Chapter 14: Chaos in Chicago (Part 1)

Back at the newspaper office, Logan instructed Richard to arrange for reporters to go to the barbecue restaurant for coverage, while he himself found an excuse to return home.

Before the mirror, with a thought, his reflection shifted to reveal a bald man exuding a cold, hard aura.

Guo Da? No. Jason Statham.

[Alias (The Mechanic): Armed Freedom America! You are a mechanic—hurry to deliver the typewriters of liberty to the Americans craving security.]

The new alias shared the same space backpack as the bootlegger’s alias.

The goal was clear: to uphold the American principle that “everyone must be armed to maintain order”—and the “Chicago typewriter” inside wasn’t limited to just Thompson submachine guns.

Logan felt that if this system had a physical form, it would surely sport a pair of demonic horns atop its head.

But that wasn’t what surprised Logan.

This new alias, while capable of “changing skins,” offered no extra tools; however, it replicated every skill of Jason Statham’s character in The Mechanic:

Killer instinct: the ability to sense imminent danger in advance;

Mastery of firearms: no need to elaborate, even capable of designing and manufacturing guns independently;

Formidable combat skills: able to take on ten foes barehanded;

Ingenious engineering for accidents: turning killings into elegant mishaps...

Logan’s mouth twitched.

Even the dead should thank you for your elegance.

If the first alias was a shield, then this one was a spear—the sharpest spear of all.

Without exaggeration, Logan—well, let’s call him “Guo Da Statham” for now—was now the world’s top assassin.

This pinnacle wasn’t measured by violence alone, but by an almost inhuman professional composure, reflected in his mastery of medicine, psychology, engineering, and other fields.

There was only one small problem—who in their right mind would want to be a damn assassin? Wasn’t it more fun to watch the endless chaos and amusements of America?

…

The Americans were not amused in the slightest.

The next day, nearly every front page in Chicago was dominated by the brutal, bloody shootout at the barbecue restaurant.

“Four Dead, Eighteen Injured! Bloodbath at Barbecue Restaurant!”

The large black-and-white photo showed overturned tables and chairs, shattered grills and skewers, and the furious eyes of the burly man who stared wide open until death.

Speculation about the identities of the assailants and victims flew wildly, but one thing was unanimous:

Every report brimmed with shock, anger, and fierce condemnation of the breakdown in public security, castigating the police’s incompetence and questioning why taxpayers’ money was being wasted on useless law enforcement.

Unsurprisingly, after the massacre, many reporters rushed to the scene long before the tardy Chicago police arrived.

Chicagoans cursed the shooters, cursed the useless cops, and cursed the sensationalist tabloids.

Yes, that tabloid was The Sun.

The Sun’s coverage was the most detailed, with firsthand accounts, but Richard injected his own fear and fury into the story—

He boldly revealed that the victims were “high-ranking gang members,” predicting that “whoever pulled the trigger signals that chaos is brewing in Chicago, and no one can stand aside!”

Many Chicagoans scoffed at this “nonsense,” nearly spitting on the paper through the pages:

“The Sun’s news section is trash!”

“Exactly, they write news like fiction, with predictions too!”

“But I gotta admit, their fiction section on page two is pretty good…”

No doubt, Richard’s on-site observation wasn’t wasted, even though he later claimed his worldview was shattered.

In this serialized piece, he depicted the protagonists’ survival games with cinematic flair. Tomorrow, the various newspapers would again lambast The Sun for its vulgar sensationalism.

But The Sun stood firm, because readers loved it.

“Just give us more of this kind of content, who wants all those boring fake news…”

As night fell.

“Boom—!!!”

A dull explosion shattered the calm, causing windows in parts of the city to vibrate frantically.

From the high-rises, people first saw thick columns of fire erupting from the South Side industrial district, as if the gates of hell’s furnace had been forcibly pried open, violently tearing apart Chicago’s night sky.

Soon, flames flared in other directions too, fiery dances in the deep night, painting half the sky a terrifying crimson.

“God! Fire! Big fire!”

“Where? Where’s the fire?!”

“Factory district! More than one place’s on fire!”

“Is the whole city going to burn again?!”

Like a plague, the rumor spread wildly from high to low, from the South Side to downtown.

1871! That dreaded year etched into the very marrow of Chicagoans’ collective memory!

Also by night, a great fire had turned the entire city into ashes!

Sharp, piercing fire sirens wailed from all directions, tearing apart the fragile sleep of countless Chicagoans.

People sprang from their beds, barefoot, rushing to windows, eyes wide with terror at the distant flames.

Those near the blaze panicked, flooding the streets, screaming and crying as they fled the fire zones.

Some couldn’t help but recall The Sun’s daytime scoffing, “Chaos is coming, no one can stay out of it…”

How laughable? The real joke was on them!

…

Logan only noticed the distant flames after the sirens began.

He inexplicably felt it was connected to Al Capone again.

Thinking of his new alias, he silently summoned “Guo Da Statham.”

He grabbed an unmarked camera from home, slung it over his chest, and stepped out into the chaotic Chicago night, moving against the flow toward the flames.

Chaos is the breeding ground of evil.

The fire frightened some, but delighted others, who seized the moment for the country’s age-old pastime—looting.

Along the way, “Guo Da Statham” saw several gangs smashing storefront windows, stuffing goods into pockets and sacks.

He didn’t spare those marauders a single glance.

Rounding a corner, a man who could hide better in the dark than Logan—a burly black man—roughly knocked down an elderly woman clutching a bundle, snatched it, and fled toward “Guo Da Statham.”

Without pause, as they brushed past each other, “Guo Da Statham” pivoted on his left foot like a coiled spring, whipping out his right leg in a swift, precise strike.

A muffled “thud” echoed as the heel of his boot struck the man’s outer knee with pinpoint accuracy.

The man’s face contorted as if hit by a wall, collapsing heavily with a painful wail.

The fallen woman, too scared to cry, gawked dumbfounded at this stranger who had suddenly appeared, dispatched the troublemaker, casually caught her flying bundle, tossed it back, and walked away without a backward glance.

Near the alley by the fire zone, two armed men with fierce expressions charged out, greedily eyeing the camera slung over “Guo Da Statham’s” shoulder.

“Hand over the camera, then your pockets…”

Before they could finish, “Guo Da Statham” dropped low, lunged forward, and slid sideways. His elbow, like a fired cannonball, struck upward with explosive force against the soft edge of one’s ribs.

“Ugh…” The man couldn’t even scream before his eyes bulged, his face shifting from red to purple to pale. The gun flew from his hand as he curled up and collapsed in pain.

His companion, stunned by the lightning-fast brutality, hadn’t reacted before “Guo Da Statham” closed in and dealt him the same treatment.

Without a glance at the now defenseless men, “Guo Da Statham” pressed onward.

When he cleared the chaotic crowds and saw the fire zone in the distance, he confirmed one thing: this blaze was definitely linked to Al Capone.

The burning factory was clearly the bootlegger’s still he had been tailing!

Poor thing, now reduced to ashes.

“Guo Da Statham” scanned his surroundings and found a vantage point.

At the back of a nearby small building, he sized up the height, grasped rough brick crevices, swung his body upwards, and wedged his feet into the iron bands of a drainpipe.

No ropes, no tools—just fingers clutching bricks and toes pressing tiny protrusions, climbing like a giant gecko.

Before long, he silently landed atop the flat roof.

Not far off, several massive distillery buildings were engulfed in flames, heat waves washing over him with the acrid scent of burning embers and ashes.

Fire trucks outside struggled to douse the blaze, but perhaps the alcohol inside fueled it, making the fire rage even fiercer.

From above, the enormous distillation tanks glowed red-hot and deformed, emitting ear-piercing groans before exploding, spewing burning liquor and molten metal shards like rivers of lava.

“Guo Da Statham” quickly found a perfect spot at the roof’s edge, bent his knees slightly, and steadily raised his camera.

Before his lens unfolded a breathtaking scene of destruction:

In the foreground, burning, collapsing industrial ruins billowed thick smoke—an infernal vision;

In the midground, tiny fleeing figures swarmed like ants amid flashing fire truck lights;

Beyond, Chicago’s downtown glittered with bright lights and towering silhouettes, appearing both magnificent and illusory against the fiery backdrop.

“Click!”

Thanks to the “Mechanic’s” aesthetic refinement, tomorrow’s front page photo was secured!

…

Richard was close to losing his mind!

On this chaotic night, every newspaper in Chicago sprang into action.

Some sent out reporters to gather material, others spun wild imaginative tales, and some at least revisited the history of the Great Chicago Fire of 1871…

At that moment, Logan dashed in with his camera, announcing he had the first-hand footage.

As the photos developed, nearly everyone in the office looked at their boss with newfound respect!

Clearly, these were shots from the fire scene itself!

Setting aside artistic merit, rushing headlong into the unknown darkness outside to capture the fire firsthand—that was dedication!

No wonder he could be the boss!

Everyone except Richard.

Richard looked at Logan like a reckless child tempting fate, itching to give him a solid beating right then and there.

He couldn’t even imagine how dangerous it was outside: looters, lunatics… even professional reporters dared not venture close to the fire zone.

And here was the boss playing with his life!

Logan saw Richard’s fiery glare and didn’t dare say he just wanted to test his new alias.

Danger? Nonexistent. The only danger was for others.

Still, if he said that, Richard would only think he was arrogant and get angrier.

Fortunately, Logan had information to verify, which also distracted Richard.

He pulled Richard into the office and whispered, “The biggest fire started at the Italian bootlegger’s still.”

Richard glared at him bitterly, snapping, “How do you know that?”

“I saw Johnny Torrio at the scene. You know, I met him at my grandfather’s funeral.”

Johnny hadn’t actually been there, but Richard didn’t know that.

“If the other fire points are also Italian stills, combined with the Italians killed at the barbecue joint, what conclusion can we draw?” Logan reminded him.

Richard, past his anger, followed the hint and quickly concluded: “Italian gang infighting!”

In Chicago, the only ones capable of such a ruthless strike against the Mafia were either the Irish mob or the Mafia itself.

Realizing this, Richard said urgently, “Come with me to see Don.”

The O’Connor family’s villa was in the north, near Lake Michigan, mostly untouched by the fire tonight.

But Donnell was far from idle, constantly dispatching men to gather information and maintain order on their turf.

Hearing Logan’s news, he affirmed, “Yes, it must be Italian infighting. I know those smaller fire points—they’re all their stills.”

“It wouldn’t be so coordinated if it wasn’t insiders.”

Richard, puzzled by Logan’s repeated provocation of Al Capone’s ambition, asked, “Then why would the Italians fight among themselves?”

Donnell, lacking full information and unwilling to dwell, replied, “Who cares! What can I do now?”

Logan caught the hidden meaning in his words. “What do you want to do?”

Donnell, having thought it over for a while, said plainly, “I want to launch a big purge of the Irish mob!”

“Cough cough…” Richard choked.

No, you’re thinking ‘civil war’ too!

Chicago’s two biggest gangs starting internal wars simultaneously—this was madness.

Had his premonition come true? Chicago was about to spiral into utter chaos!

Logan, however, nodded in agreement, “You should have done this long ago!”

The Chicago Irish mob was somewhat like the Mafia, having split from New York’s factions.

The O’Connor family was among the first New York Irish mob members to settle in Chicago, initially forming a small gang, then gradually absorbing North Side gangs to become a major force.

During this process, more New York Irish members branched off, also coming to Chicago to form their own groups.

Facing growing pressure from the expanding Mafia, several groups united under the O’Connor family’s leadership, forming today’s Irish mob.

Yet because this was a voluntary alliance, other families maintained their own territories and often resisted O’Connor’s commands.

Young and ambitious, Donnell had long wished to change this and now, with his mortal enemies embroiled in infighting, it was a golden opportunity.

He asked his two most trusted strategists, “What do you think? Should I do what the Italians do and wipe them out?”

Richard waved his hands frantically, “Absolutely not! We’re different from the Italians. Several families are tied by marriage—we can’t burn bridges!”

Logan pondered for a moment, eyes gleaming, then grinned, “Let me tell you an ancient Chinese tale called ‘Releasing Military Power with a Toast’…”

…