The Tyrant Billionaire

Prizzi hung up with a sly smile on his face. Hardy had asked him to stop Cohenheim, but every word he said was meant to provoke him. Prizzi had his own plans.

The more Cohenheim resisted, the greater his chances of getting killed, which would provide the perfect opportunity for Prizzi to take over his territory.

But he knew one thing: Hardy's people needed to stay safe. If anything happened to them, he could forget about taking advantage of the situation—he'd be in trouble himself.

The truth was, Prizzi understood Hardy better than Cohenheim.

And he knew one thing for sure—when Hardy was serious, people died. Hardy had already wiped out more than one family or gang.

Meanwhile, Cohenheim, after hanging up, mulled over the situation. Jon Hardy was powerful, sure, but this was Houston. Cohenheim believed that if he captured the actors, Hardy would have no choice but to negotiate. The fact that Prizzi had called him was probably just an attempt to scare him off.

He figured he could demand millions in compensation for the deaths of his men, and then he'd let the actors go. Surely Hardy would give in.

Never underestimate someone's capacity for delusion when they're convinced they're in the right.

More and more gang members gathered outside the hotel, blocking the road with their cars.

Three hours had passed since the confrontation began.

Despite conserving ammo, the two bodyguards were almost out of bullets. If the gang decided to charge now, there would be no way to stop them.

And as for the police, they had yet to show up.

It had been over three hours.

Gunfire had been going on this whole time—how could the police not know?

And the group leader had called several times, only to be told that the police were on their way. But they never arrived.

Prizzi had sent one of his captains with dozens of men to the hotel, but the two gangs were now facing off outside, and they couldn't get in.

Or perhaps, Prizzi was content to sit back and watch the show, not intending to fully assist Hardy.

He sat in his car, watching from afar as the events unfolded.

If Cohenheim backed down now, things might blow over. But if he killed Hardy's people, there would be no turning back. A war between the two sides would be inevitable, giving Prizzi the perfect chance to seize territory.

This was Prizzi's plan.

Cohenheim finally arrived on the scene.

After hours of standoff, his patience had worn thin. This wasn't about a woman anymore. If word got out that a hundred of his men couldn't handle two bodyguards, his gang would be the laughingstock of Houston.

He stood at a distance, looking at the hotel.

The windows were shattered, evidence of the intense gunfight that had taken place.

"Charge! One group suppresses them with firepower, and the other rushes in. I refuse to believe we can't take them down," Cohenheim ordered.

His men began to prepare.

From the rooftop, the bodyguards saw the commotion and realized that the gang was about to launch a major assault. Their hearts sank.

They were running out of ammo and had no way to stop the coming charge. Once the gang stormed the hotel, the bodyguards would be tortured to death for killing Cohenheim's men.

"Charge!"

Someone shouted, and the gang members started moving.

The bodyguards gritted their teeth, emptied their submachine guns, and then drew their pistols, firing every last bullet.

Hearing the change in gunfire, the gang leader shouted in excitement, "They're out of ammo! Hurry, get in there and finish them off!"

Just then, a loud droning sound filled the air.

The men who had been in the military recognized it immediately—it was the sound of fighter jets. Even the gang members looked up, confused.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

Two fighter jets were approaching from the distance, flying straight toward the hotel.

The gangsters were bewildered. Why would fighter jets be flying over a city?

As the planes neared the hotel, they suddenly dove down and opened fire, their machine guns spitting flames.

"Ratatat!"

Bullets tore through the asphalt, shredding the cars parked on the road, branches from nearby trees splintering and falling to the ground. Some of the gang members were hit by the cannon fire and killed instantly.

"Oh my God!"

The gang members were thrown into chaos.

They were just street thugs—they had never seen anything like this. Screaming in terror, they scattered in all directions.

On the rooftop,

the two bodyguards were initially stunned but soon overjoyed. The fighter jets bore the letters "HD" on their sides, marking them as part of Hardy's private defense force.

These were P-51 Mustang fighter planes, and they had flown all the way from Los Angeles.

Hardy's private flying club had long been established, equipped with only the best planes, and the pilots weren't amateurs—they were war veterans, many of them decorated heroes with extensive experience.

Hardy's company had hired them at generous salaries, allowing them to continue doing what they were best at.

As for killing people, that was Hardy's problem to deal with. The pilots were just following orders. Before they left, Hardy had told them to open fire if necessary, and they had determined that now was one of those times.

"Vroooom!"

The two planes turned and swooped down for another pass.

"Run! Run for your lives!"

The gang members scattered in panic as the planes strafed the road again, shredding the remaining cars with bullets.

Watching from a distance, Cohenheim was trembling in fear.

What the hell was going on? Why were there fighter jets involved?

Where was the gang fight he had anticipated? The negotiations?

This wasn't how things were supposed to go.

Fighter jets? Really?

Didn't Hardy fear retaliation from the military, the FBI, or the media? Didn't he fear the government?

Cohenheim didn't know if Hardy was afraid, but he was terrified.

"Retreat! Get out of here!"

As soon as the planes flew off, Cohenheim ordered his men to retreat, leaving behind the bodies and wrecked cars.

In the distance, Prizzi sat in his car, cigar trembling in his hand as he watched the scene unfold.

To deal with a gang, deploying fighter jets? That was just too much!