After the misunderstandings was resolved
Hardy finally understood who the two men in front of him were. The one he had just overpowered was Sean, and the man standing near the bedroom door was Reid. Both were associates of Bill.
"What happened to Bill?" Hardy demanded urgently, his concern evident after learning about Bill's injuries.
"When we left, Bill was still in surgery. Things weren't looking good. We grabbed some stuff he needed, and now we're heading back. Let's discuss the details in the car," Sean suggested.
Hardy nodded and followed them to the car without hesitation.
Reid took the driver's seat while Sean and Hardy sat in the back. As they drove, Sean explained that Bill had been shot three times and was currently undergoing emergency surgery in a private clinic. His condition was dire.
Earlier that day, they had gone to confront Cook, a Spanish gang leader who operated within the Austrian gang's territory. Although the Austrian gang avoided dealing with drugs, there was always a market for them. An arrangement had been made for the Spanish gang to sell within their area, with a cut of the profits going to the Austrians.
Cook was responsible for sales in Bill's area and had a small crew of five or six men. Bill, along with Sean and Reid, had gone to collect payment from Cook. However, Cook was evasive and seemed to be stalling. When Bill pushed him, Cook suddenly drew a firearm and opened fire, hitting Bill multiple times.
A gunfight ensued, but Cook and his men managed to escape. Sean, Reid, and the rest of Bill's team rushed him to the clinic.
"Before all this, we found out Cook had lost a significant sum—about ten thousand dollars—at an underground casino a couple of weeks ago. He likely lost his earnings and couldn't come up with the money," Sean explained.
Reid, keeping his eyes on the road, added, "I bet Cook was on something. His actions were erratic, like he was high. That would explain why he acted so recklessly."
Hardy recalled a conversation with Bill earlier that day about collecting a significant payment—five thousand dollars. It was probably related to this incident.
Things had certainly gone south fast.
The car arrived at the clinic soon after.
Inside, Sean flagged down a nurse. "Excuse me, miss, how's Bill?"
"The doctor is still operating, trying to remove the bullets. He's lost a lot of blood. It's touch and go," the nurse replied, her face tense.
They waited in the hallway for what felt like an eternity. After about thirty minutes, the operating room doors swung open, and a middle-aged doctor, accompanied by two nurses, wheeled a gurney out.
Bill lay on it, unconscious and ghostly pale.
"Dr. Murphy, how is he?" Sean asked anxiously.
The doctor adjusted his glasses, his expression grave. "We managed to remove the bullets and stabilize his wounds, but he's lost a lot of blood. His chances of survival are slim—maybe thirty percent, at best."
"I've done all I can. Now, it's up to fate," Dr. Murphy added.
Hardy stared at his friend, his heart sinking. Bill, who had been his comrade for three years, lay at death's door. They had fought side by side through thick and thin. Hardy had convinced himself to come to Los Angeles for a better life, and now his best friend was fighting for his life because of someone else's greed.
The nurse, noticing the three men lingering, sternly said, "You should leave now. You can't help here, and you might contaminate the room."
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Reluctantly, they exited the room.
Outside, Sean offered Hardy a cigarette.
"Do you know where Cook lives?" Hardy asked, lighting the cigarette and taking a long drag.
"Yes, it's at 43-79 Brown Street, a two-story place," Sean answered.
Hardy took another drag. "And what does he look like?"
"Bald, in his forties. You'll know him when you see him," Reid replied, eyeing Hardy curiously. "Why do you want to know?"
Hardy didn't bother explaining.
After finishing their cigarettes, Sean spoke again. "We need to report to the boss about Bill. What about you, Hardy?"
"You go ahead. I'll stay here with Bill," Hardy responded.
Sean and Reid left, driving off into the night.
Darkness had fully descended, and the city was alive with lights.
A cool breeze swept across Hardy's face as he walked back to Bill's room. The nurse had left, leaving Bill lying silently on the bed, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Hardy approached the bed and softly patted Bill's cheek. "Hang in there, Bill. You've survived tougher battles; don't let a thug like Cook take you out."
He leaned in closer, whispering, "Rest now, brother. I'll handle the rest. They'll pay for this."
Hardy quickly hailed a taxi back to Bill's apartment.
Once inside, he moved the sofa aside, revealing two Colt M1911 pistols hidden underneath.
He loaded the magazines, cocked the slides back, and checked the chambers.
Click.
The guns were ready.
He placed them on the coffee table and turned off the lights.
Hardy sat in the darkness, the old clock ticking away the seconds.
Ding dong.
The clock struck twelve.
It was midnight.
Hardy stood, tucking the two pistols into his waistband. He also grabbed two spare magazines, slipping them into his pockets. He picked a hat from the rack, pulled it low over his face, and stepped out into the night.
Brown Street was quiet, shadows dancing in the dim streetlights.
Hardy watched the small building from across the street.
It was 1:30 a.m., and the neighborhood was dead silent.
He approached the backyard fence, easily leaping over it and landing softly on the lawn.
He tested the back door—unlocked.
He carefully opened a window and climbed inside, landing silently by the kitchen stove.
Moving through the kitchen, he paused, listening to the heavy snores coming from deeper inside the house.
He continued forward, reaching the living room. The faint glow of a lamp revealed the room was empty. He unlocked the front door latch for a quick exit, then hung his hat on the coat rack.
Drawing both pistols, he disengaged the safeties and moved toward one of the bedrooms.
Inside, a man slept soundly.
Hardy took aim.
Bang!
A single shot to the head, and the man was dead.
The gunshot woke the others. Several men burst out of their rooms, guns drawn, only to be met by Hardy's barrage of bullets.
Bam bam bam!
Bam bam bam bam!
Four men fell, blood pooling beneath them. None of them were bald—Cook wasn't among them.
Then, Hardy heard a faint sound from upstairs, and his instincts kicked in.
He dropped to the floor just in time.
Bang!
A shotgun blast tore through the wall where he had just been standing, spraying debris everywhere.
Cook had been sleeping upstairs. He was always on edge, with many enemies after him. The gunfire downstairs woke him, and he had grabbed his Winchester M1887 lever-action shotgun—a powerful weapon from the Wild West days.
He chambered a round and rushed out, spotting a figure through the stairwell gap. He fired immediately, but cursed as Hardy dodged the shot.
"I'll kill you!" Cook shouted, firing again.
Bam! Bang!
Cook descended the stairs, his shotgun booming. Hardy was pinned down, struggling to find an opening.
Hardy glanced at one of the bodies on the floor.
He grabbed it and hurled it out.
Cook saw movement and fired.
Bang!
The shotgun blast tore through the body, splattering blood and gore.
With Cook momentarily distracted, Hardy seized his chance. He rolled out from cover, firing several shots at the staircase.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
"Aargh!"
A scream of pain.
Cook was hit twice—once in the stomach, once in the arm. He fell, his shotgun clattering down the stairs.
Hardy approached, guns raised.
Cook, bleeding and desperate, saw him clearly for the first time—a young man with cold, unforgiving eyes.
"Please, don't kill me!" Cook begged, clutching his wounds.
Hardy stared at him with contempt. "Bill Pitt sends his regards."
Realization dawned on Cook's face.
"I'll give you money, everything I have—"
Bang!
Hardy ended it with a single shot to the head.
He had no interest in bargaining.
Blood was everywhere—in the hallway, on the walls, and down the stairs. Six bodies lay scattered, the scene resembling a battlefield.
Hardy felt no remorse. The fight had only heightened his adrenaline, leaving him feeling strangely alive.
In the last six months, Hardy's soul had fully merged with that of Jon Hardy, a man who had seen real combat and bloodshed. This was just another skirmish.
He searched Cook's room, rifling through drawers until he found a stack of cash.