The bald giant's heavy companions instantly froze in absolute, terrified shock.
They stared blankly at the massive, bleeding crater where their leader's face used to be, and then slowly raised their eyes to look down the dark barrels of the customized Glocks suddenly aimed directly at their chests.
The grim reality finally pierced their adrenaline-fueled arrogance: This wasn't a standard nightclub brawl. This was a flawlessly executed, synchronized kill box.
The heavy, thumping electronic music was abruptly cut from the club's massive sound system.
The heavy drumbeats stubbornly echoed against the marble walls a few final times before the massive room plunged into an eerie, suffocating silence.
Instantly, the dizzying, multi-colored laser arrays were killed. The primary venue lights snapped on with a blinding, sterile white intensity, fully illuminating the carnage.
The sudden sensory shift stunned every civilian patron in the building.
Anthony's freezing, heavily distorted voice suddenly echoed over the club's PA system from the elevated security booth.
"Clear the floor. All civilian personnel possess exactly five minutes to evacuate the premises."
Following three seconds of absolute, terrified silence, mass panic erupted. The massive crowd near the entrance screamed hysterically, surging violently toward the exit. Tables were completely overturned, crystal glasses shattered by the hundreds, and several people were aggressively trampled in the desperate crush to escape.
In the center of the dance floor, and tucked deep within the secluded VIP booths, the remaining patrons simply stood frozen, completely paralyzed by fear, entirely unsure if they would be shot if they moved.
The seven remaining "Fang" enforcers were entirely bewildered, clearly having failed to anticipate the nightclub security possessing tier-one tactical authorization.
"Break for the doors!" one of the massive thugs screamed, desperately attempting to rally his crew.
Tom had absolutely no intention of granting that request.
Tom and five other Vanguard operators had already flawlessly closed the localized perimeter, forming a perfect semi-circle around the thugs. Their weapons were drawn and leveled center-mass.
"Nobody moves," Tom's voice was as cold as liquid nitrogen. "The first man to twitch his biology dies."
Operating entirely on raw, panicked adrenaline, the largest remaining thug let out a feral roar and violently lunged directly at Tom, desperately attempting to strip the Glock from the operator's grip.
Tom didn't even blink.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A flawless, mechanized failure drill. Two rapid hollow-point rounds violently punched through the thug's massive chest cavity, entirely obliterating his heart and lungs. The third round cleanly penetrated his forehead, shattering his frontal lobe.
The heavy thug collapsed backward, crashing heavily onto the marble floor. His eyes remained wide open, locked in an expression of absolute disbelief.
The remaining six thugs completely mentally broke. They rapidly dropped to their knees, desperately raising their heavily tattooed hands in surrender.
"Hey man, wait! We were just hired to cause some property damage! You can't execute us for a bar fight!" one thug screamed, completely misunderstanding the reality of the geopolitical war he had just walked into.
"I already dialed 911!" another lied desperately. "NYPD is en route!"
Once the final terrified civilian had successfully scrambled out of the lobby, one of the Vanguard operators calmly pushed the heavy, reinforced nightclub doors shut, sliding the thick steel deadbolt into place.
Mike, still clutching his bleeding ribs, slowly walked forward. He stood directly over the kneeling thugs, looking down at them.
His eyes were completely hollow, devoid of even a microscopic fraction of human pity or empathy.
He gave Tom a single, shallow nod.
A sudden, deafening crescendo of rapid, suppressed gunfire violently erupted inside the silent club.
There were no localized warnings. No cinematic villain speeches. No dramatic standoffs.
Just the terrifying, flashing strobe of muzzle flare rapidly illuminating the horrified, contorted faces of the enforcers for a fraction of a second before their skulls were systematically dismantled.
Thick, arterial blood violently sprayed outward in every direction, permanently staining the shattered glass, the overturned velvet chairs, and the imported marble flooring.
One kneeling thug caught three simultaneous 9mm rounds directly to his sternum. The catastrophic kinetic impact completely hollowed out his chest, spraying a massive, fan-shaped mist of dark blood and pulverized flesh across the white leather of the VIP booth behind him.
Another thug caught two flawless rounds—one perfectly between his eyes, the other severing his lower spine. The pathetic look of terror permanently froze on his ruined face as his body went entirely limp.
The final two thugs desperately attempted to scramble backward or claw for their concealed weapons, but the localized resistance was entirely futile against the overwhelming, highly coordinated crossfire of six tier-one Vanguard operators.
The hollow-point bullets whistled through the air, systematically seeking out heads, hearts, and central nervous systems with absolute, mathematical precision.
The synchronized execution lasted exactly five seconds.
Eight massive, bullet-riddled corpses now littered the immediate area, leaking catastrophic amounts of blood onto the floor.
Small craters in the marble tiles actively smoked from the ballistic impacts. The heavy, metallic smell of fresh blood mixed sickeningly with the sharp, sulfurous odor of spent gunpowder.
Several terrified civilians who had actively hidden beneath the far booths rather than run for the exit were now curled into tight fetal positions, violently trembling and covering their mouths with both hands to muffle their terrified sobbing.
Mike clinically surveyed the slaughterhouse, his face completely expressionless. He keyed his throat mic.
"Boss. Primary target sector is neutralized. We are fully green to transition to the secondary objective."
Anthony slowly walked down the illuminated glass staircase from the second floor. He didn't even glance at the mutilated corpses. He walked directly up to the terrified Nightclub Manager, who was currently cowering behind the main bar.
"Contact the localized NYPD precinct," Anthony ordered calmly. "Inform them that armed assailants attempted to execute a mass shooting in your venue, and your licensed security element returned fire in self-defense. Ensure the forensic narrative remains explicitly focused on property damage and a failed gang hit."
"Y-yes, Boss. I entirely comprehend the legal narrative," the Manager nodded frantically, his face pale as a ghost.
Deep Brooklyn. Twenty Minutes Later.
Three heavy, blacked-out Chevrolet Suburban SUVs violently skidded to a halt, completely blocking the narrow street in front of a heavily graffitied, industrial boxing gym.
The dilapidated building looked like standard, localized Brooklyn trash. The rusted neon sign hanging above the reinforced steel door read: REX'S BOXING CLUB.
Beneath it, a faded line of text read: Professional Training. The Road to the Championship.
The heavy doors of the Suburbans were violently thrown open.
Anthony was the first operator to step onto the wet asphalt. His ruined left arm was absolutely screaming in agony, feeling as though a thousand red-hot needles were being violently driven into his bone marrow with every heartbeat.
But the physical pain didn't mentally weaken him. It operated exactly like boiling oil aggressively poured over an open flame, completely igniting the suffocating, homicidal rage he had been suppressing since he witnessed Mason's mutilated corpse.
Anthony fully understood that Gramont was actively utilizing proxy forces to bleed his syndicate.
He mathematically could not lay a hand directly on the Marquis de Gramont without invoking the apocalyptic wrath of the Adjudicator. But he absolutely was not required to adhere to High Table law when systematically slaughtering the localized stray dogs Gramont threw at him.
Gang warfare explicitly fell outside the governing jurisdiction of the Table.
Anthony fully realized that by engaging these localized proxies, he was technically allowing Gramont to lead him by the nose.
But so fucking what?
As long as Anthony slaughtered every single proxy so violently that the localized underworld became utterly terrified to accept Gramont's retainer... that was tactically sufficient.
Furthermore, Gramont's political clock was rapidly ticking. He wouldn't last much longer.
Anthony simply needed to endure the bleeding.
Tom, Logan, and Harvey immediately stepped out of the vehicles, stacking up flawlessly behind Anthony. They were still dressed in their tailored security suits, but the operational posture had drastically shifted.
Logan and Harvey both gripped heavy, customized Remington 870 pump-action shotguns.
There was zero tactical hesitation. Zero localized warnings.
Logan and Harvey simultaneously stepped up to the heavy, reinforced iron door of the gym. They aggressively angled the muzzles of their shotguns directly against the heavy, welded padlock and the primary deadbolt housing.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
A deafening, synchronized barrage of 12-gauge buckshot violently ruptured the silence of the Brooklyn street.
The catastrophic, localized kinetic energy of the point-blank blasts completely obliterated the heavy locking mechanisms. The reinforced iron door emitted a horrific, metallic screech as the primary hinges were violently sheared into twisted, unrecognizable scrap metal.
Sparks, pulverized brick, and jagged iron shrapnel violently sprayed into the air.
The massive steel door was violently blown completely off its frame, crashing inward with a deafening CRANG.
Inside the dimly lit gym, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of old sweat and cheap cigar smoke.
A dozen heavy, heavily muscled enforcers were casually gathered around a pool table in the front lobby. Several others were drinking at a small, makeshift bar. Deep in the back of the gym, two massive men were aggressively running drills on a heavy leather punching bag.
The catastrophic explosion of the front door was like a localized thunderclap.
Every single man in the gym instantly froze, dropping their pool cues and beer bottles, staring in absolute, stunned silence at the smoke-filled threshold.
Tom stepped cleanly over the ruined steel door, his Glock raised and perfectly leveled.
"Who the fuck are you?!" A massive, heavily scarred man who appeared to be the head trainer aggressively stepped forward, his eyes widening as he registered the tactical element.
"This is a private club, you're not fucking welc—"
Anthony didn't allow him to finish the sentence.
He fluidly raised his right hand and squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
The heavy trainer took a hollow-point round flawlessly between the eyes. A misty spray of blood and brain matter painted the wall behind him as he collapsed backward, dead before he hit the floor.
Absolute, localized chaos immediately erupted inside the gym.
"Holy fuck, they just flatlined the coach!"
"Grab the iron! Rush them!"
"Call the fucking cops!"
Several enforcers desperately scrambled toward a heavy weapons locker near the ring. Others frantically ripped their cell phones from their pockets, while three men desperately sprinted toward the rear fire exit.
They violently slammed into the rear doors, only to discover a secondary Vanguard element had already successfully breached and locked down the rear perimeter.
"Where is Rex?" Anthony asked. His voice wasn't particularly loud, but it possessed a freezing, terrifying absolute authority that effortlessly cut through the screaming.
Nobody answered.
"I asked a question," Anthony smoothly shifted his aim, centering the tritium sights directly on the chest of a young, terrified boxer kneeling near the pool table. "Where is Rex?"
The kid's face was completely drained of blood, his heavily muscled frame violently trembling. "I... I swear I don't know, man..."
BANG!
Anthony fired a single round directly into the kid's right thigh.
The young boxer let out a horrific, high-pitched scream, collapsing completely to the floor as he desperately clutched his violently bleeding leg.
"I will ask the room exactly one final time," Anthony said smoothly, fluidly shifting the muzzle of his Glock toward the face of the next closest enforcer. "Where is Rex?"
The man's psychological resolve completely shattered.
"Upstairs! He's upstairs!" the thug screamed, desperately pointing toward a narrow metal staircase near the back of the gym. "The reinforced office! The very last door at the end of the hall!"
Anthony didn't even look at him. He simply gave Tom a single, microscopic nod.
Tom, Logan, and Harvey instantly broke off, aggressively bounding up the metal staircase with absolute tactical precision.
Less than sixty seconds later, a violent, muffled exchange of rapid gunfire echoed from the second floor.
Two minutes later, Mike slowly walked down the metal stairs, effortlessly dragging a massive, bleeding man by the collar of his expensive tracksuit.
The man was in his late fifties, heavily balding, and possessed an enormous gut. He had taken a clean hollow-point round directly through his right kneecap, leaving a thick, dark trail of blood dripping down the metal stairs behind him.
Tom violently dragged the massive man to the center of the gym and threw him roughly onto the floor directly in front of Anthony's boots.
"Boss," Tom confirmed. "This is Rex Hoffman."
Anthony slowly looked down at the bleeding, terrified proxy.
"Tell me, Rex," Anthony said softly. "Did Marquis de Gramont explicitly ask you to send me his regards?"
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