The hitman spotted Jimmy the moment he stepped out of the Brotherhood’s building. Tossing aside his newspaper, he stood by the curb, watching Jimmy chat with his crew as they waited for a car.
The hitman knew this was the best moment to strike. Jimmy and his men felt safe in numbers, likely assuming no one would dare attack in broad daylight.
He’d prepared meticulously for this day. Over the past week, he hadn’t been idle—he’d familiarized himself with every alley, planned escape routes, and even planted tools to aid his escape, such as a rope dangling over a three-meter wall.
He’d practiced with the McGray semi-automatic pistol he’d been given, testing its reliability and cleaning the bullets daily to avoid the misfires he’d experienced on the battlefield. He knew all too well how a lack of maintenance could mean the difference between life and death.
Every preparation led to this moment.
The street was bustling, cars zipping past in both directions. The hitman watched as Jimmy and his crew stepped to the curb. Their car was already pulling out of the alley.
Time was running out.
If he didn’t act now, Jimmy would be gone, and the hitman would have to explain his failure to his contact—a conversation he’d rather not have.
Taking a deep breath, he made his move, darting across the street in full view of the traffic.
The sound of blaring horns startled Jimmy, who turned to see a man recklessly crossing the road. Their eyes met.
In that instant, the hitman felt exposed. His hand darted into his jacket, reaching for his weapon—a move so dangerous in the Federation that police wouldn’t hesitate to shoot without warning.
Jimmy’s instincts kicked in. His hand flew to his own weapon, tucked at his waist.
Both men fired almost simultaneously.
The first shot hit Jimmy, sending a shockwave of pain through his shoulder.
The hitman tried to fire a second shot, but his gun jammed. Swearing under his breath, he ducked and ejected the faulty round, trying to clear the chamber.
Meanwhile, Jimmy’s men and others pouring out of the Brotherhood building unleashed a hail of gunfire.
The hitman’s heart raced as bullets whizzed past him. The street erupted into chaos, the sound of gunfire echoing off the surrounding buildings.
Inside his office, Big Polly froze at the sound of gunfire. Pulling a submachine gun from his desk drawer, he pressed himself against the wall, stealing a quick glance out the window.
Though the glimpse was brief, he saw enough—a man firing wildly as he retreated across the street.
Polly didn’t recognize the shooter, but it was clear enough: anyone firing at his building was an enemy.
Throwing open the window, Polly fired a burst of suppressive fire, forcing the hitman to dive for cover as he reached the opposite sidewalk.
The hitman stumbled into the planned escape route, heart pounding and sweat pouring down his face.
He cursed under his breath, furious at the situation. He’d expected a simple hit—one or two bodyguards, maybe a little resistance. He hadn’t anticipated this kind of firepower. ŘáƝȎ𝖇Ɛs
These Federation thugs were as armed and dangerous as the Empire’s rebels!
Blood dripped from his side, forming a crimson trail as he fled. His vision blurred, and his legs felt heavy.
Jimmy, clutching his wounded shoulder, was hot on the hitman’s trail.
The hitman reached a dead end, trying to catch his breath as dizziness overtook him. He fumbled for his weapon, but his hand found only an empty holster.
The misfiring pistol lay discarded somewhere behind him.
When Jimmy and his men caught up, the hitman was already on the ground, blood pooling beneath him.
“You son of a b****,” Jimmy muttered, delivering a savage kick to the lifeless body.
The adrenaline that had kept him going finally wore off, and the pain in his shoulder flared up.
“We need to get you patched up,” one of his men urged, pulling Jimmy away as the sound of sirens filled the air.
They vanished into the labyrinth of alleys, leaving the scene just as the police arrived.
A fleet of patrol cars descended on the street, officers cordoning off the area. Two detectives from the Major Crimes Unit, including Detective Hunter, arrived shortly after.
They were greeted by three young men stepping forward with their hands raised.
“We fired back in self-defense,” one of them explained, pointing to a submachine gun lying nearby. “That’s the gun I used.”
Hunter exchanged a weary glance with his partner. This wasn’t just a confession—it was a statement of power.
Inside the Brotherhood’s building, Polly was waiting with a bottle of top-shelf whiskey.
“Whiskey or brandy?” he asked when Hunter walked in.
Hunter sighed, relenting to the inevitable. “Whiskey.”
As Polly poured the drinks, Hunter frowned. “Polly, we can’t keep covering for you. This kind of shootout—middle of the day, witnesses everywhere—it’s impossible to ignore.”
“That’s why I gave you three scapegoats,” Polly replied smoothly. “The public will have their closure, and you’ll have an open-and-shut case.”
Hunter sipped his drink, savoring the cool bite of the whiskey. “Polly, I’ve told you before—keep your violence out of the public eye. Do you have any idea how much trouble you cause us? Couldn’t you take your fights to Angel Lake like the other families?”
Polly pulled out his checkbook and scribbled a number, sliding the check across the bar.
Hunter glanced at the amount, pushing his hair back. “That’s not what I meant…”
Polly wrote another check and handed it over.
Hunter took a deep breath, his tone softening. “Fine. Just… try not to make my job any harder, alright?”
As Hunter left, Polly paced the room, his mind racing.
“Find Jimmy. Now!” he barked at one of his men.