America 1929: John F. Kennedy, the Great Writer

Chapter 173 The Cop!

[Added 78 new followers.]

[Current task progress: 82/100.]

Just as the atmosphere in the basement was getting heated, a loud crash came from above. It was the sound of the door of the "Butcher's Hook" tavern being violently smashed open.

Then came the sounds of hurried footsteps, shattering glass, and the cocking of a gun.

"Cops!"

A young man who was keeping watch upstairs stumbled down the stairs, his face covered in blood.

"Not ordinary patrol officers! It's the Red Squad! And several trucks loaded with machine guns—that's the private security force of the Amor Company! They're going to raze this place to the ground!"

Big Mike's expression changed instantly.

While ordinary Chicago police officers can be bribed, the "Red Squad" are a group of legally hired killers. Their mission is to eliminate any "troublemakers" who dare to gather.

It seems that the arrival of Arthur, this "demagogue," or the gathering of this group of veterans, has touched a nerve with some people.

"Damn it! There must be a mole who tipped us off!" Big Mike grabbed a thick-backed cleaver used for cutting meat, his eyes bloodshot.

"Brothers, grab your weapons! We can't let them go down to the basement, it's a dead end! If they get trapped in there, we're all done for!"

The veterans in the basement picked up iron bars, water pipes, and rusty bayonets hidden in the corners.

Their newly awakened fighting instincts made them act without hesitation.

"Don't act impulsively!"

Arthur grabbed Big Mike, who was about to rush forward and fight, saying, "They have guns, and they're legal. If we kill the police here, the Expeditionary Force will become insurgents before they even leave Chicago."

Big Mike yelled, "So what do we do? Just wait to get shot? You heard it too, they have trucks and machine guns!"

"We need to break through. But we need to do it smartly."

Arthur glanced around, his gaze settling on the several cases of cheap, high-alcohol-content bootleg gin. During Prohibition, these things were easier to obtain than explosives.

Do you have any strips of cloth or rags here?

The veterans paused for a moment, then understood what Arthur meant. Although the "Molotov cocktail" didn't exist in this era, homemade incendiary bombs were not unfamiliar to veterans who had experienced trench warfare in World War I.

"Quick! Make a few fire bottles!" Arthur commanded.

"Create chaos and smoke. We'll use the back door's sewer to escape."

The heavy sound of leather boots could be heard coming from the stairwell.

"Listen up, everyone! You are suspected of illegal assembly and inciting riots!" a voice from a loudspeaker rang out.

"Lay down your weapons and surrender immediately! Otherwise we will use tear gas!"

His answer was a glass bottle hurtling upwards.

"Bang!"

The bottle smashed against the iron railing at the top of the stairs. The high-proof alcohol ignited explosively, instantly creating a blue wall of fire. Thick black smoke billowed up the stairs, causing those above to cough.

"Cough cough cough! Damn it! They have incendiary bombs!" The police officers above retreated in panic.

"Requesting backup! Requesting backup!"

"Walk!"

Without the slightest hesitation, Arthur judged that the back door must also be blocked, and the only way out was to disrupt the enemy's plan and break through from the front door.

The moment they emerged from the smoke, two policemen, guns pointed at the stairwell, were choked by the thick smoke and couldn't open their eyes.

Before they could react, Arthur had already pounced on them.

Muscle memory allowed him to perform the most perfect movement:

He used his left hand to block the gun barrel, pointing it towards the ceiling, and then delivered a powerful punch to the left policeman's chin with his right hand, followed by a low sweep kick that tripped the right policeman.

"Bang! Bang!" The gun went off accidentally, the bullets hit the ceiling, and debris flew everywhere.

Arthur grabbed a rifle and opened fire on the tavern's huge floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Splash!"

The entire glass wall shattered. The cold wind outside, mixed with the sound of sirens, rushed in.

"Charge out! Get into the crowd!" Arthur yelled back at the group of dumbfounded veterans.

"Split up! Don't linger!"

Big Mike led his men and charged forward. Seeing Arthur's agile movements, a genuine sense of admiration flashed in the eyes of this battle-hardened sergeant.

This isn't just some pretty boy who can only write. This is a warrior.

In the chaos, the streets were a mess. Police, company thugs, and veterans trying to escape were locked in a fierce battle.

Arthur tossed aside his empty rifle, picked up a police baton from the ground, and darted through the crowd like a fish. Whenever a policeman tried to apprehend a lone veteran, he would inexplicably be struck with a baton or tripped over.

Just as they were about to break through successfully, a black Lincoln sedan slowly pulled up at the street corner.

The car window rolled down, revealing a somber Italian face.

That's Frank Nite, Al Capone's agent after his imprisonment, now the king of the Chicago underworld.

He was wearing an expensive camel hair coat, a cigar between his fingers, and watching the riot with great interest.

Nettie looked at the chaotic scene, then at Arthur, who was calmly directing the crowd.

"Is that the person who wrote the book?" Netti asked his subordinate.

"Yes, boss. That guy named Kennedy."

"Not bad. And—he made a bigger commotion than I expected." Netti exhaled a smoke ring.

"The police chief has been too arrogant lately. He took our money and still wants to interfere in our affairs. Let's have the brothers cause some trouble for the police and cover the retreat of those veterans."

"Why, boss? These penniless bastards are no good to us."

"Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Besides, I also bought 'The Grapes of Wrath.' It's well-written."

At Netti's command, several unmarked trucks suddenly sped out from the other end of the street and blocked the police car. A group of gangsters wielding baseball bats joined the fray, and the scene instantly became even more chaotic.

Arthur seized the opportunity.

"Big Mike! Get the men on that truck!"

He and the last of the veterans jumped onto a passing coal truck and disappeared into the intricate alleyways of Chicago.

Half an hour later.

In an abandoned warehouse at Pier 33.

Arthur leaned against the sack, panting heavily. His coat was torn in several places, and his face was covered in coal dust.

Big Mike was taking a headcount. Apart from a few who had scattered, the core members had all escaped.

Kennedy.

Big Mike walked over, but this time he didn't call him "pretty boy" or try to probe him.

He stretched out his large, scarred hand.

"You fought beautifully just now. And that song—you sang it fucking beautifully."

Big Mike held Arthur's hand tightly.

"The Chicago squad is now under your command. Whether we go to Washington or hell, we'll follow you."

Arthur felt the power emanating from that hand.

He knew he had gotten the first piece of the puzzle.

"No, not to hell, Mike." Arthur smiled, took a flattened cigarette case from his pocket, and handed it out to everyone.

"Let's bring hell to Washington."

>