Gramont was using the "Hunting Ground" to systematically purge the New York underclass.
It was his first major chess piece in his campaign to conquer the city. While certain purists on the High Table might object to the sheer barbarity of the operation, the financial incentives—allowing billionaires and Table affiliates to wager massive sums on the slaughter—guaranteed their silence.
By commodifying the deaths of the city's invisible population, Gramont was bribing the High Table with blood money.
"We should call the Bowery King," Anthony said, looking at John. "Ask him if his network has been hit."
John understood the angle immediately. He pulled his encrypted phone from his jacket and dialed.
"Bowery King," John said, skipping the pleasantries. "Have you lost men recently?"
The abrupt question startled the King. There was a brief silence before he answered, his voice tight with suppressed, grinding fury.
"Thirty-seven of my people vanished this week, John. Thirteen more were found butchered in the subway tunnels."
"Do you have a lead?" The King demanded.
John glanced at Anthony, who was casually lighting a cigarette.
"Gramont," John said.
"Fuck," the Bowery King spat, a mix of shock and suspicion in his voice. "How the hell did you piece that together? My network hasn't found a single thread."
Anthony leaned over and spoke clearly toward the phone. His voice was laced with a cold, mocking laugh.
"Your Majesty. If you had stopped to consider that ordinary street gangs and low-level assassins do not possess the tactical capability to mass-kidnap your people, the picture would have been much clearer."
"Or did you honestly believe your 'invisible empire' was so terrifying that no one would ever dare touch it?"
Anthony had harbored a grudge ever since the Bowery King had ignored his request for information following the refinery attack.
Both Anthony and John knew the truth about the Bowery King's syndicate. They weren't just beggars and vagrants; they were a highly trained, decentralized intelligence network. Some of the "homeless" enforcers possessed combat skills that rivaled elite High Table assassins.
"John," the Bowery King's voice dropped to a lethal register. "Who the hell is that?"
Anthony simply reached out and took the phone from John's hand.
"The Adirondack Mountains," Anthony said smoothly. "Send your scouts upstate. You might find what's left of your people there."
Anthony hung up before the King could reply.
He turned to Radar. "Can you geolocate the exact position of the Hunting Ground from that video feed?"
Radar shook his head, looking stressed. "The enemy is employing a Tier One cyber-warfare team. Their IP addresses cycle every ten minutes, bouncing through servers in over a dozen countries."
"I tried to trace the signal back to its origin, but every time I got close, they funled me into a dead end or a honeypot. Boss... these guys are not amateurs."
Anthony looked at Marcus. "You still maintain active accounts on the deep web mercenary boards, correct?"
"I do," Marcus replied, narrowing his eyes. "What are you suggesting? Posting the video to burn the operation?"
"No," Anthony shook his head. "I want you to contract an elite, independent hacker. Offer whatever bounty is required. Tell them we need the exact coordinates of Gramont's Hunting Ground."
Marcus nodded slowly. "I can float the contract. I know a few brokers."
"Do not reveal this farm's location under any circumstances," Anthony warned. "Ensure your digital footprint is entirely severed."
Anthony turned back to Radar. "You assist Marcus. Build the firewall."
Anthony took a slow drag of his cigarette, his eyes drifting back to the paused video of the terrified accountant. He chuckled darkly.
"Don't you think Gramont anticipated this?" Anthony asked the room. "Don't you think he assumed we would eventually try to hire a cyber-mercenary to track his feed?"
Marcus felt a sudden chill run down his spine. "You think Gramont set this up to trace us?"
"Gramont is a psychopath, but he is certainly not an idiot," Anthony said calmly.
Radar went pale. He was highly skilled at corporate espionage and standard decryption, but he was painfully aware he was out of his depth against state-level cyber-warfare units.
"Boss," Radar swallowed hard. "If the hacker we hire is actually a double agent on Gramont's payroll... will they be able to trace the contract back to us?"
Anthony smiled.
He looked at John. "If that happens... we will just have to rely on the Baba Yaga to handle the cleanup."
"I understand," John nodded, his expression completely flat. "He set a trap to lure us out. But we are going to become the trap."
Anthony's phone vibrated. The caller ID read Abram.
"Anthony," Abram's voice sounded incredibly tired, older than he had been just a day prior. "Two things."
"I'm listening, Uncle."
"First. Anya is dead. The Crips did it. They hung her from the rafters of an abandoned warehouse beneath the Brooklyn Bridge. When the scouts found her..."
Abram paused, letting out a ragged, trembling breath.
"She died a terrible death, Anthony. She had over twenty stab wounds, none of them immediately fatal. They tortured her for hours."
Anthony's face betrayed absolutely no emotion. "Hmm."
"The second thing," Abram continued, forcing his voice to steady. "DeShawn, the leader of the Bloods, wants a sit-down. He wants to negotiate an alliance."
Anthony and John exchanged a look.
"He's terrified," Anthony said smoothly.
"DeShawn realized the Tarasov syndicate possesses the capability to completely erase a paramilitary strike team. He doesn't want to be the next target on our list."
"Will you meet with him?" Abram asked.
Anthony thought for a few seconds.
His mind processed the variables at blinding speed. Gramont's hunting game. The mass disappearances. The Crips torturing Anya. The Bloods begging for peace.
The fragmented pieces were finally coalescing into a unified, terrifying picture.
Gramont was playing multi-dimensional chess. He was satisfying his aristocratic cruelty with the upstate hunting grounds, using the New York gang war to test Anthony's tactical responses, and simultaneously bribing the High Table by letting them gamble on the chaos.
"Tell DeShawn I am open to an alliance," Anthony finally said. "But he must demonstrate his sincerity first."
"What are your terms?"
"The Crips butchered Anya," Anthony's voice dropped, ringing with cold, metallic finality. "She was a Tarasov."
"If DeShawn wants an alliance, his first act of good faith will be to help me completely eradicate the Crips from Queens."
A heavy silence fell over the line.
"Anthony..." Abram said slowly. "DeShawn is not a fool. He will not bleed his own men just to let the Tarasovs reap the territorial benefits."
"You misunderstand me, Uncle," Anthony corrected. "This is not about territory. This is strictly about 'avenging' Anya."
"If the Bloods want the protection of the Tarasov syndicate, they must pay the entry fee. Tell DeShawn directly: If he refuses to assist us, I will personally wipe out the Crips... and then I will wipe out the Bloods. Or, he is more than welcome to team up with the Crips and try to kill me."
Anthony ended the call and slipped the phone back into his jacket.
Marcus let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"You adapt very quickly, Anthony," Marcus smiled. "In this world, 'revenge' is often the most effective political tool."
"Gramont is fighting a proxy war on multiple fronts," Anthony sneered, looking out over the New Jersey tree line.
"He looks down on the New York street gangs. He thinks he can use them to force John out of hiding. So... let's show him exactly how violent New York can be."
Anthony turned back to Radar.
"I want you to dedicate every single resource we possess to finding those coordinates. I don't care what it costs. I don't care what laws you have to break."
"Boss, to punch through encryption like that, we might need—"
"I do not care what you need," Anthony cut him off sharply. "Do you need money? Server farms? Dark web assets? I will authorize whatever you ask for. Just find the Hunting Ground."
Radar swallowed hard and nodded. "I will do my absolute best."
"You will not do your best, Radar," John Wick said.
His voice was incredibly soft, but it carried a lethal, suffocating gravity that silenced the entire room.
"You will find it."
Everyone stared at John.
John rarely issued direct orders. He rarely allowed his personal rage to bleed through his stoic exterior.
"Gramont is hunting human beings for sport," John said, his dark eyes locked on the frozen image of the aristocratic hunter on the screen.
"I think it is time we remind him that some animals... kill the hunter."
Anthony nodded slowly. "Radar. If you cannot break the firewall yourself, hire the mercenaries. Let Marcus handle the dark web contracts."
Radar nodded frantically. "Yes, Boss. We'll find them."
Anthony turned and walked out of the barn, heading toward the training field where James Fitzgerald had just paused the tactical drills.
"James," Anthony called out. "Accelerate the training schedule. John will personally assist you with the live-fire combat drills. I need this unit operating at a Tier One level immediately."
James frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Accelerating the timeline means bypassing the foundational unit-cohesion drills and jumping straight into advanced urban warfare tactics. It's incredibly dangerous. We'll risk friendly fire incidents."
"New York is entirely dangerous," Anthony replied coldly. "We are out of time."
The global elite were currently placing bets on human lives, gorging themselves on the thrill of the slaughter. And Gramont, that elegant, psychotic aristocrat, was directing the entire symphony from the shadows, treating New York as his personal playground.
Anthony had no delusions of being a hero. He didn't particularly care about saving the kidnapped victims.
He only cared about taking a machete and violently hacking off Gramont's tentacles, one by one.
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz