Rat-tat.
Rat-tat.
The muzzle flashes. From the right side—the eyes, the sight, the barrel—all aligned.
Double-tap bursts in rapid succession. Four High Table enforcers chasing up from behind are gunned down almost instantly.
With fluid motion, Wick sidesteps. Through the scope, he scans behind the four men writhing on the floor.
As he advances, he fires intermittently—making sure none of the downed killers can so much as reach for a weapon, eliminating any chance of resistance.
Only when John Wick reaches the four fallen assassins does the familiar glare of tactical flashlights—the trademark of High Table squads—appear at the end of the corridor.
No hesitation.
From above, holding his "750," Wick squeezes the trigger.
Bang!
Bang!
The last four rounds in his magazine slam into the foreheads of the downed killers, ending their misery.
Wick bends down calmly. As he ejects the empty magazine, his other hand searches one of the corpses, finding two fresh mags.
One is pushed into the chamber, the slide racked—round chambered. The other is tucked into his gear.
Behind him, the sound of footsteps begins to fade.
Raise.
Aim.
Fire.
Rat-tat.
Rat-tat.
Two more assassins fall with surgical precision. The rest freeze, then drag the bodies back into cover. Silence fills the corridor once more.
Only on the far left side, the distant echo of gunfire from five other squads continues.
Here, the hallway is pitch dark, suffocating, and oppressive. The floor is littered with the bodies of comrades who, just moments ago, fought at their side.
The killers still alive—hunted relentlessly by John Wick—cannot help but recall the gruesome sight at the front doors: severed limbs and shattered bodies strewn everywhere.
Faces pale, nerves taut, they wait.
Only after a long time do the two remaining squads cautiously lean out, moving toward where Wick had just been.
But Baba Yaga… is no longer there.
Elsewhere, hidden around a corner, Caine has not left.
He crouches low.
Cane-sword supporting him, left hand steadying the submachine gun braced on his right, he aims toward the opposite bend.
In this pitch-black corridor, he doesn't need to rely on sound.
The tactical flashlights mounted on the enforcers' rifles reveal their approximate positions with perfect clarity.
And now—it's the signal for another hunt.
One step.
An enforcer creeps along the opposite wall, beam of light edging toward Caine's direction.
Too late.
Rat-tat-tat!
Bullets slam into his chest. His rifle drops as he collapses.
Through his fading vision, he sees Caine lifting the muzzle—
Rat-tat-tat!
Three rounds. Straight through the jaw, into the skull.
Caine strikes, cold and decisive.
As the corpse topples toward him, Caine rises quickly, sidesteps, and fires again.
Rat-tat!
The shot punches through the arm of another enforcer who had been aiming at him. Agony robs the man of his chance to kill Caine.
Caine doesn't even glance at him.
He charges out of the corner straight toward a third enforcer.
Hands clamp down on the man's arms.
Kick!
Shoulder throw!
The enforcer is slammed hard to the ground.
The sword pierces his eye socket.
Caine raises the gun—
Rat-tat-tat!
Emptying the mag, he draws his cane-sword again. A quick slide puts him beside another wounded enforcer. Caine snatches his automatic rifle—
Rat-tat!
Two shots.
In the killer's unwilling, despairing eyes—darkness.
Caine yanks up the corpse, using it as a shield while bullets slam into it. He rushes forward, closing the distance to the rest.
A few steps away—kick!
The body is hurled into their ranks.
Caine flashes forward.
The sword gleams under the flashlight beams—slicing open another enforcer's carotid artery in an instant. Blood sprays.
Without pause, Caine whips a leg out—sending the dying body crashing back into the crowd.
Now standing his ground, he raises the rifle.
Rat-tat-tat!
A torrent of bullets sprays wildly, cutting down enforcers knocked off balance by the tumbling corpses.
By now, half an hour of slaughter has passed.
Sixty men.
Ten enforcement squads.
Already, most lie dead.
And yet…
The real crisis is only just beginning.
Top floor. Alex Cross's room.
Ramsey, seated at the side, suddenly speaks:
"Mr. Cross… the High Table's second wave of enforcement squads has arrived."
Cross glances at the sofa, where Anna and Fox are still watching Wick and Caine's rampage on-screen. Then he steps to Ramsey's side and looks at the laptop feed.
Two buses have parked neatly behind the six burned-out husks of the first wave. The doors open slowly.
Another sixty fully armed, well-equipped High Table enforcers march out in formation.
Cross knows—this is just the beginning.
But he is not concerned. He has already arranged everything in advance.
"Notify Margarita. Have her pull back to the sixth floor.
Tell the killers on the third floor to prepare—harass them as much as possible, but prioritize their own safety.
And…" He pauses slightly. "Tell Duggan—be ready to move at any moment."
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