Top Floor - Conference Room
The alarm's shrill wail echoed through Viggo's office, cutting through the tense silence like a knife. He lunged for the phone on his desk.
"Monitoring room! Send me the lobby footage. Now!"
The large screen on the wall flickered to life, displaying multiple camera angles from the first floor.
What they saw made the blood drain from their faces.
Smith Doyle moved through the lobby like a force of nature—fluid, precise, unstoppable. Bodies dropped around him faster than falling rain. The entire security detail, twelve armed men, were cut down in less than fifteen seconds.
The intruder's guns barely seemed to pause between shots. Each bullet found its mark. Each target fell dead before they could even draw their weapons.
"Jesus Christ," Abram whispered, his face going pale.
Viggo's hands clenched into fists. "Get everyone up here! Every man we have! I want him dead!"
Anatoly grabbed his phone, fingers shaking as he sent texts to his crew. Abram did the same, barking orders in rapid Russian to his thieves downstairs. Within seconds, every available soldier in the building was converging on the stairwells.
Abram looked up at his brother, voice tight with barely controlled panic. "Viggo, who the fuck is this guy?"
"Smith Doyle," Viggo said through clenched teeth.
The name hung in the air like a curse. They'd just been discussing him—the unknown variable, the threat they needed to eliminate. None of them had expected him to simply walk through their front door.
Anatoly's voice cracked slightly. "Is he trying to be John Wick? Pull a one-man assault?" He laughed, but it sounded forced. "Even the Baba Yaga would die with this many guards. We've got seventy men in this building—"
The screen switched to the second-floor camera feed.
They watched Smith deflect bullets with a machete. They watched him decapitate two men in a single fluid motion. They watched him reload his pistols while walking over corpses, completely calm, utterly untouchable.
"Mother of God," Avi breathed. "That's not possible. That's not human."
Abram stared at the screen, his earlier bravado evaporating like morning mist. "What is he, another Captain America? When did the world fill up with supersoldiers?"
Viggo felt ice spreading through his chest. Winston's warning echoed in his mind: Don't provoke Smith Doyle. Don't even look at him wrong.
He should have listened.
But regret was useless now. They were committed. Smith was here, and he clearly wasn't interested in negotiations.
"I have a helicopter on the roof," Viggo said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "Avi, call the pilot. Tell him to start it up immediately."
Avi nodded and pulled out his phone, fingers flying across the screen.
"Everyone else, grab weapons and head to the rooftop. Now."
They didn't argue. Viggo, Abram, Anatoly, and Avi grabbed assault rifles from the gun safe and rushed for the roof access stairs.
Behind them, on the security monitors, Smith Doyle continued his methodical ascent through their fortress.
Third Floor Corridor
Smith stepped over another corpse, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the expensive carpet. The corridor looked like an abattoir—bodies everywhere, blood splattered across walls and ceiling, spent brass casings rolling underfoot.
He paused to assess himself. His clothes were ruined—bullet holes riddled his jacket and shirt. He touched one of the impact points on his chest and winced slightly.
His combat power was at 9 according to the system's measurement. At that level, small-caliber rounds couldn't penetrate his skin, but they still hurt. It was like being hit while wearing a bulletproof vest—the kinetic energy had to go somewhere, and Smith felt it as deep bruising and sharp, temporary pain.
He needed to reach combat power 10 to achieve true bullet immunity. Even Goku, at power level 10, had felt pain when Bulma shot him with a gun in the early Dragon Ball episodes. Smith wasn't quite there yet.
But he was close enough for this job.
Smith wiped the blood from his machete blade and sheathed it. Then he reached up and tapped the Scouter attached to his ear.
The device hummed to life, overlaying his vision with glowing numbers and indicators. Every living person in the building appeared as a glowing outline with a numerical value hovering above their head.
The remaining guards on this floor: mostly 3s and 4s. Ordinary humans with basic combat training.
Above him, on the roof: five contacts. Combat power readings of 4, 4, 5, 5, and 6. The leadership.
The Scouter was like having wallhacks in a video game—complete tactical awareness, no surprises, no ambushes. Every enemy was exposed by their own life force.
Smith's efficiency increased dramatically. He didn't even bother with his guns for the remaining guards. He simply rushed forward, reading their positions through walls, and struck with fists and feet.
A guard came around the corner. Smith's punch caved in his chest before he could raise his weapon. Dead instantly.
Two more appeared from a side room. A single kick sent the first one flying into the wall hard enough to shatter his spine. The second took a palm strike to the face that snapped his neck.
Smith didn't need to use advanced techniques like the Wolf Fang Fist for these opponents. They were too weak, too slow. It would be like using a sledgehammer to swat flies.
Within three minutes, the third floor was clear.
Smith turned toward the roof access stairs, checking his Scouter one more time. The five targets above were moving—preparing for something.
Time to end this.
Rooftop
The helicopter's rotors were already spinning when Smith kicked the roof access door off its hinges and stepped out into the night air.
The helicopter sat in the center of the rooftop landing pad, its engine whining as the pilot brought it up to takeoff speed. Viggo, Avi, Abram, and Anatoly were climbing aboard, assault rifles in their hands.
Viggo saw Smith emerge and screamed over the rotor noise: "GO! GO! PULL UP!"
The helicopter began to lift off, rising slowly away from the rooftop.
Smith smiled coldly and called out loud enough to be heard: "How convenient! All the Russian mob leadership in one place. Saves me the trouble of hunting you down individually."
Avi, already inside the helicopter, leaned out of the open cabin door and shouted desperately: "Mr. Smith! Can we negotiate? We can pay you! Name your price!"
Smith's smile widened. "Why would I negotiate when I can just kill you and take everything anyway? All your money, all your assets—they'll be mine regardless."
The response clearly wasn't what Avi had hoped for. Abram and Anatoly exchanged glances, then raised their assault rifles and opened fire.
Bullets tore through the air toward Smith—but he was already moving. He sprinted directly toward the helicopter, not bothering to dodge or take cover. The rounds that hit him sparked off his skin like they were hitting steel, leaving nothing but fading red marks and torn clothing.
The helicopter was six feet off the roof now, gaining altitude rapidly.
Smith didn't try to jump for it—even with his enhanced abilities, the angle was wrong. Instead, he reached into his inventory and pulled out Puar.
The small, floating cat-like creature appeared in his hand, looking excited and eager.
"Puar, transform into a rope and attach to the helicopter's landing skid!"
"Yes, Master Smith!"
Puar's body shimmered and stretched, transforming into a long, flexible rope. One end wrapped itself tightly around the helicopter's skid. The other end Smith grabbed with both hands.
The helicopter was twelve feet up now, trying to gain altitude and distance.
Smith crouched, coiled his muscles, and launched himself upward.
He swung up on the rope like an acrobat, his momentum carrying him directly into the open cabin door. Abram tried to bring his rifle around, but Smith was already inside, too close for the weapon to be useful.
The cabin erupted in muzzle flashes and chaos.
Three seconds later: silence.
Everyone dead.
Smith threw Viggo's corpse out of the cabin. The mob boss's body tumbled through the air and landed with a wet thump on the rooftop far below, eyes still wide with shock.
Then Avi. Then Anatoly. Then Abram.
Four bodies, four leaders, the entire command structure of the Russian mob eliminated in less than ten seconds.
The pilot tried to reach for a sidearm, but Smith put a bullet through his head before his fingers touched the grip.
Smith calmly stepped to the cabin door and jumped, landing on the rooftop in a perfect three-point crouch. The impact cracked the concrete beneath his feet but didn't even jar his knees.
"Master Smith!" Puar released his transformation and flew over, resuming his normal cat-like form. "That was amazing! You defeated all the bad guys!"
The helicopter, now pilotless, began to spiral out of control. Its nose dipped, the tail rotor swung wild, and it plummeted toward the street below.
It crashed directly in front of the club's main entrance and exploded in a massive fireball, lighting up the night sky. Flames roared upward, black smoke billowing.
The Russian mob's reign in New York ended with fire and blood.
Smith pulled out his phone and dialed Cross.
The call connected immediately. "Yes?"
"All primary targets eliminated," Smith reported, his voice businesslike. "Viggo Tarasov, Avi Volkov, Abram Tarasov, Anatoly Barinov —all dead. Core combat personnel are completely wiped out. Approximately two hundred confirmed kills between my operation and John Wick's prior assault."
He paused, glancing at the burning wreckage below. "Solo mission to dismantle the Russian mob: complete."
There was a moment of silence on the other end. Cross had expected success—he wouldn't have approved Smith's assessment otherwise—but the speed clearly surprised him.
"Already?" Cross said finally. "I thought this would take at least three days."
"It took three hours," Smith corrected.
Another pause. Then Cross's voice came through, formal and weighted with significance: "Congratulations, GOD. As of this moment, you are the confirmed leader of the Assassin's League."
Smith felt something settle in his chest—not pride exactly, but satisfaction. Eighteen years of preparation, complete.
"Send cleaning crews to this location," Smith continued. "I want every asset seized—their cash reserves, property deeds, blackmail material, everything. Also need body disposal teams. There are over a hundred corpses in this building."
"Already mobilizing," Cross confirmed. "Teams will arrive within twenty minutes. Anything else?"
"That's all for now."
Smith ended the call and headed for the stairs. Behind him, Puar floated along cheerfully, humming what sounded like a victory theme.
Ground Floor
John Wick arrived just as the helicopter exploded.
He'd spent the last hour gearing up—body armor, spare magazines, grenades, multiple pistols, tactical shotgun, everything he'd need to assault a fortified position. His tactical vest bulged with equipment. His backpack held even more ammunition and medical supplies.
He'd been prepared to fight his way through seventy mob soldiers to reach Viggo Tarasov.
Instead, he watched a helicopter fall from the sky and crash in a ball of flame.
John sat in his Charger for a long moment, staring at the burning wreckage, his brain trying to process what he was seeing.
Then he got out and approached the club, weapons ready.
The guards at the front entrance were dead—headshots, all of them. The door stood open.
John entered the lobby and froze.
The scene inside looked like something from a war zone. Bodies everywhere. Blood pooled on the floor. The metallic smell of death hung thick in the air. Every single guard was dead, killed with surgical precision.
John had seen massacres before. He'd caused massacres before. But this was different. This was... efficient. Clinical. This wasn't combat—it was pest control.
Footsteps on the stairs made him spin, weapons rising automatically.
Smith Doyle descended from the upper floors, his clothes torn and bloodied but otherwise unharmed. Puar floated beside him, looking pleased with himself.
At Smith's feet—because he'd apparently carried it down from the roof—lay Viggo Tarasov's corpse.
John stared. "Mr. Smith... did you do all of this? Alone?"