At 8:00 PM, the envelope arrived right on time at the 22nd block. It was discreetly handed off by a slow-moving vehicle driven by a weary Chinese worker returning home from his shift.
By the time the envelope reached its destination, half an hour had passed.
"Well, that's a coincidence," Charlie Lee muttered, a sarcastic smirk playing on his lips as he read the name scribbled on the envelope.
"Monk, grab your men and follow me," Charlie instructed firmly. The "Monk" he referred to was one of the six men who had fought alongside him the previous night, charging headfirst into a hail of bullets to fend off a group of ruthless Mafia shooters.
Though reckless, the courage these six men had displayed was something Charlie respected deeply. It was this courage that convinced him to take them under his wing. He planned to groom them into his most trusted allies—confidants he could rely on in the volatile underworld of Chicago.
Among them was Wang Dagou, the only familial connection Charlie had left. Without Wang Dagou's timely intervention and unwavering loyalty, Charlie might not have survived the challenges that had brought him to this point.
But such sentiments were for later. Now, Charlie's focus was on the name written on that envelope.
Pedaling furiously on his rickety bicycle—one that rattled ominously with every turn of the wheels—Charlie led his crew through a maze of alleys. The cheap bicycle's bell didn't even work, a fact he cursed silently, but there wasn't time for trivial frustrations.
Behind him, Monk and the others followed, their coats hiding loaded Chicago typewriters and their pockets stuffed with spare ammunition. The additional weight made pedaling awkward, but they couldn't afford to leave any weapons behind.
The group deliberately took an indirect route, careful to avoid drawing the attention of the police. If their target had any inkling of what was coming, tonight's operation would turn into a bloodbath.
The destination was a gaudy establishment called the Royal Nightclub, its name as unoriginal as its pretentious facade.
"What's with all these places calling themselves 'Royal'?" Charlie thought wryly as they neared the building. "Royal nightclub, Crown bar… Maybe I should open my own place someday and call it Royal One. Sounds flashy enough."
Charlie parked his bicycle in the alley beside the club, then adjusted his coat. With a confident grin plastered on his face, he climbed the stone steps to the club's entrance.
"Sir, you can't—" The doorman's protest died in his throat as Charlie discreetly lifted the edge of his coat, revealing the gun tucked into his waistband. The man's eyes widened, and he quickly stepped aside, choosing to stare off into the distance as Charlie and his crew walked inside.
Two of Charlie's men stationed themselves at the entrance while the other four followed him into the nightclub.
The moment Charlie stepped into the dimly lit dance hall, he was momentarily stunned by the sight in front of him. Nearly-naked dancers moved gracefully across the stage under pulsating lights, their bodies glistening with sweat. Well-dressed patrons leaned lazily against the bar, their eyes lingering hungrily on the performers.
The scene was chaotic, decadent, and unmistakably Chicago.
Shaking off the momentary distraction, Charlie scanned the crowd, his eyes sharp and calculating. Somewhere in this debauched spectacle was McGuin—a cold-blooded assassin and the man responsible for organizing last night's ambush.
"The first floor is the dance hall and bar. Second floor's for private rooms. Third floor is where the real business happens," Charlie muttered under his breath, cataloging the layout.
Patting Monk on the shoulder, Charlie said, "Grab a drink and relax, but don't overdo it."
Monk nodded, his expression serious as he led his companions toward the bar. Charlie knew Monk's no-nonsense demeanor wouldn't make him the most charming barfly, but it didn't matter. Monk wasn't here to make friends.
As Charlie made his way toward the stairs, a drunken voice called out behind him, slurred and mocking.
"Hey, look at this yellow pig! Mixing with the whites, huh? What a joke!"
Charlie paused, his expression darkening. Turning slowly, he saw a belligerent drunkard leaning against the wall, clutching a dancer to his side.
"You're drunk, sir," Charlie said calmly, walking toward him. Before the man could respond, Charlie grabbed his extended finger and bent it backward with a sickening crack.
"AH! My finger! You son of a b—" the man howled, clutching his injured hand.
Charlie leaned in close, his voice a quiet menace. "You should learn to respect others, especially us 'yellow pigs.'" With that, he patted the man on the cheek and walked away, leaving the drunk to nurse his pain.
Reaching the second floor, Charlie began methodically searching for McGuin.
Spotting a dancer in the corridor, Charlie approached her with a charming smile and slipped a crisp $5 bill into her corset. "Hey, sweetheart, can you help me find someone?"
The woman's eyes lit up, and she leaned closer, feigning flirtation. "Sure, honey. Let's talk somewhere private," she said, gesturing toward the restroom.
Once out of sight, Charlie pressed the muzzle of his gun against her ribs. The dancer's confident facade crumbled, and her face paled.
"What do you want?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I'm looking for McGuin," Charlie said coolly. "Help me find him, and this will all be over quickly."
Panicked, the dancer nodded. "The fourth room on the left. He's in there."
"Good girl," Charlie said, releasing her. Without another word, he pushed her into the adjacent room and turned his attention to McGuin's door.
Kicking the door open, Charlie charged inside, both revolvers blazing.
But the room was empty.
"Damn it," Charlie muttered, realization dawning too late.
From the next room, the sound of gunfire erupted as the dancer—no longer helpless—unleashed a spray of bullets with a Chicago typewriter.
"Son of a—!" Charlie dove for cover, cursing his momentary lapse in judgment.
Outside, chaos erupted in the dance hall. Guests screamed and scattered as Mafia gunmen stormed the floor, their weapons aimed at Charlie's men.
Monk and his crew held their ground, using the bar as cover to fend off the attackers. Their aim was precise, and their determination unshakable.
Upstairs, Charlie was locked in a deadly standoff.
"Come out, Charlie!" McGuin's voice rang out, full of malice. "I've got you surrounded, you yellow bastard!"
Charlie smirked despite the odds. "Surrounded? You better hope you brought backup, McGuin, because I'm not going down easy."
The sound of footsteps behind him made Charlie act fast. He kicked the bedside table toward the door, using it as a makeshift shield.
The room erupted in gunfire once more, bullets splintering wood and ricocheting off the walls. Charlie knew his chances were slim, but he also knew one thing for sure—he wasn't leaving this room until McGuin paid for what he'd done.
This was Chicago, after all. Survival here wasn't about who was right or wrong; it was about who was left standing.