America Tycoon: The Wolf of Showbiz

Chapter 472 I Need to Be Seriously Injured

Wiping off bits of hamburger with a casual swipe, Martin switched his magazine with the utmost speed and made an OK gesture to Bruce behind the Ford car.

From the direction of the wharf management office, Nicholson's heart-wrenching shout came: "3 o'clock position! 3 o'clock position!"

Relying on the cover provided by his teammates, Nicholas, who was advancing, heard the shout, but he didn't understand English and kept running swiftly.

Because Martin was being pinned down by Boris so relentlessly that he couldn't raise his head.

But Martin fell to the ground, lying flat, just as Jonathan did during filming.

Sure enough, he saw two large feet!

Martin aimed, fired, blood burst from the big feet, and amid screams, a man fell to the ground.

It was a middle-aged man with a large beard, who still clung tightly to the gun in his hand even after being wounded.

Martin had undergone similar training several times before filming "John Wick," so much so that he didn't need to think; his muscle memory took over, the barrel of the gun moved slightly, and his finger automatically tightened.

Bang bang bang—

Three consecutive shots made Nicholas's head explode like a watermelon.

Martin quickly retracted his body.

Boris lowered his muzzle and fired repeatedly under the moving vehicle.

But he was over 60 years old, his body aged, and he wasn't like Stallone from the Suicide Squad, who seemed more capable as he got older.

His physical functions, his reaction speeds, were all slower than those of the younger people.

And today, they were using the ARs, which weren't as familiar to them as the AKs they were accustomed to.

Martin pulled back, hiding behind a wheel at the engine's location, unaware of just how many bullets fell near the bottom of the car, hitting the stone pavement.

For a time, bullets ricocheted chaotically around, some hitting the undercarriage of the car and even causing secondary refractions.

Suddenly, Martin's left leg was struck by something; a shattering sound rang out, and he smelled the acrid odor of rubber burning at high temperatures.

His leg started to hurt, so he quickly felt it and from his left pocket he pulled out a Nokia 1100.

This was the one Nicholson gave to Martin for secret communication.

Martin couldn't say whether he was lucky or unlucky; a possibly repeatedly refracted ricochet grazed the front tire, struck the outer side of his left leg, and hit the Nokia phone. The bullet didn't have enough force to completely penetrate the device, getting stuck inside it.

A small part of the bullethead which protruded also wounded Martin's leg.

The injury wasn't severe, a mere superficial flesh wound, completely tolerable.

As the gunfire from the opposition paused, Martin moved to the front of the car, raised his gun, and fired continuously.

Boris took cover behind another vending cart selling cold drinks.

Another gunman hiding behind decorative rocks on the roadside was being suppressed by Bruce.

Now it had turned into a 2V2!

In Martin's hands, there was only one magazine left in the rifle, and without hesitation, he dashed out from behind the car.

He had seen very clearly that the Russian guy on the opposite side was an old fellow!

Martin quickly changed his position, taking cover behind a thick lamppost, opening fire continuously, even firing a few shots under the vending cart to prevent the other guy from shooting from beneath as he had done.

Just as Boris was about to shoot from beneath the cart, a ricochet hit the undercarriage, and he quickly pulled back.

The gunfire dwindled, one by one his men died horribly.

Boris clenched his teeth in anger; all were elite enforcers from his gang!

If they had died, they were dead, but the enemy across was still hopping around agilely.

Boris, driven by madness, darted from behind the cold drink cart's front end and raised his AR to fire.

A dozen shots rang out in succession, yet he didn't spot Martin; the latter had hidden himself well.

In the thick greenery close by, Martin discarded the emptied AR rifle and drew the handgun he had picked up. Explore hidden tales at empire

An old-style M1911.

Hearing the gunfire stop, Martin immediately got up, gripped the handgun with both hands and fired repeatedly towards the cold drink cart.

At just over ten meters, the M1911's range was more than enough.

Although Boris was old, he had plenty of experience; as soon as he ran out of bullets, he ducked back, and the handgun bullets struck the vehicle's hood near him.

A ricochet grazed his arm, and the pain made Boris drop his gun to the side.

As Martin fired, he charged towards that direction; stepping on the hood of the cold drink cart, he sprang up, and the empty M1911 was thrown like a throwing knife.

During the filming of "John Wick," this had been one of Jonathan's common maneuvers.

Martin had specifically trained for this; the heavy handgun thumped against Boris's head with massive force, causing the latter to fall backward and thud into a plastic crate by the car, filled with bottled Coke.

He reacted quickly, snatching up a glass Coke bottle, and threw it at Martin.

Throwing things might seem easy, but doing so from such an awkward seated position proved difficult.

Martin jumped down from the hood, dodged cleverly, and quickly picked up a glass Coke bottle from the cold drink cart's window.

Boris had also stood up, holding a glass Coke bottle in his hand.

At the same time, a few fearless reporters were sprinting towards them, all realizing that a huge news story was unfolding.

Perhaps this piece of news could change their destinies.

Many tourists and movie fans had not run far; instead, they moved to higher ground, wanting to see what exactly was happening.

They saw how Martin fought back, how he eliminated one gunman after another in extremely disadvantageous circumstances.

They saw two men clutching glass Coke bottles, facing off against each other.

Some couldn't help but think, was this thug who appeared out of nowhere challenging Martin, known as the 'Cola War God,' with his own best method?

There were also people hiding on the beach who, hearing the gunshots stop, peeked out to watch the excitement, finding Martin and Boris through the cameramen's and photographers' lenses.

"Those pigs at the LAPD, I'm definitely complaining about them!"

On the rooftop of the administration building, Leonardo cursed in anxiety and prayed to a God he didn't usually believe in, "May God protect Martin!"

Nicholson, who had just screamed his lungs out, injuring his vocal cords, had difficulty speaking now. He stood on the rooftop, gazing at the cold drink cart.

The body of the cart blocked the view behind it; he couldn't see Martin or the shooting thug.

In the distance, the faint sound of police sirens could be heard, as LAPD cruisers raced madly toward them.

But for Martin and Boris behind the cold drink cart, their ears couldn't detect the sound of the sirens at all.

Right at this moment, all they could see was each other!

It would be either your death or my survival!

Boris felt some regret—Martin's combat power was unbelievably strong, his marksmanship and physical skills were better than those of professionals in the mafia. If he had known, he would have shot him from a distance and killed him, not bother with trying to capture him alive.

But there was no other way out now.

He shouted fiercely, "Die, asshole!"

Martin didn't intend to speak at all. The moment he picked up the bottled Coke, he had pounced forward.

Boris swung the Coke toward Martin's head.

Martin's arm tensed up, met the blow head-on. The bottle struck his robust arm and was forcefully deflected away. His other hand swung the Coke bottle down toward Boris's head.

Boris stretched out his hand to block it!

But one of them was in his twenties, at the peak of his physical strength; the other was over sixty.

With a crack, Boris's upper arm fractured, and he screamed in agony.

In a desperate fight, there were no tricks, just a struggle for life!

Martin's left hand was also in pain, but he clenched his teeth and endured.

Having landed a blow, he didn't give his opponent any time to breathe.

Martin still used his old routine, delivering a kick to Boris's abdomen. His right hand holding the Coke bottle swung out rapidly, exploding on Boris's head with a thud.

Glass shards scattered in all directions, blood flowed out immediately. Boris was struck back two steps and sat down heavily on the ground.

Having taken down the armed thugs in a row, his arms and legs still aching, Martin's ferocity had been provoked; he had no intention of holding back.

He stepped forward and kicked Boris in the face.

Boris fell with a thud, spitting out five or six teeth.

But the fiercely tenacious old Russian still snarled and said in awkward English, "Come on, asshole, I will not let you go!"

Martin never intended to let him go. He bent down to pick up a bottled Coke from the glass case and threw it with force.

The distance was only two or three meters, and the target—a big head—how could he miss?

With a thud, the Coke bottle hit Boris's head.

Martin picked up another bottle and threw it, then another, smashing them on Boris's head.

The surrounding reporters drew closer and closer as the gunfire had completely stopped.

Bruce had killed the last armed thug.

The sound of police sirens was also getting closer; the patrol cars had reached the dock area.

Martin threw the last bottle of Coke and, seeing Bruce not far away, signaling an OK sign to him and nodding slightly, then he took a step back and sat down on the stone steps.

Boris diagonally across from him, the tough talk in his mouth had all ceased, leaving only his body twitching non-stop.

The bravest reporter, who was only a dozen meters away from Martin, maneuvered his camera, capturing the scene, and glanced at Martin, reminding, "Martin, you're injured."

Martin smiled at him, "Won't kill me."

Even in such a time, the acting master didn't forget to build his persona, asking, "My fans, and all of you, are you okay?"

The reporter replied, "Aside from the armed thugs, no other deaths were seen."

"Very good, very good," Martin's body began to sway, shaking a few times, then he slumped onto the steps.

In the distance, a fan wearing a red cultural shirt ran towards them, shouting, "Call an ambulance! Call an ambulance! Martin is injured!"

These words reached Martin's ears without missing a beat.

He was just exhausted, the injury wasn't too serious, but at this moment, it was better to seem more seriously hurt.

This was an acting opportunity fought for with his life, too precious to waste.

The sound of frantic sirens blared as a fleet of police cars arrived. Such a severe shooting incident had not only brought the LAPD but FBI vehicles as well.

"Quick! Over here! Martin has been shot, he's seriously injured!" Fans of Martin shouted loudly at the scene, now with cries in their voice, "Hurry to the hospital, get him to the hospital quickly!"

The LAPD immediately controlled the scene, driving away reporters and fans.

Paramedics arrived, coming down with a stretcher, checked Martin's condition, and lifted him onto it.

Countless cameras recorded Martin being injured and entering the ambulance.

Media professionals all knew this was going to be a super big news story that would shock the whole of America!