The sound of gunfire jolted Charlie Lee out of his thoughts. As he stepped outside, the once-defiant villagers were now kneeling on the ground, hands clasped over their heads, their faces etched with expressions of repentance.
"It's wrong to bully the weak. It's shameful to oppress the Chinese…" The same refrain echoed across the crowd under the stern guidance of Huang Yifang. Charlie almost burst out laughing.
Fifty or sixty machine guns pointed at their heads while forcing them to repent? Who's the real bully here? The irony was almost unbearable. But he couldn't deny that he found it amusing.
Pulling up a stool, Charlie sat down and watched the scene unfold, listening to their monotonous chants until he eventually grew bored.
"Do you want to follow me?" he asked bluntly. While the villagers were entertaining, Charlie had no patience for drawn-out persuasion tactics.
Sammo, one of the villagers, raised his head, his eyes filled with hatred and suspicion. "Are you working for the Italians?"
To Sammo, only the Italians in Chicago had access to such firepower. And he hated the Italians; his brothers had been killed by the Italian mafia.
"No," Charlie said, leaning forward, his tone sharp. "I work for myself. Besides, I hate Italians too."
It was true, at least to some extent. If the Italians didn't fall, Charlie wouldn't get what he wanted.
"Then I'll follow you, boss," Sammo declared, struggling to stand but quickly subdued by one of Charlie's men, a brawny figure nicknamed Monk, who pressed a gun to Sammo's neck.
"Let him go," Charlie ordered, waving Monk off. With a grin, he extended a hand toward Sammo. "Welcome aboard."
"What's our group's name, boss?" Sammo asked eagerly, his transition from enemy to subordinate almost seamless.
Charlie paused. "Uh…"
Naming wasn't his strong suit. He ran through a list of possibilities: Red Flower Society? Green Gang? Qing Gang? No, those names had too much baggage. He didn't want trouble from their original factions.
"Blue and White Chamber of Commerce," Charlie finally announced with a sly smile, borrowing inspiration from a fictional organization.
And so, in May 1929, the Blue and White Chamber of Commerce was born in Chicago.
Sammo scratched his head, confused by the name but too eager to question it.
"Can you find me more men?" Charlie asked as they walked together.
"Yes, boss. I've got lots of brothers." Sammo's chest puffed with pride.
Charlie smirked. "Good. Bring them here. I need fighters—men who are unafraid of death and ready to get the job done."
The next day, Sammo returned with over 100 men, each of them taller and stronger than Charlie had anticipated.
"These are the best, boss," Sammo said, patting the nearest man's shoulder. "They'll fight for food if they have to."
For these men, the promise of regular meals and even the faintest glimmer of hope for a better future was enough. The harsh realities of systemic discrimination had forged a fierce unity among them.
Charlie agreed to pay each man $10 a month. Welfare wasn't part of the package, but the opportunity to earn and eat was more than enough for now.
For the next two weeks, Area 22 became a hive of activity. Trucks rolled in and out, delivering crates of beef, chicken, fresh vegetables, and fruits. The once-desolate space now buzzed with life.
Training, however, was brutal. Charlie had Monk and Sammo lead the new recruits through relentless drills: weight-bearing runs, push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, rolling heavy stones, and crossing obstacle courses.
The stone-rolling was particularly grueling. Each man had to grip a rock larger than a calf and roll it forward two or three times across the soft soil. The task demanded their entire strength, leaving them gasping for air after just a few rolls.
"Leapfrog, with 15 kilograms of wood on your neck," Monk barked during another session.
The recruits groaned but complied, their determination outweighing their fatigue.
Then came combat training, where they fought duels under Monk and Sammo's watchful eyes. The winner would mount the loser's shoulders and parade around the training ground, a humiliating yet effective incentive to fight harder.
Monk, however, often found himself on the losing end. Whenever he lost, Charlie's right-hand man, Wang Dagou, would personally step in.
"You're a disgrace to the Chinese," Wang would bellow, slapping Monk on the back of the head. "Stand up straight, or I'll make you regret it!"
Wang's sheer strength commanded respect. After effortlessly kicking a 50-kilogram sandbag five meters away, none of the recruits dared to challenge his authority.
Despite the pain, there were moments of joy—particularly at mealtime. The recruits reveled in the abundance of beef, chicken, fresh vegetables, and even occasional fruit.
As their training progressed, the men's physiques transformed. The malnourished, scrawny figures of the past were replaced with muscular, imposing bodies.
At the end of two weeks, Charlie called for a final test. Standing before the group, he pointed at Monk and Sammo.
"Pick the ten best performers," he commanded.
The two men quickly selected ten recruits, all brimming with newfound confidence.
"Good," Charlie said, stepping forward. "Now, spar with me."
Monk hesitated. "Boss, maybe I should—"
"No," Charlie interrupted, his grin widening. "Come at me with everything you've got."
Reluctantly, Sammo signaled the group forward. "Let's go, brothers!"
But their confidence shattered in an instant. As the first recruit charged, Charlie sidestepped effortlessly and delivered a powerful kick to Sammo's chest. The man flew backward, landing with a thud several feet away.
The remaining recruits froze, staring in disbelief as Charlie lowered his leg.
"Is that all you've got?" Charlie taunted, his tone almost playful.
Monk muttered under his breath, "The boss is a monster…"
The recruits roared and charged, but it was no use. One by one, Charlie took them down with calculated precision, his speed and strength unmatched.
By the end of the session, the recruits lay sprawled on the ground, groaning in defeat.
"Take Sammo to the doctor," Charlie instructed Wang Dagou. "The rest of you—keep training."
Wang nodded, leading Sammo away. Charlie had hired a doctor specifically to ensure the safety of his recruits. At $300 a month, the doctor's job was simple: treat the injured and keep them in fighting shape.
As the recruits struggled to their feet, Monk addressed them with a smirk. "You see that? The boss isn't human. He's a freak of nature. But if we stick with him, we might just survive."
The men nodded, their awe of Charlie now outweighing their fear.
And so, the training continued, forging the Blue and White Chamber of Commerce into a force that would soon leave its mark on Chicago's underworld.