Bang Bang Bang.
The sound of gunfire abruptly silenced the music. Charlie Lee reacted instantly to the danger, yanking a woman beside him to serve as a human shield. Shots rang out, and two dancers crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath them. Other women screamed and fled, their frantic movements blocking Frank's line of sight, making it impossible for him to aim.
Charlie didn't hesitate. His reverse pull of the trigger on his pistol felled two bodyguards who were just beginning to reach for their concealed weapons—Chicago typewriters hidden beneath their coats. In a flash, their heads were riddled with bullets.
As the chaos unfolded, Charlie's sharp eyes locked onto the machine guns lying in the lifeless hands of the fallen men. Discarding his empty pistol, he rolled forward, snatching up both weapons as he rose. All of this happened in the span of mere seconds, so quickly that Frank's men, scattered across the bar, were only now comprehending the threat. Shouts of "Get down! Get down!" filled the air.
Charlie fired first. The thunderous roar of machine gunfire filled the room as bullets tore through the ceiling, sending sawdust raining down like confetti. The dancers, who moments ago were running aimlessly, now hit the floor, clutching their heads. Even Charlie crouched low, taking cover behind a sturdy wooden column.
Bang!
A bottle smashed nearby, showering him with alcohol and glass. Dazed, a terrified dancer sat on the floor screaming, her wide eyes meeting Charlie's for an instant.
Dadadada!
Bullets slammed into everything around him, ripping apart furniture and walls. A dozen of Frank's goons advanced methodically, their machine guns spitting relentless fire. Charlie rolled to his right, finding refuge behind another wooden pillar. Just in time—he watched as the dancer who had tried to attack him with the bottle was mowed down in a hail of bullets.
The sofa in front of Frank became a shredded mess of leather and stuffing, yet the gunmen deliberately avoided harming the two crying dancers slumped on it, shielding Frank from Charlie's line of fire. But they made a crucial mistake: the wooden pillar Charlie now hid behind gave him a perfect shot at Frank.
His decision was quick. Guilt for the collateral damage he'd caused was fleeting; survival demanded ruthless efficiency. Raising his machine gun, Charlie unleashed a volley of bullets. The two dancers shielding Frank spasmed under the onslaught, their bodies riddled. The bullets tore through them, into the sofa, and into Frank himself.
"Bastard! I'll kill you!" one of Frank's men screamed as rage consumed the group. Their gunfire intensified, shredding Charlie's wooden cover to splinters. He pressed himself flat, hoping the barrage would burn through their ammunition.
Puff!
A sharp, searing pain in his abdomen forced a grunt from Charlie's lips. Blood seeped through his T-shirt, staining it crimson. His first thought? Damn it, this was brand new.
"Come out, you coward!" someone yelled. "I swear I'll kill every last person you know—friends, family, everyone! Come out, or they'll suffer!"
Suddenly, the door to the bar burst open with a loud crash. A familiar voice shouted, "Charlie!"
It was Wang Dagou. Charlie's lips curled into a determined grin. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, he sprang into action. Launching himself forward like a predator, he closed the gap between himself and his attackers. The gangsters instinctively turned toward the door, their guns blazing, unaware of the danger behind them.
Charlie's fist connected with a man's lower spine, eliciting a sickening crunch. The man collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Charlie leaped high, his feet smashing into the heads of two more men as he flipped over them. Landing on his hands, he swept his leg into another's knees, toppling him with a scream.
The gangsters had no chance. Charlie moved with inhuman speed and precision, dispatching the remaining five men with ruthless efficiency. As the last man fell, writhing and clutching a shattered leg, Charlie dropped to the ground, exhausted. Blood continued to seep from his abdomen, pooling around him.
"Dog Egg, you've been shot!" Wang Dagou exclaimed, rushing to Charlie's side. He knelt and inspected the wound, his face a mix of concern and confusion.
"Am I gonna die?" Charlie muttered, his voice tinged with sarcasm but heavy with exhaustion. Wang Dagou didn't answer immediately, his brow furrowed as he studied the injury. Finally, he stood, shaking his head.
"Take a look yourself," he said.
Charlie peeled back his shirt. What he saw left him speechless. The bullet wound, once gaping, was already healing. Skin knitted together before his very eyes, as if time itself had reversed.
"What the hell?" Charlie whispered. Wang Dagou's voice broke his reverie.
"Are you… some kind of alien experiment?"
"Aliens? Don't be ridiculous!" Charlie snapped. But even he couldn't deny the absurdity of the situation. He clenched his fists, determination hardening his features. "Whatever this is, it's a gift. A second chance."
"We've gotta go," Wang Dagou urged. "The cops'll be here any minute."
Charlie nodded. Changing into clean clothes scavenged from an unconscious man, he and Wang Dagou slipped out a side alley, disappearing into the shadows.
The next morning, Chicago buzzed with rumors of the bar massacre. Frank Nitti, Al Capone's trusted lieutenant, was found dead, his body riddled with over 100 bullets. The Italian Mafia was in a frenzy, scouring the city for the perpetrators.
Paul Ricca, another high-ranking mobster, interrogated a cab driver who had unwittingly ferried Charlie and Wang Dagou to the bar. The driver's testimony led to crude sketches of the suspects—abstract faces barely resembling the real culprits.
"Sink him in the river," Paul ordered coldly, referring to the driver. "Find those bastards. When you do, I'll feed them to my dogs."
Elsewhere, Charlie and Wang Dagou sat in the mayor's office. William Dever, the mayor, frowned as he looked at them with exasperation…