Midnight Assault: The Battle at the Manor
Bang! Bang!
The crack of gunfire tore through the still night air, jolting the entire manor into action. Charlie Lee sat bolt upright in bed, his instincts kicking in as he grabbed the curtains and peered outside. The bright headlights of four cars illuminated the iron gate, and a group of armed men, no fewer than 20, with Thompson submachine guns, advanced with reckless confidence. Fury surged through him like wildfire.
Charlie kicked open the door to the adjacent room. Without hesitation, he grabbed Ingrid Bergman by the hair, yanking her upright as she let out a sharp scream.
"Did you lead them here?" he demanded, his voice sharp and unwavering. "Who sent you? Was it Paul? Tony? McGuin? Or Capone?"
"I don't know! I don't know!" Ingrid shrieked, her voice cracking under the weight of fear. Tears streamed down her face as she struggled against his grip. "No one sent me! I swear, I'm just a traveler!"
The sharp click of Charlie loading his pistol silenced her cries, the cold muzzle pressing against her temple. She froze, trembling, her breath ragged and shallow.
"Talk!" Charlie's tone was colder than steel. "Who is it?"
"No one!" Ingrid sobbed uncontrollably. "I'm just a 16-year-old actor from Stockholm. I came to Chicago to see the sights, not to die! Please, I'm telling the truth!"
Her pitiful cries pulled Charlie back from the brink of his escalating rage. Releasing her roughly, he took a deep breath, letting his anger dissipate just enough for clarity to return.
"Damn it," he muttered. "I lost my temper. Stay here."
He adjusted the pistol in his waistband and made his way downstairs. His men, hastily assembled, looked at him with worry and expectation as gunfire and taunts echoed outside.
"Jacob!" Charlie called out. "Are there weapons in the manor?"
"Yes, Mr. Dover left a stash," Jacob replied, his face pale but resolute. "Three Thompson submachine guns and a couple of Python revolvers. I'll fetch them immediately."
"Dog!" Charlie shouted into the growing crowd of his men, searching for Wang Dagou.
"Here!" Dagou raised his hand, pushing through the huddled group.
"When Jacob returns, take a machine gun and prepare to handle those bastards. We need to make a stand before they break through." Charlie's voice was firm and steady. He wasn't sure if his men—most of them young and inexperienced—could hold their ground, but retreat wasn't an option.
Just then, Jacob hurried in, his arms laden with weapons. A moment later, the phone in the corner of the small meeting room rang urgently.
"William," Charlie said into the receiver, his face darkening with every word his friend on the other end spoke. The bad news hit him like a punch to the gut. Their location had been compromised. Susan, a seemingly inconspicuous clerk in the municipal office, had betrayed them.
"Damn it! I'll deal with that traitor myself later," Charlie growled, slamming the phone down. "Jacob, take me to the armory."
Charlie and a group of his most trusted men followed Jacob to a small, hidden door. It led down into a compact basement. As the light flickered on, Charlie's heart lifted slightly. The room was stacked with ammunition and rows of "Chicago Typewriters" ready for use.
"Arm everyone and distribute the ammunition," he commanded. "No one gets through that gate alive."
Upstairs, Ingrid wiped away her tears and dared to glance out the window. The sight outside chilled her to the bone. The gangsters were shooting relentlessly at the manor's iron gate, laughing maniacally as bullets ricocheted off the steel.
"Why did I come to Chicago?" she muttered bitterly. "This city is insane."
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy boots approaching. Turning, she saw Charlie, a machine gun slung over his shoulder, his expression grim.
"Don't kill me!" she whimpered, backing into a corner. "I swear, I'm not with them—"
"Shut up and follow me," Charlie interrupted, his patience stretched to its limit. He led her to the weapons depot and gestured for her to stay put.
"Stay here," he said firmly. "When you hear the gunfire, curl up in the corner and don't move."
Without waiting for a reply, Charlie left her and rejoined his men, who were now armed and ready.
The sound of a roaring engine broke through the tense silence. One of the cars outside had accelerated, crashing into the gate with a deafening clang. Instinctively, a young boy pulled the trigger of his machine gun.
Dada-da-da-da!
The sudden burst of fire from their side sent the gangsters scrambling for cover. Charlie grabbed his own gun, shouting orders to keep the pressure on.
"Cover fire! Don't let them regroup!" he yelled, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Despite their inexperience, the sheer volume of bullets raining down from the manor forced the attackers to hesitate. But hesitation wasn't enough. Charlie knew they had to counterattack.
"Dog! With me!" he called, signaling Wang Dagou and a small group of men to follow. Using the walls as cover, they flanked the attackers. The roar of gunfire was deafening, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air.
Charlie moved with precision. His eyes scanned the battlefield, locking onto threats with razor-sharp focus. Every pull of the trigger was deliberate, every shot finding its mark. The gangsters never saw him coming.
"Push forward!" he shouted, his voice fierce and unrelenting.
One by one, the attackers fell. By the time the sun began to rise, the battle was over. The surviving gangsters had either fled or lay lifeless on the blood-stained ground.
Charlie stood in the middle of the carnage, his chest heaving as he surveyed the scene. His men—many of them teenagers—looked at him with awe. He had led them through the night, and against all odds, they had survived.
For the first time in what felt like ages, Charlie allowed himself a small, triumphant smile. "The future belongs to us," he murmured.
Behind him, the manor stood battered but unbroken—a testament to the resilience of those within.