Anthony was calmly enjoying his lunch.
He smoothly dragged a silver steak knife through a perfectly seared, medium-rare filet mignon. He had just raised the fork to his mouth when the heavy dining room doors swung open.
Sergei strode in, his posture rigid. "Boss. We just received the after-action report from James."
Anthony lowered his fork and picked up a white linen napkin, methodically dabbing the corners of his mouth. "Go on."
"The two Camorra infiltration teams were systematically annihilated last night at the dock warehouses," Sergei reported, his voice as flat and steady as a man reading the morning stock prices. "According to James's preliminary sweep, sixteen Italian operatives were KIA. Four managed to break the perimeter and escape into the city."
Anthony nodded slightly. He reached for his crystal glass and took a slow sip of vintage Bordeaux. "And our Vanguard?"
"Two operators sustained minor shrapnel injuries. They have already been triaged and treated at the farm," Sergei paused. "James noted that the Italians possessed surprisingly high-tier tactical proficiency and heavy equipment. They simply didn't anticipate us deploying overwhelming, synchronized force."
"Of course they didn't," Anthony murmured, setting his wine glass down. "Gramont specifically slipped them into the city to act as localized troublemakers. He intended for them to bleed us in the streets, not to walk into a specialized kill box."
Anthony didn't look up. He smoothly cut the final piece of beef and placed it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
"Instruct James to leave the Camorra weaponry scattered at the docks. Let the local Brooklyn street gangs 'discover' the armory and play with the toys. I require New York's waters to remain aggressively muddy right now."
The exact second the words left his mouth, the violent, screeching sound of heavy tires skidding against asphalt echoed through the high windows.
Mike burst into the dining room. "Boss. The military is at the gates."
Anthony remained perfectly still. He simply turned his head toward the window.
Outside the fortified gates of the manor, three massive, up-armored military Hummers painted in urban-combat camouflage had aggressively blocked the driveway.
Heavily armed National Guard soldiers rapidly dismounted, their M4 carbines lowered but at the ready. The golden eagle insignias of their tactical unit gleamed brightly in the midday sun.
Immediately afterward, the heavy, rhythmic crunch of military boots marching across the gravel driveway echoed up toward the dining room.
Sergei stepped quickly to the window, peering down at the tactical formation. He frowned. "They only deployed two mechanized squads. Thirty men max. That's a highly irregular footprint for a military raid."
Anthony didn't even bother standing up. "They are here explicitly to investigate James's Vanguard."
Gramont is pulling geopolitical strings again, Anthony realized instantly.
Anthony leaned back in his chair, finished his wine, and casually lit a cigarette. He exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke toward the vaulted ceiling.
"Gramont is actively leveraging federal military records to hunt down the phantom PMC that humiliated him at the Hunting Ground," Anthony said coolly. "Let them search."
Mike stared down at the camouflage-clad soldiers actively establishing a perimeter around the estate.
"He holds a psychotic grudge against you, but because the Adjudicator is breathing down his neck, he can't authorize a direct assassination," Mike deduced, a harsh smile breaking across his scarred face. "So he utilizes federal lapdogs to prove you command an illegal private army? It's pathetic."
"Anthony Tarasov!" A National Guard Lieutenant stood just beyond the wrought-iron gates, his voice booming through a handheld megaphone. "We are executing a federal search warrant! You are ordered to comply immediately!"
"Open the gates," Anthony waved his hand, looking profoundly irritated by the noise. "Let these camouflage-clad Boy Scouts rummage through our trash cans."
Anthony slowly pulled the napkin from his collar and tossed it onto the table. "Mike. Instruct the security detail to hold their ground. Do not escalate, but do not yield an inch."
The serene tranquility of the manor's foyer was instantly shattered as the heavy wooden doors were thrown open, and the National Guard stacked into the entrance hall.
Mike stood leaning casually against the interior doorframe, his thick arms crossed over his chest.
Standing in a perfect, disciplined line directly behind him were exactly eleven massive, deeply silent men. They all sported high-and-tight military buzz cuts, their heavily muscled physiques stretching the fabric of their black tactical T-shirts.
The midday sunlight streamed through the foyer windows, brightly illuminating the thick, grotesque shrapnel scars covering their bare forearms, and the cold, completely dead eyes of men who had spent years operating in active warzones.
They didn't utter a single syllable. They didn't make a single aggressive movement. They simply stood there in perfect tactical formation. The sheer, suffocating pressure radiating from the twelve contractors made the air in the foyer feel as thick as lead.
The young National Guard Lieutenant swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He subconsciously tightened his grip on the polymer stock of his rifle.
The young soldiers stacked behind him began breathing noticeably heavier, their index fingers twitching nervously against the receivers of their weapons, deeply intimidated by the apex predators staring them down.
The absolute, silent standoff lasted for ten agonizing seconds.
"Sound off! Names and formal unit designations!" the Lieutenant finally barked, desperately attempting to utilize military volume to dispel the terrifying pressure in the room.
"Mike Sanderson. United States Marine Corps, 261st Medium Tiltrotor Squadron. O-3," Mike drawled, his voice laced with absolute boredom.
"Tom Smith. United States Marine Corps, 1st Infantry Regiment. E-7," the man next to him grunted.
After all twelve men had flawlessly recited their federal service numbers, Mike tilted his head, looking down at the Lieutenant.
"Lieutenant, our honorable discharge records and active private military contractor licenses are currently filed with the Department of Veterans Affairs and the State of New York. You possess absolutely zero jurisdictional authority to audit them."
The Lieutenant's gaze swept over the twelve heavily scarred veterans. He opened his mouth to issue an order, but the words died in his throat.
The federal search warrant Gramont had procured explicitly authorized the detainment of "unidentified, suspicious armed combatants." It absolutely did not authorize the military to arrest fully licensed, legally contracted American security personnel.
"Keep your men inside the perimeter, Captain," the Lieutenant finally squeezed out through gritted teeth, entirely abandoning the search. He sharply signaled his men to fall back.
The Continental Hotel, Manhattan
Inside the secure executive suite on the top floor of the Continental, Marquis de Gramont's face was a portrait of absolute, unhinged fury.
His grotesquely swollen, purple face contorted violently as he paced the room. Every sharp breath he drew pulled agonizingly against his fractured ribs, but the sheer, boiling rage eclipsed the physical pain.
Slapped aggressively onto the polished mahogany table was a thick stack of high-resolution reconnaissance photographs.
They explicitly documented the absolute slaughter of the Camorra hit squads at the Brooklyn docks.
The forensic reality of the photographs was horrifying. Clean cranial trauma, highly precise explosive breaching, and flawlessly executed throat lacerations. The tactical execution was mathematically clean, horrifyingly efficient, and utterly ruthless.
"Adjudicator, look at the forensic data!" Gramont's voice trembled with suppressed, violent rage.
"Overnight, two of the absolute most elite Camorra assault elements on the eastern seaboard were systematically eradicated!"
Gramont slammed a finger against a photograph of a dead Italian mobster. "These were not pathetic, drug-addicted street thugs from Brooklyn! Aside from the localized ghost-army of battlefield savages currently hidden within the Tarasov syndicate, who else in this city possesses this logistical capability?"
The Adjudicator stood perfectly still at the opposite end of the long table. Her face was an absolute, emotionless mask.
The exact same stack of photographs rested on the table in front of her. She hadn't even bothered to look down at them.
"Evidence," the Adjudicator said, her voice sounding like two blocks of ice colliding in the dark.
"Marquis de Gramont, the foundational rules of the High Table operate strictly upon verifiable evidence. They do not operate upon your paranoid, personal conjecture."
"Conjecture?!" Gramont practically screamed, spittle flying from his split lips. "Does this massacre require conjecture?!"
"Perhaps it requires investigating a frame-up," the Adjudicator finally looked up, her dark eyes locking onto Gramont with eerie, chilling calm.
"You successfully bypassed Table protocols to secure a federal military search warrant against the Tarasov compound. You mobilized the National Guard. And what exactly were the findings?"
She stepped forward, her voice flat and devastating. "Twelve legally licensed, American security contractors. Zero unregistered military hardware. Zero munitions exceeding the standard scope of localized security duties."
"Framed?" Gramont let out a wet, hysterical laugh. "Are you formally suggesting the Camorra and the Cartel framed him to frame me?"
"Why would anyone bother to frame a localized Russian gang leader? What geopolitical value does Anthony Tarasov possess to orchestrate such a massive—"
"He physically beat you, Marquis de Gramont," the Adjudicator interrupted effortlessly, her voice never rising above a conversational monotone. "He beat the untouchable Special Envoy of the High Table into a bloody pulp."
"He shattered your face. Following that humiliation, your highly classified Hunting Ground was mysteriously assaulted. Now, the foreign syndicates you explicitly permitted to infiltrate this city have been systematically butchered."
She stared him down. "I am formally documenting your use of localized proxy wars. But as for Anthony Tarasov—so long as his verifiable actions remain strictly within the boundaries of the rules, you absolutely will not touch him while I oversee this city."
She paused, allowing the silence to suffocate his anger.
"Gramont. Arrogance and rage severely cloud tactical judgment. The High Table requires absolute, clinical precision right now, not the fulfillment of your bruised ego."
"Kindly remember your primary directive: our ultimate target is John Wick. Not little Tarasov."
Gramont's face flushed a deep, sickly purplish-red. He clenched his fists so violently his manicured fingernails actively drew blood from his own palms.
"Fine. Let us temporarily assume this entire geopolitical catastrophe is a highly coordinated frame-up," Gramont hissed through his teeth, enunciating every single syllable with toxic hatred.
"Then answer me this, Adjudicator. If not Tarasov, who exactly in New York possesses the localized military infrastructure to systematically wipe out two elite Camorra squads in less than twenty minutes? Tell me! Who?"
The Adjudicator remained silent for a long moment, processing the tactical mathematics.
"Theoretically," she said slowly, "to execute a total annihilation of that specific Camorra element, with zero friendly casualties left behind, would require a minimum of forty tier-one tactical operators."
"As for the Tarasov syndicate's standing armed forces... according to the Continental's intelligence network, combined with the military audit you just desperately orchestrated, Anthony Tarasov officially employs no more than twelve men. Only five of which possess verifiable Special Forces backgrounds."
"So you are definitively concluding he is mathematically incapable of the strike?" Gramont sneered.
"I am concluding there is insufficient evidence to authorize his execution," the Adjudicator corrected, turning her back to him and staring out the window at the Manhattan skyline. "I will not authorize terminal action against any recognized High Table agent without absolute proof."
"You are protecting him simply because you sponsored his provisional appointment!" Gramont accused, his voice dripping with venom.
"The High Table is genuinely permitting a localized Russian lunatic to run rampant over my authority? You will simply stand there and watch his ghost army slaughter my assets, steal my offshore capital, and boldly inform me there is 'insufficient evidence'?"
The Adjudicator did not turn around. Her reflection in the glass was completely unbothered.
"Marquis de Gramont. Remember your place in the bureaucracy. I lack the unilateral authority to appoint an agent; that required the joint signature of the Harbinger."
"If you possess tangible, undeniable evidence of Tarasov's guilt, present it to the Tribunal. If you do not... I strongly suggest you shut your mouth."
Gramont took a ragged, agonizing breath, forcibly swallowing the atomic rage surging in his chest.
He spun sharply on his heel, his dark eyes locking onto the shadowy corner of the room.
Zero stood there. The bald Shinobi master was so perfectly still, so deeply integrated into the darkness, he was practically invisible. He radiated the terrifying, silent aura of a demonically cursed blade resting in its sheath.
"Zero," Gramont commanded, his voice trembling with homicidal intent. "Where are your disciples? Where are the eyes and ears of your network? It has been three days, and you haven't produced a single shred of actionable intelligence."
Gramont pointed a shaking finger at the photographs. "Deploy your network. Dig three feet into the concrete of this city if you have to. Find me the phantom army."
"The Hunting Ground breach. The Camorra slaughter. Track every single forensic anomaly. Leave absolutely no stone unturned until you bring me Anthony Tarasov's head on a silver platter."
Zero slowly stepped out of the shadows. He offered a microscopic, terrifyingly polite nod.
"Understood."
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