novelinnhs Chapter 88 A Crushing Victory
Chapter 88 A Crushing Victory
Chapter 88 A Crushing Victory
Alka crouched by the second-floor window, holding an AK-47 in his hand.
Outside the window is the intersection of Woodward Avenue and Grand River Street, a wide street with abandoned tram tracks in the middle.
They set up a defensive line on this street:
Sandbag roadblocks, two overturned buses, and several bulletproof shields dragged from the police station warehouse.
More than forty people from seven different gangs were lying behind the defensive line.
The weapons included pistols, rifles, three shotguns, and most importantly:
One M2 heavy machine gun and two RPG-7 rocket launchers.
A heavy machine gun was mounted on the third-floor window of the bank building across the street, while a rocket launcher team hid behind the wreckage of a bus.
Normally, such firepower would be enough to block off the entire street.
But common sense doesn't work.
Alka saw eight people approaching from the other side.
Eight.
Wearing camouflage clothing and a simple helmet, the weapon looked like an ordinary M4 carbine.
They appeared from the west corner of the street, without scattering or seeking cover, but simply forming a loose line and walking forward along the center line of the street.
The speed is not fast, and the stride is even.
"Fire!"
Alka shouted into the walkie-talkie.
The heavy machine gun fired first.
The .50 caliber bullets hit the ground, scattering a series of cement fragments, and the trajectory extended towards the eight people.
Then Alka saw something he couldn't understand.
The bullets did not hit anyone.
It wasn't that the other side dodged; they didn't dodge at all, maintaining a steady pace as they advanced. Rather, the bullets seemed to have eyes, circling around them.
The most recent shot grazed the leader's shoulder and hit a lamppost behind him, breaking the lamppost in two.
The rocket launcher team fired.
The first rocket, trailing a plume of flame, flew toward the center of the formation.
Just before the shot hit, the eight people scattered to the sides almost simultaneously, their movements as fast as if they had rehearsed countless times.
The rocket missed its target, creating a crater in the street and sending up debris and dust.
The people who had scattered did not stop; they continued forward and regrouped into a line.
"How do we fight this?"
Alka heard someone whisper behind him.
It was Gene Jose; he was standing at another window, holding binoculars.
"Keep firing! We have enough ammo!"
Alka roared.
Rifles and pistols began firing, bullets raining down.
Useless.
Alka saw it very clearly:
The bullets either hit the ground in front of the target, or they whizzed past, or the target avoided them with minimal sidestepping or ducking.
Not a single shot hit.
The other side began to retaliate.
It wasn't a sweeping attack, it was a burst of fire.
The leader stopped, raised his gun, and aimed.
boom!
The machine gunner on the third floor of the bank building was shot in the head and fell backward.
boom!
The second gunner's chest exploded with blood.
The heavy machine gun misfired.
James Jones moved his gun towards the rocket launcher team behind the bus wreckage.
boom!
The first rocket launcher operator fell to the ground.
boom!
The second person who was loading a bullet had his neck pierced.
The rocket launcher misfired.
The whole process took less than ten seconds.
Eight men fired only four shots, taking down the two most important firing points in the defensive line.
Alka felt a dryness in his throat.
He glanced at the AK in his hand, then looked out the window.
The sounds of gunfire on the streets became sparse.
The people on this side of the defensive line were still firing, but mostly out of panic; the bullets were flying aimlessly.
The enemy stopped retaliating and continued to advance, occasionally dodging stray bullets by sidestepping.
How much ammunition do we have left?
Jeffrey's voice came through the walkie-talkie.
"Machine gun crew wiped out. Rocket launcher crew wiped out. Rifle ammunition—at this rate, we can hold out for another five minutes."
Marcus replied.
"Five minutes————"
Alca heard Gene Jose utter a Spanish swear word.
Sean O'Malley's voice chimed in: "Should we evacuate? The basement passageway is still usable."
"Withdrawing means certain death."
Alka said, "Hold this position and use grenades when they get close."
"There are only six grenades left."
"Then use six."
There was a few seconds of silence on the walkie-talkie.
Then Alka heard Jeffrey say, "Don't you guys think—we should have run in the first place?"
No one answered.
Because the gunfire in the street stopped.
It's not that the battle is over, it's that James Jones' side has stopped.
The eight people stopped at the same time and stood about seventy meters away from the defensive line.
James Jones raised his left hand and pressed the side of his helmet, as if listening to something.
Then he lowered his hand and made a gesture to the people behind him.
The eight people's movements changed.
Before, they were advancing at a constant speed; now they are charging forward.
They started running.
The people on this side of the defense line froze for half a second, then opened fire wildly.
Bullets rained down like water.
Useless.
The eight men charged through a hail of bullets, moving like fish swimming in water.
The bullets were always a beat too slow, hitting them in the back of their heels or grazing their clothes.
The distance has been shortened.
Fifty meters.
Forty meters.
James Jones raised his gun again.
boom!
A young Black man next to Alka was shot in the head, and blood splattered on the wall.
boom!
A sniper in the building across the street fell out of a window.
boom! boom! boom!
The bursts of fire were rhythmic and steady; with each shot, one less person was fired from the defensive line.
"Damn it! Damn it!"
Someone broke down and stood up from behind the cover, trying to run away.
boom.
The man was shot in the back and fell to the ground.
"No refunds!"
Alka yelled into the walkie-talkie, "If we back down, we'll die!"
He stood up, raised his gun, and aimed at James Jones, who was charging at the front.
Pull the trigger.
Three bullets were fired.
James Jones shifted half a step to the side the instant he pulled the trigger, and all the bullets were fired.
Then James Jones looked at him.
Alka saw those eyes.
Cold, emotionless, like two glass beads.
The gun barrel was raised.
Alka tried to dodge, but he was too slow.
boom!
He felt as if a heavy hammer had struck his chest, the impact sending him flying backward, crashing into the wall, and then sliding to the ground.
My vision started to blur.
The last sound I heard was Marcus screaming: "Boss!!!"
Then came more gunfire, screams, and running.
Everything gradually faded away.
South of Detroit, Howard family territory.
This place doesn't look like a city; it looks more like a secluded manor.
It is surrounded by iron fences and private roads, with a three-story stone building in the center, modeled after a European castle.
Connor Howard stood by the window of the second-floor study, holding a glass of whiskey.
The wine remained untouched.
He looked at the firelight outside the manor gate.
The gunfire had been going on for twenty minutes.
It was very dense at first, but now it's sparse.
He knows why.
The family guard consists of forty men, well-equipped, most of whom are elites who crawled out of piles of corpses.
There were also more than twenty employees who were given guns and stationed in secondary positions.
Logically, it should be able to withstand an attack for at least several hours.
But the other party is not an ordinary person.
He saw the man with his own eyes; Carl Jensen was walking at the front, bullets hitting him but always just missing.
The men behind him were the same; they moved with inhuman speed and had terrifying marksmanship.
The manor guards fell one by one.
The defenses were breached layer by layer.
"How is that possible—"
"Connor said in a low voice."
He originally thought he could hold on.
The Howard family has been operating here for four generations, owning the land, an underground shelter, and sufficient supplies.
Once they leave here, they are nothing.
But now he regrets it.
A report came through the walkie-talkie from the last line of defense, the voice broken: "Main building—it can't be held—they..."
Gunshots.
busy tone.
Connor put down the walkie-talkie and turned around.
The study door was pushed open.
Carl Jensen walked in.
There was blood on his face, but it wasn't his own. He held a gun in his right hand, muzzle pointing downwards.
The two looked at each other.
Connor wanted to say something.
Negotiation? Surrender? Threat?
But Carl raised his gun.
Gunshots.
The bullet pierced his heart.
He fell backward, crashing into the desk, the whiskey glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the carpet.
The wine mixed with blood seeped into the wool fibers.
Karl walked to the window and looked out over the rest of the manor.
The battle is basically over.
There were sporadic gunshots, but they quickly stopped.
James Jones's voice came through the walkie-talkie: "Southern defenses breached. Alka Punk confirmed dead. The remaining leaders are being eliminated."
Carl pressed the call button: "Received. Continue the advance, control the entire southern district before dawn."
"clear."
Carl put down the walkie-talkie and glanced around the study.
The bookshelf displays family photos, a leather sofa, and an antique globe.
A painting hangs on the wall, depicting the first generation of the Howard family, dressed in 19th-century formal attire, with an arrogant expression.
Carl watched for a while, then turned and left.
As he reached the door, he paused, as if talking to himself: "This is much bigger than the Gildier family."
The sound was very soft.
Then he walked down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.
Outside the manor, car lights came on and engines roared.
The troops are assembling, preparing to move to the next target.