“Creak!” With a piercing screech of brakes, ten jeeps came to a halt ten meters away from the Menghu Gang convoy. At the same time, a crisp gunshot pierced the morning sky.

“Bang!” That was just the beginning. Immediately after, gunfire erupted in a deafening barrage, merging into a single cacophony. There were sharp pistol shots, rapid bursts from submachine guns, and the heavy thuds of rifles.

In just a single exchange, three members of the Menghu Gang fell into pools of blood. Tragically, they hadn’t even seen what their enemies looked like.

Both sides used their vehicles as cover, engaging in a close-range firefight. At this moment, Henry Bennett’s marksmanship began to show its power.

Bullets fired from his gun seemed to have eyes, each one hitting its target with uncanny precision. Since the battle began, he had fired only five shots, but five men had fallen, screaming. Such flawless marksmanship put immense psychological pressure on the Menghu Gang, making even peeking out to return fire a dangerous gamble.

Charles Foster’s knife skills were absolutely top-notch, but his shooting accuracy was about on par with William Carter. He emptied all twelve bullets in his magazine, but only managed to wound one enemy.

He had aimed for the opponent’s foot sticking out from under the car, but the bullet struck the man’s gun-wielding wrist instead...

With Henry Bennett providing suppressive fire, the rest of the Wendong Society found things much easier. They already had a numerical advantage, and now they could fire wildly without fear.

The Menghu Gang members were pinned down under their vehicles, too afraid to show themselves. The car bodies were riddled with dense bullet holes.

Seeing the enemy suppressed, two Wendong Society members, eager for credit, tried to rush forward. As soon as they vaulted over the jeep, a burst of bullets shot out from under the enemy’s car, hitting both men in the ankles. Their bodies went limp and they collapsed to the ground. Watching their comrades wounded and writhing in pain at the center of the crossfire, two more young men jumped over the jeep, attempting to drag the injured back. But after another round of gunfire, they too met the same fate, both shot in the calves and collapsing to the ground.

In the blink of an eye, four of their own had been wounded by the enemy, and were now lying in the center of the firefight, in constant danger of being killed.

“Damn it!” Charles Foster cursed angrily, about to charge forward. Henry Bennett, quick as lightning, grabbed him and said coolly, “What are you doing? Don’t be reckless!” Then he shouted to the others, “Everyone stay where you are! Don’t move! Keep your feet hidden behind the tires as much as possible!”

Hearing this, everyone quickly shifted their bodies as Henry Bennett instructed. Charles Foster shook off Henry Bennett’s hand in annoyance and said, “Why won’t you let me save them?”

Henry Bennett jerked his chin toward the enemy and said, “The Menghu Gang could have killed all four of them, but they didn’t. Why? Obviously, they want to lure us in. If you rush out recklessly, you’ll end up just like them.”

Charles Foster clenched his fist and peeked at the four men. All had been shot in the legs, their pant legs soaked with blood. They groaned in pain as they struggled to crawl back to their own side. The short distance seemed as far as a hundred kilometers to them.

His heart aching, Charles Foster slammed the car hood and shouted, “Old Henry, cover me!” Without waiting for Henry Bennett’s reply, he dashed out like an arrow.

Damn! Why is this guy so impulsive! Henry Bennett cursed inwardly. Without thinking, he threw himself to the ground, peering from under their car toward the enemy’s vehicle. He saw two black gun muzzles. Without hesitation, he fired twice, both bullets hitting the gunmen’s hands with uncanny accuracy. Two screams rang out from behind the enemy’s car.

At that moment, a barrage of gunfire erupted from under the enemy’s car, bullets flying everywhere. Henry Bennett had no choice but to stand up and hide behind the tire.

Charles Foster was impulsive and proud, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t go to rescue the four wounded, but instead took advantage of the enemy’s focus on Henry Bennett to charge straight to the front of their car and leap onto the hood.

“Ah!” His sudden attack startled the Menghu Gang members. The four hiding behind the car instinctively aimed their guns at Charles Foster.

If the distance had been greater, Charles Foster would have been helpless. But at close range, in hand-to-hand combat, this was his domain. The four had just aimed their guns at Charles Foster, but before they could pull the trigger, they suddenly saw a flash of silver before their eyes. The heavy feeling of holding a gun vanished, replaced by a strange lightness, as if they were holding nothing at all.

All four froze, then looked down in shock. What they saw made them scream like pigs being slaughtered.

Their guns were no longer in their hands—or rather, the guns were still in their hands, but their hands were no longer attached to their arms. Four severed wrists spurted blood like fountains, soaking their clothes and staining their eyes red.

The searing, gut-wrenching pain crashed over them. The four howled and wailed, clutching their severed wrists and rolling on the ground.

The pitiful cries seemed to come from the depths of hell, tearing at the hearts of everyone present.