John Wick - Chapter 178: Ambush (Patreon)

Nate stood in front of the car, facing the three men who had emerged from the woods on the other side.

They were roughly eighty meters away.

The man in the middle looked to be in his forties. A dark gray suit covered his generous belly, and his square face was framed by hair combed meticulously backward.

An almost-smile tugged at his lips. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers.

On either side stood a bald man dressed in black tactical gear.

Their builds were so evenly proportioned it looked unnatural. Both stood in precisely the same pose, arms hanging at their sides and empty eyes fixed ahead, like statues produced from a single mold.

Nate's eyelid twitched when he saw them. Stranger still, he couldn't sense even a flicker of killing intent or danger from either man.

The man in the center spoke with the painstaking enunciation of an Englishman. “Agent 47. And this gentleman... what a coincidence.”

Half a step to Nate's side, 47 remained silent. Nate could see that his expression had turned grave.

“You blew up my most important research facility,” the man continued, sounding almost indifferent. “No matter. I'm not going to survive this anyway. The High Table certainly won't let me go...”

“And neither will you. Am I right?” He directed the question at 47.

47 answered by raising his pistol and firing at Travis without a word.

The bullet flew toward Travis's forehead. One of the bald men threw out an arm to intercept it. The round struck his forearm but failed to penetrate, drawing only a small spray of blood.

47's face darkened at once.

When the man lowered his arm, Travis shook his head and smiled at 47.

“The High Table thought it had me cornered. I suppose you did too, 47. What makes all of you so confident?”

He glanced with satisfaction at the two bald men beside him, then patted the shoulder of the one who had been shot. The man didn't so much as twitch.

“Allow me to introduce my final batch of products. Fourth-and-a-half-generation clones. They're stronger than you, 47, and better yet...”

Travis's smile widened. “They don't suffer from such needless defects as thoughts or emotions. I call them the Silent Ones.”

Now Nate could see their faces clearly. The same features, the same vacant expressions, the same rigid, mechanical stillness.

Standing in the shadows beneath a streetlamp, their eyes reflected an amber light. Everything about them was so perfectly identical it made his skin crawl.

“Benjamin Travis.” When 47 finally spoke, his voice was even colder than usual.

“Did you get this technology from Ort-Meyer? You've certainly found a use for it.”

Nate had to agree. This wasn't how the game had gone at all. In the game, Travis was obsessed with Victoria, the fifth-generation clone. He would never have settled for an inferior substitute like this.

Not having emotions was hardly a problem for an assassin. But if someone couldn't think, what separated him from a machine? Could such a thing even work as a killer?

Travis gave a small laugh and slipped the unlit cigar between his lips, leaving it there without striking a match.

A moment later, something seemed to occur to him. Arrogance and utter self-assurance spread across his face.

“His technology? He was a failure! But I'm nothing like him!”

“Forty-seven, you've spent years working for the ICA. Surely you've learned one simple truth.” He tilted his head.

“When a tool gets old, you replace it. You're an outdated tool, and a tool that no longer works properly has to be thrown away. But don't worry...”

He waved toward the bushes behind him. “Neither of you is leaving today. I brought enough men to send you to your graves. They cost me a fortune.”

More than a dozen pairs of amber eyes opened together in the woods. Their owners moved out of the shadows, spread into formation, and joined Travis and the two men already at his side.

Well, would you look at that. An entire crowd of enormous bald heads, gleaming magnificently in the morning sun.

Nate took a step back and raised a hand to shield his eyes. The polished scalps caught the early light like a row of golden mirrors. They were almost painfully bright.

Beside him, 47 narrowed his eyes too, although far less conspicuously.

“How many?” he asked under his breath.

A fan of golden playing cards had already appeared between Nate's fingers. “Eighteen.”

“How many can you handle?” 47 checked the chambers of his pistols. The slides clicked sharply as they returned to position.

“Eighteen.”

47 froze. After a beat, he turned to stare at Nate, one eyebrow lifting. For once, genuine bewilderment crossed his normally impassive face.

“All eighteen are yours?”

“Of course,” Nate replied as if that were obvious.

47 gave him one more look, then silently faced forward again.

A long black shape took form in Nate's hands. It was a Barrett sniper rifle, materializing as though from thin air.

Bending down, he rested the rifle against the car, keeping it concealed from the men opposite him behind the open door.

From where they stood, they couldn't see that a massive new gun had appeared.

“Remind me, what was the score earlier?” Nate asked with a grin. He pulled several Barrett magazines out of his System Backpack and casually dropped them on the ground.

“Fifteen to eight. I had fifteen,” 47 answered without changing his expression.

“Wow. You've really been keeping track, huh?” Nate's mouth curved upward.

47 refused to take the bait. His attention had already returned to the enemy.

Beyond the opposing convoy, Travis raised a hand. He pointed a finger toward Nate and 47, then dragged it downward.

He stepped back and snapped his fingers.

All eighteen clones advanced a single pace in perfect unison.

Their tactical boots struck the ground with one heavy thud. Then, in flawless synchronization, each man drew a short knife with his left hand and a pistol with his right.

Knives angled outward and muzzles aimed ahead. Eighteen black barrels formed one level line.

The clones began marching toward Nate and 47.

Every stride looked measured with a ruler. All eighteen bodies held exactly the same orientation as they moved, like precision machines gliding along the ground.

Their boots beat out a low, relentless rhythm that remained audible from dozens of meters away. Somehow, it made their advance feel even more threatening.

In the time it took to watch them, they had covered almost ten meters.

Not a single gap opened in the formation. The space between each man remained identical, their knife tips never wavered, and every pistol sight pointed in the same direction.

Nate couldn't help smiling. You didn't often get targets generous enough to stand in a neat row and invite you to shoot them. What on earth were these people thinking?

“Care for a competition?” He pressed himself against the car, flicked his hand, and summoned his AN-94. Keeping the weapon hidden behind the bodywork, he lowered the muzzle and crouched.

“Sure.” This time, 47 answered as soon as the words left Nate's mouth, with neither hesitation nor a long silence.

47 raised both pistols by the smallest of angles. Their muzzles cleared the hood, and his sights settled on the forehead of the third clone from the left.

Nate drew a deep breath, took one step to his left, and crouched behind the front wheel.

“Then let's do it!” He brought up his AN-94.

Before he'd even finished speaking, 47 opened fire.

“Ping! Ping!”