America Tycoon: The Wolf of Showbiz

Opposite him, on a broken sofa and wooden chairs, sat four black men who were even darker than him.

They were dressed in black, easily overlooked.

One of the bald men said, "Boss Boyette, we've just got this place, you want to take over the market? You rank higher than us in the gang, but we're not afraid of you."

Boyette said, "Tom, I'm here to discuss business with you."

Bald Tom raised a finger and shook it, "We're not short on money."

Dirty-braided sidekick Jerry pulled out a tequila box, showing off, opened it, and inside were rolls of US dollars.

Boyette stood up, opened the box, kicked it over, and many rolls of $20 US dollars spilled out.

"Come with me to take down a piece of shit in the Clayton Community." he said, "All these are yours."

Tom asked, "Who is this piece of shit?"

Boyette remembered the documents Adam Smith had collected and had made inquiries with friends at the APD about that day's events, having some suspicions in his mind.

And the matter of stealing customers after ten, old grudges and new resentments combined, who else to hit if not that piece of shit? He said, "That guy's a small-time actor, seems like he has some money. We go over, grab him, do him in, and whatever you can squeeze out, it's all yours."

Spike and Butch, two of the black men, couldn't help but want to agree.

Tom was a bit more thoughtful, stopped them, and asked, "Does he live alone?"

Boyette nodded, "He rents a place by himself."

Dirty-braided Jerry leaned in and whispered in Tom's ear, "Five against one, the advantage is ours."

Tom looked at the money on the floor, then at the tequila box. There was quite a gap.

Determined to do what they do best, something almost ingrained in their souls, he no longer hesitated and said, "We'll take the job."

Boyette smiled, pulled out an M1911, and checked the magazine.

The other four also got their pistols ready.

Tom glanced at Boyette's clothes and handed him a set of black, "Put these on, we are the kings of the night!"

Boyette immediately changed his clothes.

Black skin plus black clothes, a perfect match.

......

Inside Clayton Community, a few dim streetlights were still on, offering a little more reassurance than the pitch-black outside.

Dressed in a tank top and shorts, Martin checked the doors and windows one by one, then returned to the sofa.

The shotgun lay under the coffee table, easily within reach.

The bedroom door creaked, and Elena snuck out, leaping and pouncing on Martin.

Martin was about to react when he heard the bedroom door again; instinctively, he turned to look, catching sight of Lily's face.

"Fuck!" Elena noticed too, and turned back furiously.

Martin casually grabbed something from under the coffee table and threw it at Lily.

A pink water bottle hit the door frame.

The sound of the water bottle hitting the floor startled someone in another bedroom.

With a baseball bat in hand, Holle, and a gun-toting Harris, both ran out.

Any mood Martin and Elena might have had dissipated at that moment.

The latter climbed up, growling, "Everyone get back to sleep!"

Both bedroom doors shut, and Martin turned off the table lamp.

Covering up with a blanket, and after an undetermined amount of time, as he was dreaming of handling three beauties alone, he suddenly heard the sound of cans clattering.

Martin, who had also trained numerous times with Bruce, immediately rolled out of bed, grabbed the shotgun, and went to the window to check the situation.

Again, the cans clattered. It wasn't the wind making that much noise.

Martin heard movement behind him, glanced back, and saw Elena, barefoot, clutching her shotgun as she came out.

"I heard a noise and saw you," she said.

Martin told her to hide behind the brick support wall.

He peered outside. The streetlight was a bit far, and everything was pitch-black, invisible.

Elena felt a shiver of cold and couldn't help but ask, "Did James come out?"

Martin faintly heard voices and was just about to listen more closely when a scream suddenly rang out.

"Ahhh—" followed by an all-too-familiar curse, "Who the fuck dug this trap! And with nails in it!"

The trap had certainly been set by Holle.

Martin decided to scare off the intruders and shouted, "Who are you? Get lost, quick! I've got a gun..."

Before he could finish his sentence, he heard gunshots and instinctively shrank his neck.

People outside fired towards the sound in the pitch-black night, God knows where the bullets flew.

"That's the asshole!" A somewhat familiar voice cried out again, "I've seen his late-night shows; that was his voice."

Martin glanced outside, where it was pitch dark, unsure where the people were, he lifted his shotgun and, based on the direction of the sound, fired a shot through the open window.

Bang—

The gunshot completely shattered the night's calm.

"Fuck! Kill that bastard!"

A fusillade of gunfire ensued, luckily all from handguns.

Elena also fired a shot from another window, the bullet flying skywards.

Martin yelled at her, "Don't stick your head out! Don't let the three idiots inside come out, call Wood and get the neighborhood alliance here fast for backup."

Instead of hoping for the tardy APD, it was better to rely on the newly formed neighborhood alliance.

Elena took Martin's phone and called Wood and others; they were already alerted and immediately said they would come to help.

Outside, the gunfire paused; Martin extended the barrel of the gun out, firing four shots in a row without caring whether he saw anyone, then hurriedly ducked down to reload.

No screams from outside, but still, there were handgun shots.

Bang! Bang—

Gunshots sounded from afar; the neighborhood alliance had mobilized. A dozen guns were firing back and forth.

"Go!" People outside were not fools: "Boyette, they've got numbers on us, let's go!"

The voice angrily shouted, "Tom, don't say my name! Are you idiots? Jerry, I've twisted my ankle, come help me!"

The sound of tin cans rattled again, and Martin fired once more, this time unleashing five bullets in one breath.

"Ow! My ass!"

Martin was in luck; the shotgun had hit someone.

More gunshots came, and someone outside yelled, "Move it, forget Boyette, he's got his ass blown off; he can't run!"

Martin reloaded the gun to full capacity and waved off the three idiots peeking through the door: "Get back! Don't come out looking for death!"

Harris had his brother and sister return to their rooms quickly; he gripped his pistol, guarding the two bedroom doors.

Outside, the sound of car engines started, and the headlights from several vehicles illuminated the road in front of the house.

Nanni's booming voice called out, "Martin, Elena, you dog couple better not be dead!"

For safety, Martin didn't show himself, instead yelling back, "We're fine, I think I got one of the sons of bitches!"

Valencia, excited, called out, "Look, there's a black motherfucker with his ass blown off! Martin, you blasted his back door with your bullets!"

Martin boasted, "My shooting, taking on two or three at once, it's nothing for me."

It was then that Wood said, "Come out, it's safe now."

Martin peeked out, opened the front door with the gun pointed skyward, and walked out.

Wood cautioned, "Don't go wandering around; preserve the scene." He set the narrative straight, "The blacks attacked a community residence; we were forced to defend ourselves."

The others thunderously agreed.

The events of tonight had them feel the threat personally; they would likely be more united in the near future.

Wood made another call to the police and then walked over to the black man, saying, "Natural protective color, a born criminal."

Martin went to the fence of the yard and saw the black man groaning in pain.

Black skin, a bald black head, black clothing...

No wonder he couldn't see anyone.

The natural advantage was too great.

On closer inspection, Martin recognized him as Boyette, the owner of the Black Bar.

"You bunch of trash, don't get too happy!" Boyette, with his ass blown off, was still making threats, "Southern Gang won't let you off!"

Martin flipped the butt of his gun and smashed it hard against Boyette's mouth: "Fuck your mother, you sand sculpture!"

Half of Boyette's teeth flew out, whistling when he spoke.

Martin yelled, "Everyone saw, he fell on his own."

The others, laughing, echoed, "Right, he fell on his own!"