Duggan nodded.
He set down the sniper rifle and took an H&K MP5K-PDW submachine gun from Margarita's hands.
Without hesitation, he strode toward the stairwell leading to the underground passage.
Watching his back, John Wick's eyes narrowed with rare caution.
He had observed every one of Alex Cross's people.
Even Anna—deadly as she was—didn't radiate the sheer danger that Duggan did.
Alex noticed Wick's flicker of wariness.
He smiled faintly and tucked that reaction away in his memory.
By now, Duggan had already passed through the makeshift barricade the two defensive squads had set up.
He crouched, snatched a glass bottle from the ground, and crept to the stairwell entrance.
No peeking.
He simply tossed the bottle down.
It clattered noisily down the steps.
Then Duggan stepped right up to the corner and pulled the trigger one-handed.
Rat-tat-tat!
Bullets tore through the two Camorra soldiers guarding the underground passage, riddling them with holes.
Shooting as he advanced, Duggan moved down the stairs.
At the bend, his magazine ran dry.
He cocked his head slightly—breath. Someone was waiting just around the corner.
He dropped the SMG and drew his combat knife.
At that instant, a gunman swung into view.
Duggan's left hand snapped out, seizing the man's weapon arm and slamming it against the wall.
His right hand drove the blade deep into the assassin's throat.
Even mid-grapple, his peripheral vision caught two more enemies further down the passage.
He ducked low, yanking a grenade off the dying man's belt.
Click. Pin pulled.
He tossed it underhand through the corpse's legs into the corridor.
Then, calm as ever, he reclaimed his knife from the man's neck and pressed flat to the wall, pistol already in hand.
BOOM!
The grenade erupted in smoke and fire.
Duggan strode through the haze.
BANG!
BANG!
Quick double-tap. Targets down.
"Mr. Wick, you should be grateful we're on the same payroll."
Alex finally returned Wick's earlier joke with one of his own.
"Yeah…"
Wick didn't deny it.
Duggan's strength was undeniable.
That single word carried respect—for a fellow predator.
"First and Second squads, leave half your ammo and follow Jackal. Sixth squad, fall back into the underground passage!"
"Third and Fourth, relieve their barricades—hold the stairwell as long as possible. If you can't, retreat and seal the passage!"
Alex barked through comms.
Then, flanked by Susie and Margarita, he followed Sixth Squad into the passage.
John Wick, bound by his contract, stayed tight at Alex's side.
The two squads that had been holding the kitchen entrance fell back to reinforce the stairwell.
The leftover magazines replenished their near-empty weapons.
Inside the underground passage, gunfire flared almost immediately.
Rat-tat-tat!
Rat-tat-tat!
Relentless, furious volleys—like the final crescendo of a movie.
Within the underground training base, only three Camorra killers remained.
Barricaded inside the armory, they sprayed wild bursts from their rifles.
At the far end of the corridor, Alex could already see Anna waiting, poised for the moment to strike.
Both groups converged here.
This was the hardest part of the entire plan.
An armory meant unlimited ammunition.
The three defenders could fire endlessly, trading off reloads without pause.
One slip of movement, one shadow—meant a hail of bullets.
The narrow corridor offered no cover.
Even armored suits wouldn't save them from that storm.
But Duggan didn't flinch.
Pressed to the wall, he keyed his comm.
"Anna—watch my hand signals. Wait for my command."
He flashed quick gestures.
Two words.
[Advance.]
[Shoot.]
Anna gave him a thumbs-up.
Only then did Duggan draw his knife once more.
He inhaled deep—
then hurled it down the corridor.
Rat-tat-tat!
The defenders fired instantly at the distraction.
Duggan raised his pistol, his other hand steady on the comm.
Counting silently:
"Seven… six… … two… one… Go!"
At his word, both he and Anna dove forward.
Click—
The defenders' magazines ran dry.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Anna emptied her clip—most shots missing, but a few tearing into one of the gunners.
Duggan fired just three rounds.
Each bullet punched clean through a forehead.
The last man to die—
was the one who had been spraying like a madman only seconds before.