Fourth Floor.
After eliminating three Enforcers, Duggan quickly shifted his sniping position.
He moved along the corridor, slipping into the far corner, half his body hidden behind the wall.
Turning sideways, he raised his rifle, aimed, and waited patiently…
Ten seconds later, tactical flashlights flared from the room he had just vacated.
A clutter of hurried footsteps rushed straight toward that room.
The last eleven Enforcers of the High Table were desperate to find the hidden predator hunting them in the dark.
But they were doomed to find nothing.
The moment the first Enforcer charged past the corridor into the room—
Duggan pulled the trigger.
Pfft!
With the suppressor muffling the shot, the faint 750 pop was drowned out completely by the chaos of boots.
They didn't notice.
But the bullet didn't lie.
The 7.62mm round drilled clean through the Enforcer's temple, blasting his head sideways with such force that his corpse toppled to the floor.
The men behind him froze at the sight. Danger registered instantly, and they hit the brakes.
But someone always reacts too slowly.
Through the 4x optic, Duggan caught half a head peeking around the end of the hall.
Pfft!
Another bullet tore through the man's temple, lodging in his skull.
Duggan rose, slung his rifle, and vanished again.
A top sniper never stays in the same place. Especially not in a maze-like hotel with corridors in every direction.
Sure enough, moments later, three Enforcers came in from another passage, hugging the wall as they swept the area Duggan had just abandoned.
They found nothing but two empty 7.62mm casings.
That was all.
And the shadow in the dark still hunted them.
It sent chills crawling down their spines.
Their instincts were right.
Duggan was already behind them, crosshairs trained on the rear man's skull.
Pfft!
The bullet smashed through his head.
Blood splattered across the faces of the other two. Startled, they bolted around the corner in panic.
Duggan didn't overstay. He packed up, vanished again, and relocated.
Top Floor. Presidential Suite.
As John Wick and Caine finished their brutal firefight, Anna and Fox finally shook off the daze from watching the carnage.
Anna in particular… John Wick's violent artistry had left her awestruck.
Fox, on the other hand, hadn't learned much—she already possessed solid combat skills, but often preferred to rely on her "adrenaline surge" to brute-force her way out of danger.
Alex Cross waved them over, signaling it was time to prepare.
They would be joining the fight next.
Both nodded. They stripped off their suit jackets, slipped into the lightweight vests Margarita had supplied, and pulled their ballistic suits back on.
They checked their sidearms and knives, then left the suite.
First stop: Margarita, to gear up with heavier weapons.
Once they were gone, Alex Cross sat back down on the sofa and closed his eyes.
He hadn't joined the firefights directly, but orchestrating every tactic, countermeasure, and adjustment had burned through his mental reserves.
He sighed, lifted his glass, and took a sip of whiskey.
Almost half the 48 hours had passed.
He wanted it over already.
His mind turned to the numbers.
By now, the High Table had thrown 480 Enforcers at the Lighthouse Hotel.
That number alone could have crushed any one of the Twelve Families' New York branches. Even the Continental would have fallen under that scale of assault.
But the High Table was global.
In John Wick 3, the Adjudicator simultaneously passed judgment on the New York Continental, the Ruska Roma, and the Bowery King. Aside from Winston holding out briefly, the others didn't dare resist.
From that, Alex estimated the High Table's standing Enforcer corps in New York alone at 800 to 1000 men—enough to suppress three major factions simultaneously.
And even in this war, they wouldn't exhaust that pool. They would hold back at least 200 to 300 men for emergencies.
Reinforcements could be pulled from across the world, and fresh graduates from High Table academies could backfill the ranks.
In their empire, human life was just a cold number on a contract.
Alex calculated: at most, the High Table could still send another 120 to 180 Enforcers.
Of course, he knew it was only guesswork.
But however far the truth strayed from his numbers, he was certain of one thing:
This 48-hour siege—he would win it.
Opening his eyes, Alex looked at the object in his hand.
The Emergency Squad Badge.
Its cooldown had finally ended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
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