Chasing and Killing

"Viggo, where is your son?"

Viggo's teeth gnashed together.

In his sixty years of life, the mob boss had never been so humiliated, curled up under the oak desk like a stray dog, the scorching smell of gunpowder from bullet holes close by, wood chips splashing across his cheeks.

At this moment, where was any trace of the mob boss's authority?

His suit was covered in concrete powder, his meticulously styled hair embedded with wood splinters, and on the face that once struck fear into the New York underworld, several wood splinters were now lodged. Blood snaked down his arm, staining the Persian rug with dark red marks.

"We... we really didn't have to go this far." Viggo's voice suddenly choked, sounding wronged like a child whose candy had been snatched.

This mob boss, who had personally executed countless traitors, was now wiping the corners of his eyes with his dust-covered cuffs, whether from tears stimulated by the dust or despair from his lifelong dignity being shattered.

"Where is your son, Viggo?"

Viggo wiped the concrete powder from the corner of his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, his voice hoarse, "Tell me, will you kill him?"

"That oak desk isn't that big, how many bullets can you dodge?"

"Answer me!" Viggo roared, "Will you or will you not kill him?!"

The response was a bullet. The bullet pierced the solid wood tabletop, and flying wood splinters embedded themselves in Viggo's thigh.

He arched his body sharply, biting back the scream about to escape, only letting out a muffled groan from his nose. Blood quickly soaked through the fabric.

"Where is your son, Viggo?"

Viggo yanked the wood splinter from his leg, and blood immediately gushed from the wound. He pressed down hard on his femoral artery, gritting out, "The Red Circle Club, fuck your mother!"

He hurled the blood-stained wood splinter fiercely at the bullet-riddled glass. The splinter hit the glass and fell, creating dark red ripples in the pool of blood.

Inside a building 230 meters away, Beta was methodically cleaning the shooting scene.

The M99 sniper rifle, purchased from the Continental Hotel, lay quietly in place. This cost-effective weapon was not worth taking.

He poured hydrogen peroxide over the entire gun, not even sparing the remaining bullets in the magazine. Finally, he meticulously doused the spot where he had been lying down.

After confirming that all traces had been handled, he calmly left.

In the lobby of the office building, two security guards were tied back-to-back.

They had heard the gunshots from upstairs and were anxiously trying to break free. First, they twisted their bodies, trying to loosen the ropes, but found they couldn't exert any force. Then they tried to stand up, but repeatedly failed due to instability. Finally, the two could only cooperate and exert force back-to-back before they could barely stand shakily.

Just then, with a "ding," the elevator door slowly opened.

The security guard facing the elevator was the first to see the Eastern European standing inside. Those fierce eyes made his legs instantly go weak, dragging his companion down with him as they crashed heavily back to the ground.

The guard pinned underneath let out muffled groans. Both had their mouths stuffed, unable to speak or spit out the obstruction.

Beta, disguised as an Eastern European, walked slowly to the two security guards. He delivered a clean, heavy punch to the jaw of the guard who had closed his eyes in despair, knocking out the guard who was pressing on his companion.

Then, he flipped them over with one hand gripping the ropes. Like a sandbag, he delivered another precise straight punch to the chin of the other security guard.

After confirming that both were in a deep coma, he walked out of the lobby without looking back.

Beta never attacked unnecessary targets, just like these two harmless security guards. When he entered the lobby with his gun, they didn't even wait for him to speak before standing back-to-back, making it hard to imagine how they were so proficient. This sensible cooperation pleased Beta, so he just used his fists to send them to sleep.

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

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

The car door clicked open, and Beta slid into the passenger seat. "To the Red Circle Club."

The engine purred, and the BMW slowly drove into the night. Several patrol cars with flashing police lights passed them by, completely unaware of the sedan.

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

Beta looked at the flowing neon lights outside the window. "Do you want him dead?"

"I only collect debts from the principal," John's voice was calm.

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

Beta asked, "Did you bring everything?"

John replied briefly, "Yeah."

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

He first took out a Kevlar jacket, a special item from the Continental Hotel that could stop bullets but not the pain. Next was a bulletproof vest, a tactical belt, and finally, he pulled out a pair of riot glasses and a half-shell Kevlar helmet.

"The glasses and helmet weren't prepared by me," Beta weighed these two items.

"I added them," John replied, looking straight ahead.

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

Besides the essential holographic sight, the entire gun was clean and streamlined. With the click of the magazine being inserted, Beta completed the chambering. He tucked the Glock 19 into the holster on his hip, put on the riot glasses, and tucked the helmet under his arm.

"You're wearing this bulletproof suit?" Beta eyed John's sharp attire. "Are you sure it's enough?"

John replied, "It's second nature."

The purr of the BMW's engine was deliberately suppressed, quietly merging into the sparse late-night traffic.

The car windows blocked out most of the city noise, leaving only the sound of mechanical operation inside the car. On the towering skyscrapers lining the streets, huge neon billboards flowed across the car windows – first an exaggerated lipstick of a certain female celebrity, then a bouncing champagne bubble advertisement, followed by the blue and white logo of a plastic surgery hospital.

The dazzling lights briefly painted John and Beta's faces before being quickly swallowed by darkness.

The car slowed, turning onto a less bustling backstreet. Outside a bar, several drunken men and women were arguing loudly, one man gesticulating wildly. Further on, two streetlights were out, plunging a section of the block into deeper darkness.

"We're almost there," Beta's voice cut through the engine noise in the car's confined space.

He lowered his head, checking the safety on his M&P-15 rifle and adjusting his glasses.

The car stopped, and John pulled open the door.

Beta fastened his Kevlar half-helmet, the buckle clicking with a sharp, piercing sound.

"I never thought I'd be doing this kind of messy, face-to-face work one day," Beta said.

Cut the weeds and roots, those who understand will understand. We'll deal with him later.