mahogany bookshelf, his chest cavity visibly caved in. Every breath he took was a wet, agonizing hiss choked with blood and foam. He lacked the basic motor function to even attempt to stand.
The elite assassin was curled into a fetal position on the expensive Persian rug, his left arm violently dislocated and twisted at a horrific, unnatural angle.
The entire brutal engagement—Anthony executing a flawless Krav Maga chokehold, aggressive joint-compression, and precise bone dislocation—had taken exactly seven seconds.
Anthony casually brushed a tiny speck of dust off his bespoke suit jacket. A minor scrape marred the back of his right hand, and the fabric of his left shoulder was slightly torn, revealing the sleek, black Kevlar-weave bulletproof layer beneath.
"Your primary security detail possesses adequate physical strength," Anthony remarked casually, waving his hand dismissively at Chidi's broken body. "But did you honestly lack the basic paranoia to assume I would eventually find your nest? Your arrogance is simply astounding."
Gramont desperately attempted to force his elegant, all-controlling aristocratic smile back onto his face.
However, the smile was visibly strained, trembling at the corners of his mouth.
He stared in absolute disbelief at his most trusted, invincible bodyguard, now lying on the floor like a discarded, broken ragdoll.
He stared at the Russian mobster—a man Gramont had confidently dismissed as a pathetic, localized pawn on his grand chessboard—who had effortlessly breached his impenetrable sanctuary and seized total control of the narrative.
"So... you are the legendary Anthony Tarasov," Gramont forced the words out, desperately trying to maintain an even, authoritative vocal register.
"I openly concede the point: I drastically underestimated your logistical capabilities. The fact that you successfully deduced these coordinates is undeniably..."
CRACK!
Gramont's elegant monologue was violently interrupted by a devastating, flawlessly executed straight right cross.
Anthony's heavy knuckles slammed directly into the bridge of Gramont's high, aristocratic nose.
"Guh!"
Gramont let out a strangled, pathetic groan. Brilliant, blinding stars exploded across his vision. He staggered violently backward, a thick, warm torrent of dark red blood instantly gushing from his shattered nostrils.
"Who the fuck granted you permission to stand upright while addressing me?" Anthony's voice was a low, terrifying growl.
Anthony stepped forward, his face an absolute, sociopathic void. He violently seized the lapels of Gramont's plush velvet bathrobe, lifted the Marquis completely off his feet, and viciously slammed his spine down onto the massive mahogany desk.
Priceless first-edition books, imported Cuban cigar humidors, and crystal decanters violently shattered, scattering across the hardwood floor.
"You..."
Gramont desperately struggled to lift his head. The blood from his shattered nose poured directly into his mouth.
It tasted thick, metallic, and agonizingly sweet.
"What? You're going to scream that you're someone I can't afford to touch?" Anthony sneered.
Anthony aggressively drove his knee directly into Gramont's floating ribs, pinning the Marquis to the desk. He violently wrenched Gramont's arms behind his back, utilizing the crude, humiliating brutality of a street-level brawler rather than the refined martial arts he used on Chidi.
"You had the absolute audacity to construct your pathetic 'Hunting Ground' inside my city? Hmm?" Anthony roared, the sound echoing through the dark penthouse. "You genuinely enjoy watching innocent civilians butcher each other for sport? You enjoy the thrill of the bet?"
"I am the Marquis..." Gramont gasped, desperately attempting to invoke his sacred High Table authority.
"I don't give a fuck what you are!"
Anthony violently dropped a heavy, crushing elbow directly onto Gramont's spine, instantly silencing the Marquis's pathetic attempt to pull rank.
Gramont violently curled into a ball, letting out a sharp, agonizing shriek of pure pain.
Anthony wasn't finished. He violently grabbed a fistful of Gramont's pristine silver hair, yanked him off the shattered desk, and drove a brutal, closed-fist punch directly into his bruised face.
"You thought you could deploy Cartel Sicarios to slaughter my men? Hmm? You honestly believed you could bully the Tarasovs inside our own borders?"
Anthony's voice never raised to a scream. It remained terrifyingly calm, but every single question was punctuated by a highly precise, devastating physical blow.
A punch to the stomach.
A knee to the ribs.
A backhand across the cheekbone.
Gramont, the untouchable, aristocratic special envoy of the High Table, was being utterly demolished. He lacked any martial training; he could only curl into a pathetic ball and desperately attempt to shield his vital organs from the onslaught.
Every single time Gramont opened his bleeding mouth to scream his High Table identity, Anthony flawlessly interrupted the sentence with another sickening punch, a knee strike, or a dark, threatening whisper.
"You are only permitted to speak when I decide I am entirely finished beating you."
CRACK! Another punch landed squarely on Gramont's jaw.
The entire brutal interrogation lasted less than two minutes, but to Gramont's fragile, pampered body, it felt like an eternity in hell.
His pristine, luxurious white bathrobe was entirely saturated with his own blood. His meticulously styled silver hair was matted with sweat and gore. His face was grotesquely swollen, his lips split and bleeding. The agonizing, localized pain in his shattered ribs made drawing a complete breath physically impossible.
Anthony finally released his grip, casually tossing the Marquis onto the cold hardwood floor like a bag of rotting garbage. Gramont lacked the physical strength to even twitch a finger; he simply lay on the expensive rug, emitting shallow, pathetic groans of pain.
Anthony stood perfectly upright over the broken aristocrat. He slowly, methodically adjusted his bespoke suit jacket, elegantly straightening his slightly disheveled French cuffs.
His freezing, completely emotionless gaze slowly swept over Gramont's bleeding, humiliated form.
Near the shattered doorway, Nick and Carl stood like two heavily armed guardian deities, remaining entirely silent as they watched the absolute destruction of the High Table's most arrogant envoy.
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