Chapter 501

Devon wasn’t wearing his “uniform” today. The red armband on the left sleeve was too conspicuous.

He wore a blue woolen jacket and a beige and dark brown plaid flat cap, with his hands in his trouser pockets. He walked at a brisk pace, no different from an ordinary pedestrian.

He was accompanied by a few others, all dressed similarly and looking ordinary.

People dressed this way were a common sight here. The two men standing guard at the bar entrance merely glanced at them before looking away.

The group of four or five young men suddenly stopped at the alley entrance. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Devon patted himself down and asked his companions if anyone had matches or a lighter.

As luck would have it, no one had a light. Even more unfortunately, Devon turned and started walking toward the alley.

“Hey, buddy, got a light?”

The man closest to him turned around, arms crossed over his chest, his expression fierce and impatient. “Get the hell out of my face.”

Devon held up his cigarette. “Hey man, don’t be so aggressive. I just want to borrow a light.”

The fierce-looking man was about to say something else, but his companion took out a lighter. “Here. Light your cigarette and disappear from our sight!”

The man who had initially told them to get lost glanced at his companion and ultimately accepted his words.

A smile crept onto Devon’s face. “Thanks, thank you so much!”

“Here, you guys have one too.”

Social interactions between strange men often begin with “Want one?” The man holding the lighter didn’t refuse; he did enjoy a smoke.

Without realizing it, Devon and his men had surrounded them.

The fierce man also took a cigarette, his expression softening slightly. Devon insisted on lighting it for him, and he didn’t refuse.

The alley created a wind tunnel.

This isn’t to say the alley would fall to the ground and start twitching—an alley isn’t a person. It refers to how the structure of an alley draws wind in from one end and blows it out the other.

That’s why people often feel a distinct breeze when standing at the entrance of some through-alleys.

It was a bit windy here. They huddled together, cupping their hands to shield the lighter’s flame from the wind.

Just as the flame flickered to life, focusing the two men’s attention on it and the cigarettes in their mouths, two young men standing beside them drew sharp knives and plunged them into their necks.

Simultaneously, the men standing behind them immediately grabbed and supported the falling bodies, twisting their arms behind their backs in a joint lock.

The two guards’ eyes looked as if they were about to pop out, but with their arms twisted behind them, they were powerless to resist.

Even in their dying moments, they lacked the courage to break their own arms in a final, desperate struggle.

All they could do was clench their fists, their bodies trembling violently as they instinctively tried to swallow the blood that was continuously welling up in their throats.

But no matter what they did, it was all futile.

The two men’s bodies finally went limp, and they were thrown into a car waiting in the alley.

Devon lit his own cigarette and took a deep drag as several more cars pulled up.

Hiram stepped out of a car, holding a gunsmith-modified submachine gun fitted with a large drum magazine. After a quick equipment check, the group headed toward the bar.

Lance had long suspected they would attack his bars. Not just this one; the one at the docks was also prepared.

As for the bars in the Empire District and Port District, he wasn’t too worried about an attack.

Firstly, those places were harder to find. Secondly, they had always been Lance’s territory.

The moment they set foot there, Lance would know immediately and could respond calmly.

Many people knew that Lance had a subordinate named Bolton, who served as his “internal” eyes.

He was responsible for intelligence and reconnaissance in Lance’s territory and was highly efficient.

Therefore, their most likely target was the bar in the Starlight District.

Quite a few people still knew the location of the bar, as it used to belong to Christopher. Given his flamboyant nature, its location was widely known.

The war between Lance and the locals had fully erupted. Even if this bar wasn’t their target, Lance wouldn’t have continued operating it.

It was best if they attacked. If not, the place would have been cleared out in a couple of days anyway.

For the Kodak Family to deliver themselves to his doorstep before the evacuation was, at the very least, not a bad thing.

At that moment, the people inside the bar were still oblivious to what had just happened outside.

A young man standing near the bar walked up to the counter. The air was thick with the strong scent of alcohol, the lingering smell of smoke from business hours, and a mixture of other complex odors.

He casually picked up a bottle of Golden Lion Whiskey and gave it a couple of shakes.

The amber liquid sloshed, creating a foamy head that didn’t dissipate immediately, instead floating on the surface like tiny golden pearls.

This was the “liquor identification method” associated with Golden Lion Whiskey, rumored to have been revealed by its creator.

The shape of the foam was said to be directly related to the quality of the liquor. Many people found this method simple and effective, though some considered it unreliable.

Over the past six months, Golden Lion Whiskey had gradually gained fame in Golden Port and the surrounding areas, along with Golden Lion Brandy and Golden Lion Wine.

However, the quality of the Golden Lion Wine wasn’t great, though its price was also very low.

At 3.99 a bottle, it was affordable for most families. As long as you didn’t drink it like water, having a glass a day was perfectly fine.

The manufacturer of Gold Label Whiskey was offering rewards everywhere for information on Golden Lion Whiskey, intending to hit its manufacturer with a hefty infringement lawsuit.

However, a lawyer indicated this would be difficult. While there were some similarities in appearance, placing the two bottles side by side would make it clear to anyone with working eyes that they were two different products.

Furthermore, the popularity of Golden Lion Whiskey was constantly growing, making it unlikely that a lawsuit would result in a large payout.

The man who picked up the bottle was another of Stone’s trusted subordinates. He placed the bottle back on the counter and looked around. Not a single one of Lance’s men was in sight.

The bar was empty, which was not normal.

A subordinate emerging from the manager’s office also shook his head; everything had been cleared out, including the ledgers.

His gaze lingered on the faces of his men, one by one. He suspected someone had leaked the intel for this operation. How else could the bar be completely empty?

Just as he was pondering who was the most likely traitor, the sudden sound of footsteps made him frown slightly.

“Didn’t I tell you to stand guard outside…”

Before he could finish, the men walking through the door raised their submachine guns and pulled the triggers.

In that instant, his mind flashed back to his grandmother. He had lived with his grandparents as a child.

His grandmother was a devout believer. Every religious holiday, she would go to the church early to sit in the very front row, saying it brought her closer to God.

He had never known if his grandmother was right. Deeply influenced by her, he had always believed that sitting at the front of the church meant being closest to God.

But now, he knew his grandmother was wrong.

Because the way to get closer to God wasn’t to sit near a wooden or plaster statue of Him, but to be closer to the muzzle of a gun.

The rat-a-tat-tat of submachine guns immediately filled the bar. Wood splinters flew everywhere, bullets ricocheted, and the overwhelming firepower of the assault pinned the Kodak Family’s men down, unable to even lift their heads.

Those who couldn’t find cover in time staggered and convulsed before collapsing, motionless.

Submachine guns and pistol rounds may not have an advantage at a distance, but at this close range, they had no drawbacks.

Hiram held his gun with both hands, finger clamped down on the trigger as he advanced. He sprayed bullets wherever he saw movement, leaving it all to chance.

Some tried to fight back, but they all failed. The enemy’s firepower was too intense for them to counter.

A few minutes later, the fierce gunfire finally stopped.

The clink of a single shell casing hitting the floor and bouncing was the last sound before silence fell over the bar.

Ting…

Hiram detached the drum magazine and tossed it to a man beside him. The barrel was still hot.

These drum magazines were custom-made by a gunsmith. They were hard to get, impossible to buy, and he had been strictly warned not to lose them.

He loved these 55-round drums. They were a blast to use.

After loading a new drum, he racked the bolt and surveyed the bar.

The establishment, which generated substantial profits for the company, now looked like it had been hit by a typhoon.

Bullet holes of all sizes pockmarked the walls, bodies lay strewn about, and blood was slowly pooling everywhere.

Faint groans could be heard from a corner. Someone was shot but not yet dead.

He called out, “Anyone else alive?”

The groans ceased instantly, as if the wounded had suddenly died.

No one answered, no one stood up. Hiram gave a slight nod. Two of his men brought in a pair of metal barrels from outside, unscrewed the lids, and began splashing gasoline all over the bar.

In the midst of this, one man suddenly jumped to his feet but was immediately cut down by a hail of bullets, deterring anyone else from making a move.

Once a sufficient amount of gasoline had been spread, the group retreated outside.

Standing at the entrance, Hiram lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, glanced up at the grim evening sky, and with a smile, tossed the lit match through the doorway.

At that moment, he felt he was the coolest motherfucker alive.

He really should have brought a camera to capture this moment, to show those idiots what real style looked like.

The instant the match landed, the gasoline ignited.

A wave of blue flame flickered across the surface of the gasoline and spread rapidly, engulfing the entire bar in a sea of fire.

From outside, faint screams could be heard, but they were quickly drowned out by the roaring inferno. Watching the building burn, the group got into their cars and sped away.

The fire trucks didn’t arrive for another 20 minutes.

The Starlight District was small and the real estate was prime, so it had no fire station.

The Golden Port Fire Department was located in the Port District, with other stations in the port and factory areas, so it took them over ten minutes to arrive.

By the time the fire trucks reached the scene, they were met with the sight of a building completely engulfed in flames, fire spewing from its windows.

The legal owner of the building was at the scene, speaking with the police. The property was insured, so he could claim compensation from the insurance company for the fire.

Of course, the process would likely be long and arduous. The insurance company wouldn’t just hand over the money. But that didn’t matter; they had plenty of time and energy to fight it.

“Some were killed before being burned; others were burned alive.”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but based on the current situation… uh… no survivors have been found yet. I’m sorry.”

Stone’s face was so grim it looked like water could drip from it. He muttered, “Thanks,” hung up the phone, and then slammed his fist on the desk before jumping to his feet.

“They must have been prepared. Our men are gone.”

He paced back and forth. “Shit! Those sons of bitches ambushed our men!”

“I’m going to charge right into the Empire District! I’ll cut off Lance’s head and hang it from a flagpole!”

He was seething. This was the most devastating loss he had suffered since taking over the family’s gray-area businesses and gangster affairs—over 30 men, all core members, including one of his most trusted subordinates.

He scratched his scalp, a violent rage churning in his chest.

The Kodak Family had never been so humiliated.

Fleming, who had been sitting quietly, waited for his brother’s rage to subside before attempting to calm him.

“First, talk to Bandy and Gorry. They must be very concerned about this.”

“Dealing with Lance is no easy task. So many gangs have tried to assassinate him, but look, he’s still alive and well.”

“We must be fully prepared before we make a move, and we have to guarantee success.”

“Also, let’s see if we can use others to lure Lance out.”

Stone looked at him, uncertain of Fleming’s plan.

Between the two brothers, Fleming had always been the smarter one, even as a child.

Whether in school, relationships, or anything else, he was always the smartest and most successful. Stone respected him deeply.

“What do you mean?”

Fleming slowly swirled the liquor in his glass. “The situation in the city is getting worse. If someone were to step up and arrange a sit-down between our two sides, do you think Lance would show up?”

Indeed, Fleming was still the same reliable brother who always had a solution to their problems.

Stone’s anger immediately subsided.

The night grew darker, but a restless energy still pulsed through the city. News of Lance’s move against the Kodak Family had already spread like wildfire through the gangs of Golden Port.

Someone was actively helping to spread the news, seemingly wanting the entire world to know.

These shadowy figures fanning the flames had malicious intentions, but it couldn’t be denied that they were helping to push events forward.

In recent years, Golden Port had issued a total of five special operating licenses for gambling establishments.

All of these licenses were in the hands of the Kodak Family, who operated three casinos.

It sounded a bit strange, but that was the reality.

They held five licenses but ran only three casinos. They used some accounting tricks to average the income of the three establishments across the five licenses.

This inflated their operating costs and lowered their declared income, allowing them to pocket more money.

Because they had paid off the right people at every level, no one bothered them. The other two casinos technically existed, too.

They were just very small, though officially operational, which was a way to circumvent certain legal issues.

After all, according to Federation law, a business license had to be actively used to remain valid, or it would be revoked.

Of the three casinos, the largest was the Golden Port Casino, with over 200 gambling tables, various slot machines, and several private card rooms.

The highest stakes were at the “Kodak Club,” a place for the extremely wealthy to gamble and entertain themselves.

The minimum chip value started at 100. To get in, you first had to pay a 10,000 entrance fee to purchase a membership card.

Once you had the card, you could enter without any further charges.

There was an interesting rumor that the Kodak Club handled millions in wagers every day.

Think about it: a guest wouldn’t come in just to buy three or five 100-dollar chips and leave after losing them. That would be too embarrassing.

They might as well go to the Golden Port Casino, where a few hundred dollars could last a long time.

So, people who came to the Kodak Club often brought 30,000 to 50,000, or even 100,000 to 300,000, to gamble.

The club had a steady stream of guests every day. On slow days, there might be 20 to 30 people; on busy days, dozens or even a hundred. Even if each person brought just 100,000, that would total 2 to 3 million, or even 4 to 5 million.

Roger (the old man from the Imperial Chamber of Commerce) walked out of the casino with a young lady on his arm.

Under the lights, he seemed to reject her, and a look of sorrow washed over her face.

Any other man would have felt a pang of pity, but Roger did not.

A casino employee placed a leather briefcase in his car. After he got in, the car slowly pulled away from the Kodak Club.

More than ten minutes later, he arrived at a villa in the Bay Area.

He got out of the car, carrying the briefcase, and walked into the house.

The house was lively; the sounds of activity could be heard faintly from the doorstep. When he knocked, the noise ceased instantly.

The door opened a crack. A girl peeked out, and only after recognizing him did she open it fully.

Roger removed his hat and scarf, took off his coat, and walked in with the briefcase.

“Make a seat for Mr. Roger,” Lance commanded, and someone immediately stood up.

Thanking them, Roger found a seat near the edge of the room.

“Get him a drink!” Lance then looked at Roger. “How are things inside?”

(End of Chapter)