"Forget about them, Michael.
Soon, you'll need to follow my exact instructions. When I say 'close it,' you must shut the freezer door immediately."
Leo had chosen the walk-in freezer for a reason: it was the only concrete-walled space in the entire restaurant, and its heavy steel door could even withstand a basic grenade blast.
"Alright... but what if they use explosives?"
Michael asked nervously.
"Oh? You know about explosives?"
"I read about it in the newspaper once."
"Relax. They won't be able to bring explosives in here."
Michael was still confused—why was Leo so confident?
Outside, the battle neared its end. Karl was shot in the chest.
Even with superior firepower, without a true technological edge, being surrounded from both sides was too much.
Ben's losses were massive too.
His crew had included the last of Locke's forces and the desperate fugitives Ben had recruited.
Now, only three or four stood unscathed.
Even Ben himself had a cut across his once-handsome face from flying shrapnel.
After calmly putting a bullet through Karl's head, Ben followed the pattern of the others—checking to make sure the red cash case was still in the Lincoln.
It was.
With a twisted smile, he turned toward the bar and called out:
"Come out, Johnny. We won.
It's time to split the money and go our separate ways."
"Ben... I don't want the money anymore. You can take it."
Johnny wasn't smart, but he could imagine what he would do in Ben's shoes.
If their roles were reversed, he'd have shot Ben without hesitation.
"You can't live behind a bar forever, Johnny."
"Will you let me live?"
"What do you think? Don't be naive."
Ben's conversation was merely a distraction.
His close comrade had already snuck behind the bar. From above, he emptied a burst of gunfire into Johnny.
And just like that, the No. 2 of the Lynchburg mob, a gang that had plagued Campbell County for four years, was dead.
Ben told his buddy to load the money into the car.
Then he ordered two of Locke's surviving cowboys to retrieve Leo's body.
If Ben hated anyone most, it was Herbert. But in second place—it was Leo.
If it weren't for Leo, he'd be basking in applause and praise by now.
So when it came to Leo, he wanted a corpse if not a captive.
But just like Johnny's men, the cowboys met the same fate.
As they stepped into the kitchen hallway—gunshots rang out.
Each of them took a bullet square in the forehead.
Ben's eye twitched. His hatred for Leo was momentarily replaced by fear.
"Mr. Valentino, is that you in there?"
Leo heard Ben's voice and instantly knew—Ben had won the final showdown.
"Yes, it's me, Mr. Guryan. I didn't expect you to get your hands dirty like this. Aren't you worried about the police?"
"You've only heard my voice—that's no evidence. Why not come out and take a good look, be a witness in court?"
Ben tried to lure Leo out.
Leo had excellent hearing. From the voices, he could tell there weren't many enemies left.
He was confident he could finish them off.
But that would only play into Herbert's hands—it would make Leo the aggressor, and jeopardize his "victim" identity, which he had to protect at all costs.
So Leo shouted back:
"Enough with the tricks, Mr. Guryan."
Outside, Ben clenched his fist, clearly irritated.
After learning Leo was the one who ruined his plan, Ben had used family connections to gather intel on him.
Looking at the layout of the kitchen and cooling off, Ben realized—there was no way to finish Leo today.
"Ben, we need to go. People who heard the gunfire turned back to Richmond. Cops will be here soon."
His friend whispered urgently.
Ben called out one last time:
"Leo, you lucky bastard. You actually survived.
But remember this—next time, only one of us walks away.
Until we meet again."
The sound of sirens drew closer.
Ben jumped in the car and drove off toward Lynchburg.
He hadn't killed Leo, but he had the million-dollar case.
That money would be his passport to Cuba—his place at the table.
He would regroup, gather strength, and when the storm of today's massacre died down, he'd come back to kill Leo.
"Ben, are we going back to Lynchburg?"
"No. Take the next fork—head straight to Miami."
Today's shootout had drained Locke's forces. He'd sent all his most loyal cowboys.
He hoped to snatch the million and skip paying Ben altogether.
But Ben knew better. The Guryan family always finished their meal.
As a family insider, Ben knew exactly how they rose to power.
And Locke? He had bet on the wrong horse.
In his desperation, he clutched at any straw—even poisonous ones.
"Once we take that turn, we drive through the night to Miami.
I don't need the family to exile me—I'll leave on my own.
America? I'm done with it."
Just a few kilometers away from the turnoff, a Chevrolet was parked at a highway junction.
A woman stood there, waving her arms for help.
The man was bent over the hood, fiddling with the engine.
Seeing Ben's car, the woman's eyes lit up—she waved even more eagerly.
"Ignore them. Keep driving."
Ben closed his eyes to rest.
But... the car was slowing down.
He opened his eyes and snapped at the driver:
"I said don't stop. Keep going."
The car kept slowing.
Ben's childhood friend glanced at him, opened his mouth as if to speak—then said nothing.
He opened the door and jumped out.
Ben was startled. What was going on?
The driverless car rolled to a gentle stop next to the broken-down Chevrolet.
Suddenly, the man by the hood pulled out an Ingram M9 submachine gun and leveled it at Ben.
Ben finally understood—but it was too late.
Flames burst from the muzzle. Bullets tore through the windshield and into Ben's body.
Agony flooded his brain. In a flash, he blacked out.
From the bushes nearby, another car rolled slowly up.
Herbert stepped out.
He approached the bullet-riddled vehicle, opened the door, and stared coldly at Ben's lifeless body.
"Ben, I gave you a chance.
If you had stayed out of this, you'd be alive in Cuba by now.
Those two were meant for your enemies, but my dear brother—you got greedy."
He sneered:
"I know you too well. There's no way you'd sit this one out."
The driver—who had jumped out—approached, wincing and rubbing his injured back.
"Mr. Herbert... I did everything just as you asked.
About the payment…"
"Of course."
Herbert gave a nod.
The woman at the car returned with two thick stacks of cash—at least fifty or sixty grand.
The man gratefully snatched the money, bowing and smiling:
"I always told Ben—don't mess with you.
You're the real mastermind."
"Indeed I am," Herbert said. Then his tone darkened.
"But did it never occur to you that a smart man like me… might not let you live?"
"Wha—?"
Bang!