The heavy buckshot slammed into the two Camorra gunmen as if they had been struck by an invisible freight train. At such point-blank range, their heavy ballistic shields were entirely useless. Their chests and abdomens were instantly blasted into a grotesque sieve of mangled flesh.
Fresh blood and pulverized internal organs violently splattered across the ancient mural of the suffering saints, filling the catacombs with a hot, foul, coppery mist.
"Reloading!" John called out, aggressively ducking back into the hard cover of the stone archway.
A scorching hot, spent copper shell violently ejected from the Benelli M4's chamber, clattering loudly onto the stone floor. John's left hand was already a blur, moving instinctively to the quick-load caddy on his tactical belt. Four red-cased shells danced between his fingertips as he flawlessly fed them into the shotgun's magazine tube.
Anthony's MP7A1 immediately filled the auditory void, maintaining the vital wall of suppression.
The specialized 4.6x30mm rounds trailed a faint, deadly line through the gunsmoke. Anthony didn't even bother aiming down the sights; he just tracked the muzzle, firing a tight, controlled burst that violently pinned a flanking bodyguard against the ancient stone wall.
Without waiting to confirm the kill, Anthony shifted his firing arc by two degrees and dumped another burst. A distant guard who had just raised his rifle let out a wet scream and collapsed.
In the 3D map constructed by his System's Compensatory Perception, the glowing red dots representing the hostile signatures were being systematically erased.
"Move! Now!" Anthony's voice, distorted by static, blasted through John's earpiece.
John didn't waste a microsecond to think. Trusting his partner implicitly, his body reacted as if pulled by an invisible tripwire, executing a desperate, low-profile dive toward a nearby burial hollow.
Almost simultaneously, Cassian's heavily armed lieutenant leaned around the far flank, his FN P90 submachine gun unleashing a blinding hail of 5.7mm rounds that completely cratered the stone exactly where John had been standing.
Panting heavily, Anthony slung the MP7A1 over his shoulder. The custom SIG Sauer P320 X-Five materialized in his right hand.
Crack-crack!
Before the Camorra lieutenant could even adjust his aim, Anthony double-tapped him. The man folded straight backward, dead before he hit the ground.
"The mute is holding position at the upcoming T-junction," Anthony reported, a ruthless, calculating smile spreading across his face. "I'm going to go invite her to join our little game of Russian Roulette."
"Be incredibly careful. Do not let her close the distance," John warned tightly as he continuously pressed forward, clearing his sector.
John knew all too well the absolute terror of Ares's ghostly CQC blade work. She was a top-tier Shadow; a lethal threat that even the Baba Yaga had to treat with extreme caution.
John took a deep, ragged breath, desperately suppressing the agonizing, burning pain of his cracked ribs. His body uncoiled from cover like a fully compressed steel spring.
John brought the AR-15 to bear, unleashing a deafening barrage of suppressive fire directly toward Cassian's position. A steady rain of 5.56mm green-tip penetrators mercilessly chewed into the cluster of stone pillars where Cassian's surviving team was pinned down.
The high-velocity rounds shattered the ancient volcanic rock, sending razor-sharp stone fragments and sparks flying like deadly shrapnel, instantly forcing the Camorra pursuers to keep their heads down.
Meanwhile, Anthony moved like a phantom darting through the deepest shadows, his MP7A1 gripped tightly in both hands. His Compensatory Perception spread through the labyrinthine catacombs like an invisible, omniscient spiderweb, allowing him to perfectly pinpoint the exact coordinates of Ares's advancing hit squad.
Anthony stopped abruptly at a blind intersection less than ten meters from the T-junction, pressing his back completely flat against the freezing stone wall.
He didn't even peek his head out to acquire a sight picture. He simply extended the barrel of the MP7A1 around the blind corner.
He pulled the trigger. The weapon dumped its magazine at a terrifying 950 rounds per minute, creating a brief, devastating wall of blind fire.
Anthony wasn't aiming at a person. He aimed specifically at the stone floor exactly half a meter in front of Ares's leading footstep.
The armor-piercing rounds shattered the stone tiles. The violently ricocheting bullets and razor-sharp rock fragments exploded outward like miniature claymore shrapnel, whistling lethally as they slammed into Ares's position in the dark.
Ares had absolutely not anticipated that "John Wick" would execute a blind-fire tactical retreat. Caught completely off guard, she was forced to abort her charge and violently dive backward into a clumsy roll, barely avoiding the brunt of the deadly shrapnel cloud.
Despite her evasion, several jagged shards of rock sliced cleanly through her tactical uniform, carving deep, burning gashes across her forearms.
That isn't John Wick, Ares realized instantly.
John Wick only moved forward. He fought with an unrelenting, brutal momentum. He never executed cowardly, blind-fire retreats like a cornered dog.
Ares vividly recalled Santino's absolute, venomous mandate before they departed New York: If Anthony Tarasov is with him, capture the Russian alive if possible. If not... butcher him at all costs.
"Hey, mute! Why don't you fucking die already!"
The mocking voice echoed from the far end of the tunnel. It was a voice Ares had permanently etched into her memory. A voice she would never, ever forget.
Anthony Tarasov.
The arrogant, despicable Russian bastard who had dared to draw a weapon on her boss inside the Continental!
A palpable, suffocating wave of pure murderous intent erupted from Ares's icy eyes.
She didn't even bother issuing full tactical hand signals to her Shadow guards. She simply delivered a single, absolute command with her eyes and a suppressed, animalistic snarl from the back of her throat.
In that exact moment, Ares had only one thought consuming her mind: I am going to tear this Russian bastard to absolute shreds!
"John, the rabid dog has been successfully lured out of the den. Now it's your turn to add some fuel to the fire," Anthony reported, his voice tinged with triumphant, heavy panting. "Hold a suppressive angle for exactly ten seconds, then immediately break west to avoid the crossfire."
John understood the trap instantly. The Benelli M4 roared back to life, dumping heavy 12-gauge buckshot to completely block the frontal passage of Cassian's advancing squad.
The massive steel pellets bounced violently off the stone columns, creating an impenetrable wall of secondary shrapnel that pinned the Camorra pursuers desperately behind cover.
A horrified scream echoed through the hall as one of Cassian's bodyguards tried to peek the corner. He violently rolled backward, frantically clutching his ruined face as dark blood geysered through his fingers.
The terrifying stopping power of the buckshot was magnified exponentially within the narrow confines of the catacombs. The lead guard's upper body practically exploded, as if he had been struck by a wrecking ball.
A gruesome mixture of pulverized flesh, shattered bone, and shredded Kevlar fibers sprayed violently backward, completely soaking the two men stacked up behind him.
John's devastating shotgun blasts instantly broke the tactical discipline of Cassian's squad. Pure panic and blinding grief overrode their elite training.
In the ensuing chaos, Ares's hit squad rapidly closed the distance, attempting to silently flank John from the opposite side of the intersecting tunnels.
Ares hung back slightly, exhibiting uncharacteristic caution.
Judging by the sheer volume of fire and the fact that John was actively retreating, it was obvious that Gianna had actually attempted to execute the Baba Yaga.
Ares calculated the politics. If she and Cassian accidentally caught John in a crossfire and killed him, that was the optimal outcome. If not, John and Gianna's forces would simply slaughter each other.
Either way, whether Gianna died or John died, it was an absolute political victory for Santino.
"They have reinforcements! Open fire!" Cassian roared, his voice cracking with rage as he cowered behind a bullet-pocked stone wall.
During the momentary lull in John's shotgun blasts, Cassian clearly heard the rapid, chaotic footfalls of Ares's squad advancing from the opposite corridor.
Cassian had absolutely no idea how many mercenaries John had smuggled into the catacombs. All he knew was that the opposing force was wearing unmarked black combat gear and moving with lethal, ghostly speed.
Assuming they were John's backup, Cassian instantly blind-fired his FN Five-seveN around the corner. The high-velocity 5.7mm rounds violently tore through the smoke-filled air.
Pfft!
The sickening sound of a bullet cleanly tearing through human flesh echoed clearly over the ringing silence.
Ares's body jolted violently mid-sprint. A massive geyser of dark blood erupted from her left shoulder.
The excruciating, localized pain abruptly shattered her momentum. The shockwave of the impact forced her fingers to open, and her prized tactical knife clattered uselessly onto the cold stone floor.
Ares looked up in absolute, stunned disbelief, her gaze locking directly onto Cassian's furious, grief-stricken eyes across the intersection.
Cassian stared back, completely paralyzed. He had absolutely no idea that the "enemy reinforcement" he had just shot was Santino D'Antonio's personal bodyguard!
"You?!" Cassian bellowed, his voice trembling with a catastrophic mixture of shock and apocalyptic rage. "It was you! Santino orchestrated this!"
The pieces violently snapped together in Cassian's mind. John Wick had been forced to assassinate Gianna by Santino, and Ares had been lying in wait the entire time to ambush the survivors and clean up the loose ends!
"Kill them all!" Cassian screamed.
His bloodthirsty Camorra subordinates didn't hesitate. Multiple rifles opened up simultaneously, spraying a devastating wall of lead directly toward Ares's position.
Ares was trapped. She was physically incapable of shouting to explain the misunderstanding, and the relentless hail of gunfire made it entirely impossible for her to step out and use tactical sign language.
Seeing that Cassian had completely blocked her only path forward, Ares cast a deeply resentful look down the dark tunnel where Anthony had vanished. A chilling, resolute glint ignited in her eyes.
She violently drew her secondary weapon, a Beretta Px4 Storm, and returned wild, suppressing fire in Cassian's direction.
Her bullets sparked violently against the heavy stone pillar protecting Cassian.
"The mute bitch is returning fire! They're conspiring to wipe us out! Kill every last one of them!" Cassian's bald lieutenant screamed, his eyes completely bloodshot as rage utterly consumed his tactical reasoning.
Cassian's men, genuinely believing they were the victims of a massive High Table conspiracy, leaned aggressively out of cover and opened fire with reckless abandon.
Two more heavy caliber rounds grazed Ares, tearing through her tactical vest and leaving deep, bloody trenches across her ribs.
Ares executed a desperate, agonizing combat roll, crashing heavily behind the ruins of a collapsed Roman altar. She immediately popped up and returned fire with the Px4, putting a bullet straight through the eye of Cassian's overly aggressive lieutenant.
Two more rounds sparked off the altar, grazing Ares's right arm and her thigh, leaving a trail of bloody ruin across her tactical uniform.
The immense physical pain, combined with the absolute humiliation of being manipulated by Anthony Tarasov, completely obliterated the last remaining shred of Ares's professional composure.
It was like boiling lava washing over her brain. Her usually cold, calculating eyes instantly flooded with a violent, blood-red hue.
Was this a betrayal? An ambush? Or just the pure, blinding stupidity of Gianna's guards?
It didn't matter anymore!
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