Chapter 70: Someone Lost a Life, Someone Lost Money

The deserter killer immediately spotted Jimmy, dropped the newspaper in his hand, and stood by the roadside waiting to cross the street, his eyes locked on Jimmy, who was waiting for a bus at the company entrance.

He knew the few people around him were definitely Jimmy’s companions, but this was also the best moment to strike.

Because the other side would never expect that someone would assassinate him while he had so many men with him.

This was a psychological blind spot: when people felt utterly safe, even if danger was pressing against their anus, they wouldn’t sense it—they’d even feel comfortable, warmed by their brothers.

This area was bustling, crowded with people on the streets, and the building layout was complex; the deserter killer hadn’t done nothing this week—he’d done a lot.

Besides helping girls in need near here every day, he mapped out the alleyways, found the optimal escape route, and ran it back and forth multiple times.

He had placed escape equipment in two dead-end alleys—for example, hanging a rope down from a wall over three meters high.

When he reached it, he could jump up, grab the rope, scale the wall, then pull himself down the other side; even if pursuers formed a human ladder to climb over, they’d need time.

He’d tested the pistol given to him by the contact—a Mauser semi-automatic he’d heard of—and fired it in an empty place.

Every day he familiarized himself with his firearm and wiped the bullets.

On the imperial battlefield, he’d encountered dud rounds—bullets clearly neglected, possibly soaked in water.

In that battle, half their side died; nearly everyone had to fire two shots before one jammed, making it impossible to form an effective fire net.

So he was hypersensitive and meticulous—he wiped every bullet daily with gun oil to keep them clean and gleaming.

Just looking at them was pleasing to the eye.

Everything he’d done was for today.

This road led to the First Dock, with heavy traffic; he’d calculated many things, but never anticipated that crossing the street would take so long.

Car after car passed, and as vehicles began emerging from the alley beside Brother Import-Export, Jimmy and his companions reached the curb.

With the other side’s vehicle drawing near Jimmy’s group, if he didn’t act now, they’d leave; the deserter killer hesitated, then decided to carry out the assassination today.

He’d delayed a week; the contact was growing impatient, and he believed a veteran like himself could handle an ordinary man without issue.

Could he really carry a whole arsenal on him?

So he seized his chance, darted straight across the street, sprinting toward the opposite side—a move obviously dangerous.

A car nearly hit the fleeing killer; the driver slammed the horn, and the noise drew the attention of Jimmy, who was boasting beside the road.

He turned his head toward the man sprinting across the street; they were now only fifteen or sixteen meters apart.

Coincidentally, Jimmy was looking at him, and he was looking at Jimmy; in that single glance, the deserter killer knew he’d been exposed.

His hand shot straight into his chest.

In the Federation, this was the number-one dangerous gesture.

If you did this in front of police, they could shoot you dead without warning!

So Jimmy and his men instantly noticed—Jimmy, as a high-ranking official living in a world of guns and fire, had strong situational awareness.

He didn’t care whether the man was drawing a weapon—he yanked his own sidearm from his waist and fired directly at the deserter killer.

The deserter killer also drew his pistol and fired simultaneously.

He saw the first bullet strike Jimmy, but when he tried to fire again, it jammed!

He frantically dodged, ejected the round, and returned fire.

The enemy’s firepower was fucking overwhelming—far beyond what he’d imagined; not only were Jimmy’s men shooting, but people emerging from the company entrance were firing too!

In less than two seconds, gunfire erupted—rat-a-tat-tat!

In an instant, the deserter killer felt like he’d returned to the battlefield!

No, this was the imperial trench—the enemy’s firepower was as fierce as the rebels’.

Poli, who was in his office asking Red Dog Gang friends about Choba, was startled—he yanked open a drawer, pulled out a submachine gun, and pressed himself against the wall beside the window, ignoring whether the phone was still connected.

He glanced down quickly, then pulled his head back; though it lasted less than a second, he saw enough.

A man was firing while sprinting toward the alley across the street; Poli didn’t recognize him, but he knew the man was shooting toward the company’s first floor.

Shooting at his own company? That made him an enemy!

He flung open the window and fired at the man, who had already crawled and scrambled across the street—his submachine gun spewed a torrent of bullets.

The deserter killer, now focused only on escape and no longer caring whether Jimmy lived, had one thought: run!

As he reached the opposite side of the street and was about to enter the alley, he suddenly felt a shove—nearly knocking him to the ground.

But he quickly regained his balance and sprinted into the pre-planned alley.

If he survived this, he’d return to the Empire tonight.

As he ran, he thought this, felt sweat pouring, and swapped out a magazine.

This gun had nine rounds; two had jammed, making him furious.

If Jimmy wasn’t dead, this gun was to blame.

As he ran, his steps grew heavier, almost too heavy to lift!

These Federation people were fucking arrogant—openly gunning down each other in broad daylight, and now they were spraying him with submachine guns!

For the first time, the deserter killer felt deceived—deceived by the Federation’s propaganda of peace, tranquility, and friendliness, and by those back home who claimed the Federation had no smoke, no danger.

But realizing this now was too late—the sound of footsteps and shouts echoed at the alley’s mouth.

He wiped his sweat, leaned against the wall, and shuffled forward step by step, occasionally firing backward to slow his pursuers.

But after two shots, it jammed again—the click-click sound left him helpless.

He no longer cared whether the gun worked—he hurled it to the ground and kept struggling forward.

He glanced back and faintly saw a bright red trail following him.

“I’ve been shot?”

The moment that thought surfaced, dizziness overwhelmed him—he collapsed onto the ground.

Jimmy, clutching his arm, chased over from afar; seeing the man lying on the ground, he walked forward firing, and by the time he reached the deserter killer, the man was dead.

“Fuck,” he kicked the corpse hard in the face; danger gone, adrenaline faded, and pain surged.

He’d been shot in the shoulder socket—he’d felt nothing before, but now it was excruciating!

His men grabbed him. “Police are coming, Jimmy—we need to treat your wound first.”

Jimmy glanced at the corpse, turned, and left with his brothers; that’s the Brotherhood—no one retreats in danger!

Minutes later, numerous police cars arrived and sealed off the surrounding streets.

Two detectives from the Criminal Investigations Unit arrived; when they parked outside Brother Import-Export, they knew this case would be tough.

Sure enough, before they could speak, three young men stepped forward with hands raised, confessing voluntarily.

“Someone shot at us, so we returned fire—I think I hit him with this gun.”

The detective stared at the submachine gun the man pointed to, rubbed his forehead—it wasn’t just a confession, it was a warning, a deterrent.

One of the two detectives, Officer Hunt, tapped his partner’s arm, then walked straight into the company.

He’d dealt with Poli before.

Poli knew someone would come—he stood behind the bar, holding a fine bottle of liquor. “Brandy or whiskey?”

Hunt hesitated. “You always make a mess like this. We can’t explain it to the public.”

“Then whiskey,” Poli said casually, poured two glasses, and handed one over. “I’ve arranged three men to take the blame—now you’ve got an explanation. The public won’t press.”

Hunt reluctantly took the glass, sipped—it was smoother with ice, faintly minty, surprisingly pleasant.

“Poli, I told you last time—don’t fucking gun down people on the street. Too many witnesses, too much fallout. Sometimes we can’t suppress the higher-ups’ curiosity.”

“Do you know how much effort it takes us to clean up after you?”

“You can’t keep acting this recklessly. Even if you really want to kill someone, can’t you do it like the big families—solve it at Angel Lake?”

Poli pulled out a checkbook, filled in a number, and handed it over. “Still troublesome?”

Hunt stared at the amount on the check, pushed back his hair. “That’s not what I meant...”

Poli wrote another check. “So?”

Hunt took a deep breath, his tone softening. “For our friendship’s sake, stop giving me trouble!”

After watching Hunt leave, Poli paced a few steps. “Find Jimmy. Bring him to me. Now.”