$10, $20, $50, $100.
Hardy rifled through the assorted old bills—some wrinkled and faded, others surprisingly intact. He estimated there was close to $5,000 here, probably from Cook's dirty dealings, most likely drug money. He quickly shoved the cash into his coat pocket.
His search continued, and in the back of a cabinet, Hardy found a small, finely crafted box. Opening it revealed a gleaming gold watch—Rolex, no less.
This particular model was brand new, released only recently in 1945. Crafted entirely from gold, from the casing to the bracelet, it was the first of its kind. Rumor had it this watch was worth over $1,500—a real status symbol.
Hardy had heard some guy bragging about the watch in a bar just a few nights ago. He knew instantly what it was when he saw it.
The watch was still pristine, nestled in its original packaging. Clearly, Cook hadn't had the chance—or the nerve—to wear it yet.
Hardy figured he could use a new watch. The cash would go to Bill, but this little gem? That was his reward for the evening's work.
He pocketed the watch and took a quick glance around. The noise he'd caused was bound to attract attention. Someone would call the cops, and they'd be here soon.
He tucked the gun into his waistband, swiftly made his way downstairs, grabbed his hat from the rack, pulled the brim low over his eyes, and stepped out the front door. He slipped under the glow of a streetlamp and vanished into the night.
Fifteen minutes later, a police car arrived with its sirens blaring. Three officers emerged, cautiously approaching the villa's gate, their guns drawn and ready.
Pushing through the gate, they were greeted by a grisly scene. Blood was everywhere; bodies littered the floor. Bullet holes peppered the walls, clear signs of a fierce shootout.
"Get the FBI on the line. We've got a major crime scene here!" one officer barked.
By the time the FBI agents arrived, a crowd of reporters had already gathered outside, snapping pictures of the carnage within.
FBI agents conducted a thorough investigation, concluding that there was likely a single shooter. But beyond that, they found little else to go on—no fingerprints, no shell casings, nothing.
Neighbors were no help either; it was past 1 a.m., and most were fast asleep.
3:30 a.m.
The authorities removed the bodies and labeled the incident a Level One Major Homicide before leaving the scene.
Ring!
A phone rang sharply in a dimly lit apartment.
Click.
A desk lamp flickered on, revealing Fred glancing at the clock on the wall. It was 3:30 in the morning.
Fred, in his early forties, had the look of a man who'd seen his share of action. He was the de facto leader of the Austrian gang in Los Angeles, commanding a force of over two hundred members—a significant presence in the city.
His gang controlled several bustling areas, ran three underground casinos, engaged in loan sharking and smuggling, and dominated the liquor trade in five nightclubs and numerous bars, pulling in annual profits of two to three million dollars.
The phone kept ringing. Fred finally picked up. On the other end was his lieutenant, Alan Payne.
"I've just got word, Fred. Someone broke into Cook's place earlier tonight and took him and his crew out."
Fred was momentarily taken aback.
Just yesterday, he had been told that Cook, a lowlife associated with the Spanish gang, had gotten into a scuffle with one of their own, a junior member named Bill. Bill ended up seriously injured, his condition still unknown.
Fred had gone to check on Bill at the hospital, but by then, Hardy had already left the scene.
He'd planned to regroup with his men and assess the situation come morning. But this... this was unexpected.
"Any idea who did it?" Fred asked.
"No clue," Alan replied.
"You mean it wasn't any of our guys?"
"No, I've checked with everyone. None of our boys were involved."
Fred's brow furrowed. "If it wasn't us, then who? Got any leads?"
"Not much. The police said the FBI looked into it and believe it was the work of just one person."
Fred raised an eyebrow. "One guy took out Cook and his whole crew?"
"That's what they're saying."
Fred hung up and stared at the wall, deep in thought. If one person had indeed managed to take down Cook and his men, they had to be exceptionally skilled.
But who could it be? And what was their motive?
His wife stirred beside him, sleepily murmuring, "Fred, what's happening?"
Fred kissed her on the forehead. "Nothing important, sweetheart. Just some minor issues. Go back to sleep; we'll deal with it in the morning."
Meanwhile, across town, Dani stood over Cook's lifeless body, a cigar clenched between his teeth, fury etched on his face.
Dani, known as "Red Dani," was the head of the Spanish gang in Los Angeles. In his fifties and slightly overweight, he was still a formidable presence.
He had been a key player in the city for years, with over a hundred men under his command. His operations spanned bars, nightclubs, brothels, underground boxing rings, gambling dens, and most lucratively, cocaine trafficking.
Cook had been one of his more dependable men, managing a slice of the drug trade that brought in tens of thousands each month.
Now Cook was dead, and Dani was livid.
"Who did this?" Dani growled.
"It's likely the Austrian gang," said his advisor, Bernstein.
"The Austrian gang?" Dani frowned.
They were the biggest players in Los Angeles, followed by the Irish, with the Spanish trailing.
Other factions included Mexicans, French, and smaller groups of Russians, Poles, and Swedes.
"Cook had been losing heavily at our casino lately," Bernstein continued. "And he still owed us a fair sum. Yesterday, some of the Austrians came to collect, but Cook, high on coke, shot one of their men. And now, this attack."
Dani's face darkened, his cigar almost snapping in his clenched teeth. After a long pause, he muttered, "Damn them."
He and Bernstein left the morgue and returned to Dani's mansion, where they poured themselves whiskey and lit fresh cigars.
Dani stared into his glass, thinking hard. Finally, he turned to Bernstein and said, "I want the Austrians dealt with."
Aside from their usual illicit businesses, Red Dani's biggest revenue came from cocaine, raking in close to a million dollars a year—far more than their other ventures.
His territory was limited, but the Austrian gang controlled the largest area in Los Angeles. They had a strict no-drug policy, which Dani had managed to circumvent by offering their leader, Fred, a hefty cut. This arrangement allowed him to operate under their noses, but it came at a steep price—hundreds of thousands annually.
Dani had always resented this protection fee.
Bernstein looked concerned. "But the Austrians are strong, Dani. We can't take them on alone."
Dani smirked. "I'm not suggesting we do. We'll ally with the Irish, maybe even bring in the Mexicans, French, Russians, Poles, and Swedes. Together, we could challenge the Austrians. We push more coke, make more money, and stop paying those Austrian bastards."
"But the Austrians have the Mafia backing them."
"The Mafia," Dani repeated, his tone contemplative.
The Italian Mafia was the most powerful criminal organization in America, no doubt. But Dani had an idea.
"That's why we need the Irish on our side. They're strong enough to stand up to the Mafia. Hell, they even call themselves the 'White Hand' because of their beef with the Italians."
"The Mafia's base is on the East Coast—New York, Chicago, Detroit, places like that. Their presence here on the West Coast isn't as strong."
"The Austrians are like a thorn in our side out here," Dani added.
Bernstein had to admit, Dani was a sharp strategist. The plan seemed plausible. Even if it didn't work, the potential losses were manageable.
"How do you want to play this?" Bernstein asked.
Dani took a long drag on his cigar, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Set up a meeting with the Irish. We'll start there."
Bernstein nodded. "I'll arrange it first thing in the morning."