The Hunt

"Viggo, where's your son?"

Viggo's teeth ground together.

In his sixty years as a crime boss, he had never suffered such humiliation. He was curled up beneath an oak desk like a stray dog, with the acrid smell of gunpowder from the bullet holes close by and splintered wood cutting his cheeks.

How could he still claim any of a crime boss's dignity?

His suit was coated in concrete dust, splinters were caught in his carefully styled hair, and several wood chips were embedded in the face that had terrified New York's underworld. Blood trickled down his arm, staining the Persian rug dark red.

"We... we really don't have to take it this far." Viggo's voice suddenly choked, sounding as wounded as a child who'd had his candy stolen.

The crime boss who had personally executed countless traitors was now wiping his eyes with a dusty sleeve. He couldn't tell if the tears came from the dust or from the despair of having his lifelong dignity shattered.

"Where's your son, Viggo?"

Viggo wiped the concrete dust from the corner of his mouth with a trembling hand. His voice turned hoarse. "Tell me, are you going to kill him?"

"That oak desk isn't very big. How many bullets do you think you can dodge?"

"Answer me!" Viggo roared. "Are you going to kill him or not?!"

A bullet was his answer. It punched through the solid wood desktop, and splinters buried themselves in Viggo's thigh.

He arched sharply, biting back the scream that was about to escape his lips. Only a muffled groan slipped from his nose, and blood soon soaked through the fabric.

"Where's your son, Viggo?"

Viggo yanked the splinter from his leg, and blood gushed from the wound. Clamping a hand over his femoral artery, he forced the words through clenched teeth. "Fuck the Red Circle Club!"

He hurled the bloodied splinter at the glass, already riddled with bullet holes. It bounced off and fell, sending dark red ripples through the pool of blood.

Inside a building 230 meters away, Beta methodically cleaned up the shooting site.

The M99 sniper rifle he'd bought from the Continental Hotel lay where it had been. It was a good, cheap weapon, but not worth taking with him.

He poured hydrogen peroxide over the rifle, not sparing the rounds left in the magazine. Finally, he carefully soaked the spot where he'd been lying prone as well.

Once he'd confirmed that every trace had been dealt with, he calmly left.

In the office building's lobby, two security guards were tied together back-to-back.

They had heard the gunshots from upstairs and were frantically trying to free themselves. First, they twisted against each other, trying to loosen the ropes, but found they couldn't get enough leverage. Then they tried to stand, only to lose their balance again and again. In the end, they could only brace themselves against each other and push, barely managing to stagger upright.

Just then, the elevator doors slid open with a ding.

The guard facing the elevator was the first to see the Eastern European man standing inside. The man's savage eyes made his legs go weak, and he dragged his partner down with him as they crashed back to the floor.

The guard pinned underneath let out a muffled "mmph." Both men had their mouths stuffed, leaving them unable to speak or spit anything out.

Beta, disguised as an Eastern European, walked over to the guards. The one who had already given up and closed his eyes got a swift, heavy punch, knocking out the man sprawled on top of his partner.

Then Beta grabbed the ropes with one hand and flipped them over. Treating the other guard like a punching bag, he landed a precise straight punch to his jaw.

After confirming that both men were deeply unconscious, he walked out of the lobby without looking back.

Beta never went after targets who posed no threat, like these two security guards. When he'd entered the lobby with his gun, they hadn't even waited for him to speak before turning back-to-back and standing at attention. It was hard to imagine why they were so practiced at it. Beta appreciated their cooperation, so he'd merely used his fists to send them off to sleep in peace.

Beta's figure disappeared into the shadows outside the building.

At the street corner, John Wick was waiting beside a black BMW 5 Series.

The car door clicked softly, and Beta slid into the passenger seat. "Head to the Red Circle Club."

The engine growled, and the BMW eased into the night. Several patrol cars with flashing lights passed them, oblivious to the sedan.

After a moment of silence, John kept one hand on the steering wheel and asked, "Is Viggo dead?"

Beta watched the neon lights stream past the window. "Do you want him dead?"

"I only collect debts from the person responsible," John said evenly.

"Then you can relax." Beta chuckled. "He was hiding under his desk. I didn't even see a single hair on his head."

Beta asked, "Got everything?"

John gave a short reply. "Yeah."

Beta turned and pulled a black bag from the back seat.

First, he took out a Kevlar jacket, a specialty item from the Continental Hotel. It could stop bullets, but not the pain. Next came a bulletproof vest, a tactical belt, and finally a pair of ballistic goggles and a half-shell Kevlar helmet.

"The goggles and helmet weren't my idea." Beta weighed the two pieces of gear in his hands.

"I added them," John replied, eyes on the road.

Beta pulled on the jacket, then donned the bulletproof vest over it. He tightened the tactical belt and drew a modified M&P-15 short-barreled rifle from its case. With an 11.5-inch coated barrel, a suppressor, and an optimized recoil system, the weapon was lethal at close range.

The rifle was clean and simple, with only the essential holographic sight. The magazine clicked into place as Beta finished loading it. He holstered the Glock 19 at his side, put on the ballistic goggles, and tucked the helmet under his arm.

"You're wearing nothing but that bulletproof suit?" Beta eyed John's neat attire. "You sure it'll be enough?"

John replied, "Old habits die hard."

The BMW's growl was deliberately muted as it slipped quietly into the sparse late-night traffic.

The windows blocked out most of the city noise, leaving only the hum of machinery inside the car. Giant neon billboards atop skyscrapers flowed across the windows: first, the exaggerated lipstick of some actress; then, a champagne ad with dancing bubbles; finally, the blue-and-white logo of a cosmetic surgery clinic.

The dazzling lights briefly painted John and Beta's faces before the darkness swallowed them again.

The car slowed and turned onto a quiet side street. Outside a bar, a few drunken men and women were arguing loudly about something. One man waved his arms in agitation. Farther down the street, two streetlights were out, leaving that stretch plunged in deeper darkness.

"Almost there," Beta said, his voice clear in the enclosed car, rising above the engine.

He looked down to check the safety on the M&P-15 and adjusted the goggles.

The car stopped, and John opened the door.

Beta buckled on the Kevlar half-shell helmet. The clasp clicked, the sharp sound jarring in the silence.

"Never thought I'd end up doing this kind of rough, face-to-face work."

Cut the weeds down to the roots, got it, got it. Next, we'll cut him down.