Bang! Bang!
The deafening sound of gunfire ricocheted off the walls as bullets pierced the fragile shelter where Charlie Lee had taken cover. Dust and splinters exploded into the air.
"He's here! He's moved!" Maggie shouted in frustration. But before her words could fully register, a single bullet sliced through her brow, leaving her lifeless body to collapse to the ground.
Charlie Lee exhaled sharply. "Good riddance. That acting could win a bad Hollywood award." Wasting no time, he aimed his weapon through the bullet-riddled wall and emptied the remaining rounds in one rapid burst.
Through the fleeting shadows visible from the bullet holes, Charlie caught sight of a figure bolting toward the second-floor suspended corridor. He cursed under his breath. "Damn." Without hesitation, he sprang into action, chasing the fleeing target.
Peering cautiously from behind a doorway, he saw the man dart around the corner. "Running away? Some top assassin you turned out to be," Charlie muttered before giving chase.
As he rounded the corner, a heavy fist slammed into his face like a sledgehammer.
Bang!
The impact sent Charlie reeling, but he recovered quickly, performing a tactical roll to evade a powerful kick aimed at his ribs. Launching himself upright with a fluid motion, he faced his attacker—McGuin, an older man with an aura of lethal efficiency.
"Shot in the leg already?" McGuin smirked, adopting a boxer's stance. His gaze fell to Charlie's bleeding thigh, the sight clearly amusing him.
Charlie followed McGuin's glance and saw blood staining his pants. He felt the odd tingling sensation that signaled his rapid healing ability at work. His lips curved into a subtle grin. This wasn't the first time he'd witnessed his body defy normal limits. He recalled the time he tested the phenomenon at the manor, slicing his palm open with a fruit knife only to watch the deep wound close in under two minutes. The healing left scars, but the ability itself was borderline miraculous.
As these thoughts flitted through his mind, McGuin seized the opportunity. His foot lashed out in a fierce kick aimed at Charlie's chest.
McGuin was confident. A kick like that would leave any normal person winded, buying him crucial seconds to regain control of the fight.
But Charlie Lee wasn't a normal person.
Bang!
Charlie intercepted the kick mid-air with a compact punch to McGuin's foot. Pain erupted through McGuin's leg like wildfire. He stumbled backward, his body quaking as numbness traveled from his foot to his thigh.
A sickening crack echoed as a bone pierced through McGuin's flesh, breaking free of his thigh. Blood dripped to the floor. His face twisted into a grimace of agony as he collapsed against the wall.
"You're hurt," Charlie said mockingly, repeating McGuin's earlier taunt. His voice dripped with cold satisfaction.
Panting heavily, McGuin clutched his shattered leg, beads of sweat pouring down his face. "They said… one man… did this. I didn't believe them. Thought it was fear talking. But you…" His words trailed into ragged gasps.
Charlie didn't care. The truth of the massacre at the Chestnut Bar was irrelevant now. He stepped closer, gripping McGuin's face tightly as he crouched.
"Let me put you out of your misery."
Chi-chi!
The knife slid cleanly through McGuin's throat. Blood pooled as his head lolled to the side. Rising to his feet, Charlie strode downstairs, retrieving a machine gun from the corridor before rejoining the chaos below.
"Boss," the monk reported, appearing with three hostages in tow. His face was clouded with sorrow as he gestured toward a lifeless body on the floor—a teenager whose jaw had been shattered.
Charlie knelt, gently closing the boy's wide, lifeless eyes. "What's his name?"
"Jamie Tang," the monk replied solemnly.
"Take him. We're leaving." The distant wail of police sirens filled the air, closing in fast. Charlie led his men out the back just as flashing lights painted the building in red and blue.
Half an hour later, the scene had been sanitized. A new star sheriff now stood before McGuin's body. Twisting his neck dramatically, he posed for the photographers as cameras clicked furiously.
His narrative was simple: After a long investigation, he had tracked down the perpetrators of the "Valentine's Day Massacre" and brought them to justice. As for McGuin's death, the official version would state that he resisted arrest and was subdued by the sheriff himself at great personal risk.
The reality? It didn't matter. The public loved a good story, and politicians loved public approval. Truth was secondary to votes and the power of money.
This was America—the land where strength and prosperity were upheld not by politicians, but by the wealthy elite, consortia, and shadowy businessmen who wielded true influence. These were the forces that maintained the nation's power, ensuring their own profit in the process.
Meanwhile, Charlie Lee's name was spreading in whispers. His actions had triggered chaos, forcing Capone's syndicate into disarray. On the phone, William Dover ranted.
"You've set off a mad dog, Charlie! Paul Ricca's bombing police stations now—two blocks destroyed, officers injured. The man's lost it!"
Charlie smirked, cradling the phone lazily as he reclined on the grass. "Calm down, William. This is what we wanted, isn't it? Ricca's unraveling, and the more he lashes out, the more he exposes himself. Tell me—how's the federal investigation coming along?"
William's voice brightened. "The IRS has found something. Frank's death left the Capone Group's finances in chaos. They've linked Capone to the Mafia. Charges are coming. He's done for."
Capone, the infamous crime boss, now sat helpless in his prison cell. Desperate, he barked orders to Paul Ricca.
"Destroy all the evidence! I can't have my name tied to any of this. Get Johnny and Charlie working on my release. I need out of here, now."
But outside, forces were already conspiring to ensure Capone never returned to power.
At that moment, Charlie Lee was seated across from a well-dressed man with white-streaked hair and sharp eyes—Nucky Johnson, the kingpin of Atlantic City.
"Nucky Johnson himself," Charlie said with a grin. "I never imagined you'd come all this way for a small fry like me."
"You're no small fry, Charlie," Nucky replied smoothly. "William speaks highly of you, and any friend of William's is a potential ally of mine."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "I've always been generous to my friends."
"Generous enough to share opportunities?" Nucky asked, swirling his drink.
"Of course. As we say in China, a drop of kindness deserves a spring in return." Charlie's voice carried a sharp undertone of conviction.