Jimmy leaned heavily against the steering wheel of his patrol cruiser, his hands gripping the leather so tightly his knuckles were white.
His eyes were filled with a toxic mixture of grief, indignation, and a profound, suffocating sense of powerlessness.
In the passenger seat, Sheriff Rollins stared silently out the window, his mind replaying the horror of what they had just witnessed.
Half an hour earlier, they had intercepted a white, heavy-duty refrigerated truck on the highway for a broken taillight.
When they opened the rear cargo doors, they didn't find frozen meat.
The trailer was packed with over twenty terrified men and women. Some were bleeding; others simply stared ahead with vacant, hollow eyes.
The truck had been driving non-stop for days. The captives had been forced to relieve themselves inside the unventilated metal box. The stench of human waste, sweat, and fear was utterly overpowering.
They were huddled together like livestock awaiting the slaughterhouse, their wrists secured to a thick steel chain welded to the floorboards.
When Rollins had drawn his sidearm and ordered the Latino driver out of the cab, the man hadn't panicked. He hadn't even raised his hands.
He had simply reached into his pocket, pulled out a heavy, solid gold coin, and held it up to Jimmy's face.
"You must recognize this coin," the driver had said in broken English, a sneer twisting his face. "It means you have absolutely no authority here."
The High Table.
The cartel enforcer riding shotgun had stared at the two cops with absolute, untouchable disdain.
Rollins and Jimmy had stood there, staring into the dead eyes of the captives in the back of the truck. Even when the victims saw the police uniforms, there was not a single trace of hope in their expressions. They already knew the truth.
The two officers had slowly holstered their weapons, backed away, and watched helplessly as the truck rolled back onto the highway and vanished into the night.
"I absolutely hate this feeling, Sheriff," Jimmy finally spoke, his voice trembling with suppressed rage.
"More than twenty human beings... treated like cargo. And we just backed down. Because of a single fucking coin."
"We did not back down, Jimmy," Rollins said softly, his voice heavy with age.
"We faced reality. The geopolitical power protecting that truck is something local law enforcement cannot fight. Even if we arrested them, even if we had ironclad evidence, the DA would bury the file, the judge would throw out the case, and both of us would likely end up dead in a ditch."
"I refuse to believe Anthony is running a human trafficking ring," Jimmy said, desperately trying to rationalize the situation. "John Wick considers him a friend. Anthony wouldn't dare operate something this horrific under John's nose."
Rollins sighed heavily.
"We can't solve this through legal channels, Jimmy. Let's just go ask Anthony directly. If it's his truck... we report him to Internal Affairs and wash our hands of it. If it isn't his truck, he has the right to know someone is moving weight through his territory."
Jimmy nodded slowly. "You always told me... the people who actually save this city are rarely the ones wearing the uniforms."
When the two officers pulled up to Anthony's newly acquired estate in Queens, they found him lounging in the backyard, casually sunbathing on a patio chair.
The perimeter of the sprawling yard was heavily guarded by men in tailored suits, each openly carrying a suppressed M4 carbine.
Anthony stood up and smiled warmly as Rollins and Jimmy were escorted onto the patio.
"Coffee or whiskey, gentlemen?" Anthony asked, extending his hand.
"I apologize, Anthony," Rollins said, forcing a tight smile and ignoring the handshake. "We aren't here to drink."
Anthony's smile faded slightly. He gestured toward the patio furniture. "Have a seat. What's the problem?"
Rollins didn't sit. He quickly and clinically recounted the interception of the refrigerated truck, his eyes locked dead onto Anthony's face the entire time, searching for a micro-expression of guilt.
Anthony frowned deeply.
Gold coins.
Human trafficking.
Latino drivers from the West Coast.
"You think I am running a human trafficking syndicate," Anthony stated. It wasn't a question.
Jimmy didn't look away. "I sincerely hope it isn't you, Anthony. But you have the motive."
"The Tarasov syndicate is bleeding money fighting the Crips. You have established logistical channels for the Russian mob, the Eastern European syndicates, and now potentially the Mexican cartels."
"You possess the infrastructure to move this kind of cargo," Jimmy said, his voice pleading. "I really don't want it to be you. I don't believe a man John Wick calls a friend would do something this evil."
"I appreciate the vote of confidence," Anthony said, looking up at the sky.
"That truck belongs to a Los Angeles Cartel. It has absolutely nothing to do with the Tarasov family."
Rollins let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders. "You knew they were operating in New York?"
"I am currently investigating their supply lines," Anthony said smoothly, taking a sip of his iced juice. "You cannot interfere with this, Sheriff. It is vastly above your pay grade."
Anthony didn't mention the Hunting Ground, nor did he ask if the cops were investigating the missing homeless people. The less they knew, the safer they were.
Anthony poured a glass of whiskey and pushed it across the table toward Rollins.
"Listen to me, Sheriff. I want these Cartel convoys eradicated just as badly as you do."
"So, what is your tactical suggestion?" Rollins asked, finally taking the glass.
"Los Angeles to New York is a three-thousand-mile logistical chain. They aren't just running a single truck," Anthony said, staring into his juice glass.
"The next time your patrols spot a similar vehicle, manufacture a probable cause to pull it over. But do not engage the drivers. Do not try to arrest them. Just stall them on the shoulder, notify me immediately, and I will dispatch a team to handle the problem."
Rollins stared at him over the rim of his glass.
"We can provide the intelligence, Anthony. But we cannot become active accomplices to a mafia hit squad. Even if we possess the evidence, these cartel bastards will never see the inside of a courtroom."
"Of course they won't," Anthony nodded, his eyes turning cold. "But they will certainly disappear."
The next morning, Anthony's secure phone vibrated on his desk.
"They're back, Anthony," Jimmy's voice was tight and urgent. "Highway 78. A highway patrol unit just radioed in a suspicious white refrigerated truck about five miles out. California plates. The driver flashed a gold coin at the weigh station. They are heading inbound."
"I can't stall them for very long," Jimmy added. "You need to mobilize immediately."
"What is their projected route?" Anthony asked, gesturing for Sergei to enter the room. "And what is their escort compliment?"
"The primary truck is being shadowed by a black SUV. Six hostile targets total, including the drivers. They are projected to pass the East Paterson gas station in exactly fifteen minutes. It's the same logistical route they used last night."
"Maintain visual, Jimmy. We will intercept them."
Anthony hung up the phone and looked at Sergei. "Contact James. Tell his strike team to deploy to the East Paterson intercept point."
"Boss," Sergei hesitated. "Even if James arrives first, we can't afford a massive, open shootout on a public highway. The NYPD will be forced to respond."
Anthony had already anticipated this. After receiving the initial intelligence from Jimmy the day before, he had quietly relocated James and his elite PMC team from the New Jersey black site to a safehouse in Queens.
Anthony assumed Gramont's scouts had already compromised the New Jersey farm's location. He had moved John Wick to a secure penthouse and ordered James to prepare for mobile ambushes.
"If we secure the intercept point first, we absolutely cannot let them close to within point-blank range," Anthony ordered. "The Cartel likely deployed elite Sicarios for the escort detail."
Sergei immediately dialed his radio and jogged toward the garage to prep the vehicles.
Three minutes later, a heavily armored Ford SUV roared out of the Tarasov compound.
Fifteen minutes later, Sergei killed the engine of the Ford SUV, parking it out of sight behind a rusted fuel silo at an abandoned auto-repair shop one kilometer past the East Paterson gas station.
The harsh afternoon sun baked the cracked asphalt. A few crows circled lazily over the collapsed roof of the garage.
James stepped out of the deep shadows of the garage bay, followed by his four-man PMC fireteam.
They were dressed in civilian, dark casual clothing, but heavy ceramic plate carriers were clearly visible beneath their windbreakers. They carried suppressed submachine guns.
"Boss," James nodded professionally.
"We staged two intercept vehicles on either side of the gas station perimeter. We have concealed spike strips deployed across the primary egress routes. If they attempt to punch through the roadblock, their tires will shred within fifty meters."
Anthony checked his Patek Philippe watch.
Jimmy had reported the convoy was roughly seven miles out. At highway speeds, they would arrive in under ten minutes.
Anthony remembered the suppressed, boiling anger in Rollins's voice the day before.
The High Table thinks they are invincible because they possess gold coins. They are used to forcing the federal government to its knees.
Half a mile up the road, Jimmy had established a makeshift roadblock directly in front of the gas station, parking two NYPD cruisers horizontally across the lanes.
Jimmy and his partner stood behind the cruisers, acting as if they were conducting a standard, boring commercial vehicle checkpoint.
The massive white refrigerated truck geared down, its air brakes hissing loudly as it rolled to a stop before the barricade. The driver was a hulking man with a shaved head and intricate, dark blue cartel tattoos creeping up his neck.
The passenger rolled his window down. He looked incredibly annoyed.
"What the hell is the problem now?" the passenger barked, his thick Spanish accent cutting through the drone of the engine. "We already cleared the weigh station checkpoint an hour ago. Are you white cops just bored out of your fucking minds?"
Jimmy stepped forward, his expression an absolute mask of professional calm.
"Routine commercial transit check, sir. I need you to cut the engine, step out of the cab, and present your commercial driver's license and your freight manifest."
The bald driver muttered a vicious curse in Spanish and casually tossed a manila folder out the window. It fluttered to the pavement.
Jimmy bent down, picked it up, and flipped it open. The documents were forged. And they were sloppy—so obviously fake that a rookie could have spotted the discrepancies.
But Jimmy didn't say anything. He just stood there, slowly and deliberately turning the pages one by one, letting the seconds tick by until the passenger completely lost his patience.
"Are you done reading, pig?" The passenger shoved his door open, stepping down onto the asphalt and glaring coldly at Jimmy.
"Blue Devil," the cartel enforcer sneered, using the street slang for a uniformed cop. "You really need to think very carefully about what you are doing right now."
Read ahead with 70+ chapters now with daily updates!
@patreon.com/Authorizz