On the streets of Chicago at night, an ambush that had been planned in advance was underway.
A box truck bearing the logo "Loboro Fried Chicken" was boxed in by two cars front and rear. Before the driver could even react, more than a dozen gunmen came sprinting out from the alleys on both sides.
Bang bang bang bang bang!
Gunfire cracked like firecrackers, nonstop. Over a dozen muzzles spat flame at once, pouring bullets madly into the truck.
When the volleys ended, the driver was still sitting safely in his seat, unharmed—and even had the leisure to pull out his phone.
"F*ck! Bulletproof glass on the truck? That Black bastard Gus is loaded!" Tuku cursed in frustration while barking at his men to switch weapons.
This was still the city of Chicago. Even though he had picked a side street with light traffic for the hit, if they did not finish fast, patrol units would be on them in no time.
"Bring out the big toys! The big toys!" he yelled, reaching back toward his crew.
A second later, his arm sagged under sudden weight, almost dragging him off his feet.
He glanced down and found himself holding a rocket launcher.
"Son of a bitch! You idiots snorted so much you burned out your brains?!"
He exploded. "This is Chicago, not Somalia! We're robbing a truck, not fighting a war! Get the submachine guns!"
"Yeah, yeah…"
To be fair, Tuku had come prepared for this ambush.
On top of everyone carrying a pistol, he had brought along a rocket launcher and more than a dozen SMGs.
But just as they were about to launch their second wave, something unexpected happened.
The driver, who had been sitting steady behind the wheel, suddenly opened a door behind him and disappeared into the back of the truck.
Thinking he was trying to bolt, Tuku led his men in a rush toward the cab. They had barely taken a few steps when a burst of gunfire sounded from farther down the street.
A car came screaming around the corner. Three gunmen leaned out of the windows front, back, left, and right, fearlessly opening up on Tuku's crew.
Rorschach had apparently forgotten to mention one thing.
Behind every one of Gus's trucks, there was a shadow vehicle dedicated to supervising and protecting the shipment.
"They're Gus's men! Take 'em out!"
Tuku, already seething from failing to seize the truck quickly, went berserk when he realized there were hidden gunmen in the rear as well.
He did not even bother to look for cover, just brought up his SMG and charged straight into the open.
The two sides crashed into each other in the middle of the street, trading fire under the night sky. Muzzles blazed on both sides, turning the whole block into the sonic equivalent of a crate of lit firecrackers, gunshots booming nonstop.
"Boss! We've got a problem—the truck's on fire!"
"What?! Didn't I tell you not to hit the gas tank?!"
Tuku snapped his head toward the direction his underling pointed, and sure enough, thin tongues of flame were already licking out from under the truck.
In just a few heartbeats, the whole vehicle turned into a giant ball of fire.
The blaze was so fierce and so fast that even the latest electric cars could not have compared.
As Tuku watched in agony, the driver who had vanished earlier appeared again.
He now stood beside the burning truck with a lighter in hand, eyes full of murderous rage fixed on Tuku.
Every one of their rigs had a built‑in burn system in the back to destroy all product in an emergency, but in all these years, this was the first time they had ever used it.
If the boss had not ordered the complete destruction of the shipment over the phone, the driver would have been ready to fight Tuku's crew to the death to protect it.
After all, every successful delivery meant a very generous payout.
Now, staring at the utterly ruined cargo, both the driver and the escort team were shaking with fury.
Working like men with nothing to lose, they hurled themselves into the firefight, shooting at Tuku's crew without a thought for their own safety.
But outgunned and outnumbered, they were quickly driven back into cover, pinned down and forced to wait anxiously for backup.
Meanwhile, a car that had just left the fried chicken shop was racing toward the closest ambush site.
Gus's phone had not stopped ringing the entire way. When he heard that the cargo from all five trucks had been destroyed, his face actually eased up a little.
To him, the loss of five truckloads of product was something he could absorb.
If the cops discovered that those trucks running to the fried chicken shops were carrying drugs, though, the distribution network he had painstakingly built in Chicago would collapse overnight, and the damage would be beyond calculation.
"If you can't hold, fall back. Don't get bogged down in a firefight. Just make sure you remember their faces."
"We can't, boss! As soon as they saw the load was burned, they didn't pull out. They went even crazier and kept pressing. We can't shake them!"
"F*ck! Where the hell did these lunatics come from? Find a chance to pull back toward us. I'll send people to get you out."
Gus hung up, angrier than he had been in years. His usual cool and poise were gone.
It was bad enough that all five trucks had been hit at once. But to keep coming even after the product was gone?
He suddenly thought of an old rival—one of the only crews in the city who dared stand against him.
The Salamanca family.
"Mike, how many men do we have posted at the dry‑cleaning plant right now?"
Behind the wheel, Mike glanced up at the rearview mirror at Gus's darkened face. "Around forty."
"Pull twenty. Send them to the ambush site now to pull our people out."
"Will they make it in time? The cops have probably already hit the scene by now."
"Get there fast as you can. However many you can pull out is how many you pull out. Tell them on the phone: while they're extracting our people, if they see anyone from the Salamancas, kill them on sight."
——————————
Out in the suburbs.
Rorschach leaned against his truck, watching car after car roar out of the dry‑cleaning plant in the distance.
When the factory gates clanged shut again, he flicked his cigarette away and ground it under his heel, then walked around to the back of his truck and popped the tailgate.
Under the moonlight, a neat row of issued weapons lay quietly inside.
He picked up an Alvin‑37 grenade launcher loaded with three 37mm HEDP rounds, then hesitated and set it back down.
"They're just dealers. Going in with a grenade launcher might be a little too flashy…"
Muttering to himself, he shrugged and picked out some less conspicuous tools.
Primary weapon: Benelli M2 semi‑auto shotgun, with sixteen 12‑gauge armor‑piercing buck rounds.
For close‑quarters: an Austrian TTI‑tuned Glock 34.
For dessert: a double‑edged ZT folding knife nicknamed "Raptor" and a few M84 flashbangs.
He nodded, satisfied. Much more low‑key.
Staring at the factory in the distance, where God knew how many sins were being committed, Rorschach racked the shotgun hard. The sharp click of a shell chambering snapped through the night.
"Party time."
(End of Chapter)
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