Bertrand Laroche stood over Preston's body. His tailored suit was spotless.
He hadn't used a gun or a blade. The weapon was a miniature titanium spike, no thicker than a sewing needle, deployed from a concealed mechanism in his cuff. He had driven it precisely into the vagus nerve node, three centimeters behind Preston's right ear.
There was no blood. No struggle.
Preston's pupils had dilated instantly, and then his massive frame collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings severed.
"What is the use of a disobedient dog?" Bertrand murmured, adjusting his cuffs. "Did you think Lord Gramont was handing out charity?"
He gestured to the four operators standing by the door.
"Deploy to the Lucky Seven Casino immediately," Bertrand ordered, his tone flat and clinical. "Kill the Bloods. Kill any Tarasovs you find. Hang their bodies from the front entrance."
The operators nodded in unison and filed out of the room.
Bertrand stared down at Preston's lifeless face.
A hound owned by the Marquis must behave like a hound. If it bites the leash, you simply acquire a new one.
To be perfectly honest, Bertrand despised the New York underworld. They lacked vision. They lacked discipline. Carlos, the Bloods lieutenant who had taken two million dollars and crates of weapons to betray his boss, hadn't even found the nerve to pull the trigger himself. His first thought had been how to spend the cash.
"You were foolish, Preston," Bertrand said to the corpse. "But at least you enjoyed your final days."
When Patrick Donald, the second-in-command of the Crips, walked into the suite five minutes later, his calves were cramping.
He had never been this close to the true edge of death before.
Preston's body lay three meters away, the dead eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Mr... Mr. Pembroke," Patrick swallowed hard. His right hand twitched involuntarily toward his waistband, but he knew drawing a weapon in this room would be suicide.
Bertrand turned slowly, evaluating the man.
Patrick was in his forties. His beer belly strained the buttons of his silk shirt. But underneath the sweat and the panic, Bertrand saw exactly what he needed to see: raw, unadulterated greed.
This was a man who could be steered.
"Preston is dead," Bertrand said smoothly. He withdrew a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the fingers of his right hand. "The Crips cannot be without a leader, can they?"
Patrick's heart hammered against his ribs.
He had shadowed Preston for ten years, crawling from the pavement to the lieutenant's chair. He had hated his boss's arrogant stupidity for years.
He kept his head bowed, nodding rapidly. "Yes... yes, sir. Whatever Mr. Pembroke decides."
"Decides?" Bertrand scoffed quietly. He closed the distance between them in two fluid steps.
He pressed the silver snake ring against Patrick's Adam's apple. The cold metal sent a violent shudder down the gangster's spine.
"From this moment, you are the head of the Crips," Bertrand whispered. "But understand this: you are merely my proxy. You do not need to form your own thoughts. You do not need to make your own decisions."
He let his eyes drift to Preston's corpse.
"He is an excellent example of what happens when a proxy forgets his place."
Patrick's face drained of color. Sweat beaded at his temples and rolled down his neck.
"No... no, Mr. Pembroke. I will obey. Absolutely. I swear."
He was practically kneeling, his posture radiating the desperate obedience of a beaten dog.
"Much better." Bertrand patted the man's cheek with the silk handkerchief.
He stepped back.
"The intelligence Tarasov fed to us was a trap. That woman lied to me, Patrick," Bertrand said, an easy smile returning to his face. "You know what needs to be done about her."
He gestured toward the door.
"Now, leave."
Patrick scrambled out of the suite. The moment the door clicked shut behind him, a hysterical, breathless laugh bubbled out of his chest.
Boss.
He was finally the boss.
What did it matter if he wore a Frenchman's collar, as long as he held the throne?
Patrick had no idea that across the street from the Paradise Nightclub, James and his five-man PMC element were watching from the shadows of an alleyway.
James tracked the movement through the customized optics of his AR-15.
Below, the heavy reinforced doors of the nightclub swung open. A squad of heavily armed men marched out and climbed into six waiting SUVs.
They moved in perfect synchronization, dressed in unmarked black tactical gear. Two operators carried Remington 870 shotguns wrapped in urban camouflage tape. The point man adjusted his gloves before climbing into the lead vehicle, exposing a distinct skull tattoo on his wrist.
"Blood Skull mercenaries," muttered Mason, a former SEAL Team Six operator crouching next to James. "That's the same signature group that hit the Tarasov refinery."
Another PMC chuckled softly over the comms. "Wonder if any of them used to be Tier One. I hope Nick isn't getting bored out there."
"Nick kept six men for the ambush," James replied quietly. "All Special Operations. He sent the Marines back to the farm. He'll hold."
He keyed his PTT button.
"Nick. Target package is rolling. Twenty-three hostiles, six SUVs. ETA to the casino ambush zone is fifteen minutes."
Nick's team had established a kill box near the Lucky Seven Casino, specifically designed to trap the elite strike team that had burned down Anthony's refinery.
James's objective was different. With the Blood Skull element deployed, the Paradise Nightclub's security was gutted. James was ordered to sever the head of the Crips' command structure and capture the elusive French handler pulling the strings.
"Gear check," James ordered, turning to the five men stacking up behind him.
Mason racked the charging handle of his rifle.
Behind him stood Phineas Barrett -- callsign "Old Cannon" -- a former Marine holding a customized Benelli M4 shotgun loaded entirely with 00 buckshot.
Evan Ferguson, the team's medic, carried an AR-15 underslung with an M203 grenade launcher.
Tobias "Rookie" Coleman and Alexander "Cowboy" James rounded out the squad. Both combat-tested Marines.
"Cannon, you take the door," James ordered, his voice all business. "Rookie, left wing with me. Mason, right wing. Doc, rear guard. Cowboy, high angle overwatch."
He met each man's eyes.
"We leave no survivors among the gang. Our primary objective is the foreign handler. The boss confirmed he's French."
James paused, his expression hardening.
"Do not underestimate the target. The boss engaged him personally and clocked his hand-to-hand proficiency at elite levels. Keep your distance. Put him down hard if you have to, but keep him alive if you can."
"Copy that," the squad murmured in unison.
Following Viktor's earlier feigned assault, the civilian clubgoers had long since scattered into the night. The building contained nothing but armed combatants.
James checked his watch. 23:17.
The Blood Skull convoy was closing in on Nick.
"Execute."
Old Cannon stepped up to the steel staff entrance of the nightclub and swung a compact breaching ram. The heavy thud masked the sound of the lock cylinder shattering. He stepped back instantly.
James and Rookie flowed through the doorway like water.
Two Crips security guards in cheap suits were leaning against the wall, smoking. They barely had time to widen their eyes and reach for their holsters.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
Four suppressed rounds dropped both men instantly. Three to the chest, one to the head.
Cowboy's voice crackled in their earpieces.
"Two guards patrolling the second-floor stairwell. They just turned their backs."
James signaled the advance. The team stacked up and moved silently up the stairs.
The second-floor corridor was lined with thick red carpet that swallowed their footsteps. The lights were on in three of the private rooms. At the far end of the hall, two guards stood outside the VIP suite, scrolling on their phones.
Having successfully repelled Viktor's earlier attack, the Crips' security posture had completely collapsed. They believed the war was over for the night.
Old Cannon didn't bother raising his rifle. He leveled his shotgun.
At twenty yards, a shell of 00 buckshot acts like a sledgehammer. It hits with the combined kinetic force of twelve simultaneous 9mm rounds.
BOOM.
The unsuppressed roar of the shotgun shattered the quiet of the corridor.
The lead guard absorbed the full spread. The kinetic impact lifted him off his feet and threw him violently into the second guard, severely wounding the man behind him with pass-through pellets.
Before the second guard could hit the floor, Mason and Rookie fired precise, suppressed follow-up shots.
The threat at the VIP door was neutralized in less than two seconds.
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