A man crouched behind a tree, believing he was well concealed. Half of his body, however, was clearly visible. To Hardy, he was nothing more than a sitting duck.

  Hardy took aim and fired in one smooth motion.

  "Bang!"

  The man let out a shriek and collapsed to the ground.

  Six adversaries had initially taken up positions across the street. Hardy had already dispatched one with his revolver and two more with his rifle. Now, only three remained.

  The M1941 Johnson rifle wasn't renowned for its precision. Its accuracy paled in comparison to the 98K and was even inferior to both the Springfield and Garand. Its real advantage lay in its semi-automatic capability and a larger magazine capacity, allowing ten rounds per load.

  Hardy's choice of weapon was simple: familiarity. He knew this rifle inside and out, and he trusted himself to be most effective with a gun he had mastered over time.

  "Nice shot, boss!"

  Sean couldn't help but cheer as he watched Hardy take down another opponent.

  Ryan gazed at Hardy, his eyes filled with admiration.

  Had Hardy not sensed the impending danger, Ryan thought, he might have been reduced to nothing but bits and pieces. The enemies were heavily armed, yet Hardy had already eliminated three of them, forcing the others into hiding.

  The remaining attackers were visibly shaken by Hardy's marksmanship. They had started with a clear advantage, but now, the tables had turned.

  "Damn it!" one of them roared, unleashing a flurry of bullets with a machine gun in a desperate attempt to suppress Hardy and his crew.

  "Bang!"

  A single gunshot rang out, and the man with the machine gun slumped to the ground.

  Hardy glanced at the body. "Trigger-happy fool," he muttered.

  Wild, reckless shooting might be seen as bold in a gang brawl, but on a battlefield, it turned one into an easy target. Hardy figured such a person wouldn't last more than a few seconds under fire.

  Another enemy peeked out, just enough to expose his head.

  Bang!

  A single shot pierced his hat, and blood began to spill out.

  The last gunman, now completely terrified, broke into a sprint, desperate to escape. He made it only a few meters before a gunshot sent him crashing to the ground.

  Silence fell as the gunfire ceased.

  The street was once again quiet, save for the six lifeless bodies scattered about.

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  Sean and Reid were still catching their breath, clearly rattled by the intensity of the skirmish.

  "Boss, what's our next move?" Sean asked, his voice still shaky.

  Hardy, keeping his rifle at the ready, stood up and thought for a moment. "We need to clear the area. Load up the bodies and the weapons into the truck," he ordered. "And keep an eye out. Make sure no one's playing dead."

  Sean and Reid went to work, checking the bodies. Hardy's accuracy had left no room for doubt; every target was confirmed dead.

  As they loaded the bodies, Hardy noticed something about their attire and frowned.

  "Find something?" Sean asked, glancing over.

  Hardy nodded slowly. "These guys... they're Irish."

  Despite being of the same ethnicity, subtle features, along with their clothing, made it clear to Hardy who they were dealing with.

  With the bodies and weapons stowed in the truck, Hardy gave his next instructions. "Sean, you and Reid take our truck, get back to the base, and inform Boss Fred about what went down. I'll handle these bodies and take them out of town to avoid further complications."

  "Got it, boss," Sean replied.

  As Sean and Reid drove off in their truck, Hardy climbed into the enemy's vehicle, hauling the corpses with him as he headed toward the outskirts of the city.

  Not long after they left, a police car rolled up to the scene. Officers stepped out to find only bloodstains, shell casings, and shattered glass.

  "Looks like there was quite a shootout here," one officer remarked, observing the evidence scattered on the ground. "Must've been some heavy firepower."

  "I heard there was another shootout nearby," another officer added. "A truck from the Austrian gang got hit, three dead, truck blown to pieces. Probably a gang feud."

  "Boss said things might heat up," said the first officer, shaking his head. "Looks like it's already boiling over."

  "Let's log the details and get out of here," the second officer suggested. "No need to dig too deep. We know the drill."

  They noted the scene and left, without any desire to delve deeper into what had transpired.

  Meanwhile, Hardy had driven the truck to a secluded spot in the woods outside Los Angeles. After stopping, he lit a cigarette, leaning against the truck as he waited.

  About half an hour later, two vehicles approached. The first was Sean and Reid's truck. The second belonged to Fred, the Austrian gang's leader, who arrived with his second-in-command, Alan Payne, and several other key figures.

  Upon seeing the bodies in the truck, one of the leaders pointed. "I recognize this one. That's Yates from the North Shore Gang. The rest must be his crew."

  Fred surveyed the scene, his expression darkening. "Irish, no doubt about it."

  Fred turned to Hardy. "I heard what happened from Sean. Good work out there."

  The other leaders nodded in agreement, their respect for Hardy evident. They knew how rare it was to survive such an ambush, let alone turn the tables and eliminate all the attackers.

  Fred continued, "Before your ambush, another group hit one of our trucks. Alessandro and two of his men were killed, and the truck was torched. Same brutal style — the Irish again."

  Alan Payne and the other leaders agreed. It seemed clear that the Irish were behind both attacks.

  Fred's voice dropped to a menacing tone. "This isn't just about robbing goods. Recently, we've had bars raided, clubs disrupted. And it wasn't just the Irish—Mexicans, Russians—they're all getting in on it. They might be ganging up to take us down."

  The room fell silent as the gravity of the situation sank in.

  Alan Payne broke the silence. "So, what's our move?"

  Fred's eyes narrowed. "We need to be on high alert, ready for anything. And we need to strike back hard. Alan, start gathering the crew. We're gonna show the Irish what happens when they mess with us."

  The leaders nodded and began to disperse, but Fred paused and turned to Hardy again. "You handled yourself well today. I told you, you're cut out for this line of work. I'm keeping my eye on you."

  Fred and the others left, and only then did Sean and Reid approach Hardy.

  "What now, boss?" Sean asked.

  Hardy looked at the bodies piled in the truck. "Reid , strip the submachine guns from the truck and find a bag for them. We might need them later."

  "Sean, get some gasoline."

  They quickly got to work. Once the guns were secured and the truck doused with gasoline, Hardy lit a match, ignited his cigarette, and flicked the match into the truck.

  The vehicle erupted in flames.

  Hardy, Sean, and Reid climbed back into their car and left the woods, the fire blazing behind them.