Takeover

"Whoosh…" The heavy, ceaseless rain draped itself over all of Saint Denis like a dark, suffocating shroud. The sky hung low and bruised, so intensely dark that even the few struggling streetlights couldn't pierce the gloom, their weak glows absorbed by the pervasive blackness.

Fine, relentless raindrops pelted the already waterlogged ground, striking the glistening surfaces and creating expanding ripples, tiny, ephemeral circles in the accumulating puddles.

These expanding ripples intertwined, spreading outwards in shimmering concentric circles, but in the very next moment, they were abruptly shattered, violently broken by the insistent, heavy thud of footsteps.

"Pitter-patter, pitter-patter…"

The sound of boots slapping on the rain-soaked ground was a chaotic and complex symphony, a muffled yet rapid drumming that moved swiftly from one end of the deserted street to the other. Many of these sounds, however, seemed to vanish abruptly in the middle of the road, swallowed by the darkness and the downpour.

"Creak…" Even the relentless heavy rain couldn't fully mask the grating, protesting sound of a door opening and closing. The old, wooden door hinge, swollen and stiff from the damp, seemed particularly resistant, groaning with a painful reluctance on this desolate rainy night.

The footsteps, now inside, gradually receded, their distinct rhythm completely absorbed and covered by the overwhelming roar of the downpour. But the muffled screams that followed soon after, thin and desperate, though momentarily transmitted through the thick curtain of rain, were quickly drowned out by the pervasive, all-encompassing sound of rushing water.

"Who's out there? Ugh… Ow, stop hitting me, stop hitting me!" A voice, choked with fear and pain, gasped into the night.

"Who are you? Sh*t! Who exactly are you?!" another demanded, a rising inflection of terror in his tone.

"Ow, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, stop hitting me, stop hitting me!!!" a third whimpered, his words dissolving into choked sobs.

Screams, raw with agony and panic, briefly echoed in the impenetrable dark night, but they were short-lived, never traveling far before being completely smothered and muffled by the relentless, heavy rain.

The dull, sickening thud of a steel pipe striking a person was neither light nor heavy, the contact of flesh and steel delivered with a chilling, dispassionate efficiency, neither rushed nor slow. Six blows per second was the limit their bodies could endure – not a display of the Van der Linde Gang gunman's internal loyalty, but a calculated measure of incapacitation.

The heavy rain washed away the pervasive filth of Saint Denis, and at the same time, it served as a perfect shroud, concealing the brutal, visceral grinding of flesh against iron.

Saint Denis was plunged into a terrifying, absolute pitch blackness, punctuated only by the relentless rain.

A bright, almost defiant orange electric light dispelled the oppressive darkness in Mr. Henry Lemieux's study, casting sharp shadows across the room.

"Whoosh…" With a deliberate, almost ritualistic movement, Mr. Henry Lemieux reached out and pulled the study window shut. The persistent roar of the heavy rain outside was abruptly cut off, leaving only a faint, muffled rustling, a distant murmur, as if the storm had been banished to another world.

It was strange that Mr. Henry hadn't retired for the night at this late hour; he stood there, his jaw set, a subtle tension in his shoulders, making it seem as though he was meticulously brewing some wicked little ideas, his mind churning with unseen calculations.

"What should we do? These families are stubbornly refusing to budge." Pierce Hattie, sitting opposite Mr. Henry, leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his voice heavy with frustration. He ran a hand over his face. "Without that last vote, our plan can't proceed! Mr. Cornwall will end up taking his anger out on us." His gaze was fixed on Mr. Henry, a desperate plea in his eyes.

Jessica Wicklow, sitting silently on the other side, remained motionless, her expression unreadable, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a picture of stony patience.

Two days ago, Mr. Henry had begun to vigorously push the ambitious plan he had discussed with Mr. Cornwall. He had hosted a lavish banquet, maneuvering tirelessly throughout the night, his smile fixed, his hand constantly clasping others, hoping to persuade the other powerful families with decisive voting power to comply with their proposed troop deployment.

Deploying troops in various American states is not easy; for example, the commander-in-chief of the Lemoyne state army holds a position no less influential than that of a mayor, wielding considerable power. Therefore, they absolutely cannot force troop deployment based on their status or mere social standing alone. Moreover, these politicians and the military operate within completely different systems; if it weren't for Mr. Cornwall's influential mediation, these damned Lemoyne state soldiers wouldn't give them the time of day, much less obey their commands.

To truly deploy troops, only a formal order from the Lemoyne state government can be issued, and now this crucial, pivotal step was stuck, like a stubborn wagon wheel in thick mud. (Each state has its own National Guard, but I'm not really familiar with it. If there are any issues, please comment, and I will revise based on your suggestions.)

The army belongs to everyone, a shared resource, and now you want to use everyone's army to curry favor with Mr. Cornwall. If the matter succeeds, you get Mr. Cornwall's benefits, but we get nothing. Who in their right mind would agree to that?

How could there be such a good thing in this world? It defied all sense of fair play.

So, over the past two days, the three major families – Lemieux, Hattie, and Wicklow – had meticulously submitted four separate requests for troop deployment to the Lemoyne state government. Each time, however, with a frustratingly consistent pattern, one particular family had stepped forward to cast a negative vote, effectively thwarting their efforts. This stubborn resistance had left the three families absolutely seething with frustration.

The mission was stalled before it even began. What the hell were they supposed to do? The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

Listening to Pierce's frustrated words, Mr. Henry's face was contorted in an extremely grim expression, his jawline taut.

"Damn it, the heads of these families are utterly short-sighted!" Mr. Henry burst out, his voice sharp with annoyance. He stalked over to the window, peering out at Saint Denis, which was swallowed by the heavy rain and completely dark. He gestured vehemently with a clenched fist. "Even if this operation against Bronte and the Van der Linde Gang isn't led by them, they still stand to gain their share. I can't believe they're still not satisfied even with that! They're a bunch of damned greedy bastards!"

Mr. Henry cursed, his voice low and venomous, as he stood by the window, his gaze sweeping over the impenetrable darkness of Saint Denis, obscured by the torrential rain. For the first time in a long time, he felt a surge of genuine annoyance at such persistent rainy weather; it matched his sour mood perfectly.

The faint, distant sound of the rain outside was somewhat noisy, seeming to be mixed with other indistinct sounds, not very clear, like whispers through water. None of the three people in the room paid it any mind, their focus too narrow, too consumed by their immediate predicament.

Their main focus was still on how to resolve the vexing troop deployment issue.

"F*ck! If they still don't agree tomorrow, then we'll just forcefully issue the documents." Jessica, who had remained silent for so long, finally spoke, her voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet with an undeniable steeliness. She uncrossed her arms, leaning forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "Anyway, once this incident is over, with Mr. Cornwall's support, they won't be our opponents!" She still maintained that ruthless, almost cold, demeanor, her eyes holding a dangerous glint.

This old man, who famously evaded conscription during the war, was always so remarkably brave and decisive when the target was someone else.

"No, our influence in Saint Denis hasn't reached that level yet." Pierce immediately rejected the rash suggestion, shaking his head emphatically, his hand raised in a stopping gesture. "Once our actions go too far, they will definitely unite against us!"

If they truly possessed the courage and overwhelming strength to do so, they would have done it long ago, not waited until now, desperate for allies. The fundamental reason they always sought to find allies, resorting to various tricks and manipulations from the very beginning instead of acting directly, was precisely because their inherent strength was insufficient to contend with the combined force of the other families.

Mr. Henry, visibly annoyed by their conflicting opinions, finally pushed away from the window and began to pace back and forth restlessly at his desk, his steps short and agitated. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, a picture of frustrated indecision.

The Van der Linde Gang wasn't a huge problem, not in Saint Denis anyway; they had no significant power there, only a clothing store, which the families didn't even care about. But Signor Bronte was a different matter entirely; he had brazenly killed a sheriff and two government officials recently. This damned thing was like a sharp steel knife hanging precariously over their heads, potentially striking at them personally at any moment, a constant, unbearable threat.

"Thump, thump, thump…" A sudden, jumbled rush of footsteps echoed distinctly downstairs in the sprawling villa and then from directly outside, sounding like a group of people scurrying frantically around in the rooms below, a muffled yet insistent commotion.

This unexpected noise made Mr. Henry, who was already boiling with frustration from his lack of solutions, even more thoroughly annoyed. He scowled deeply, his brow furrowing, and roared outwards, his voice cracking with exasperation, "Damn it, all of you, keep it down! What are you running around for in the middle of the night! If anyone doesn't want to work, get out tomorrow!"

Following Mr. Henry's thunderous roar, the muffled commotion inside the villa noticeably quieted down, shrinking away into intimidated silence.

But Pierce, still sitting on the sofa, seemingly unfazed by the interruption, spoke again, his voice calm, an idea blossoming in his mind. "Alright, Henry, don't be anxious. I've thought of another way. Or rather, two ways." He leaned forward, his gaze thoughtful, tapping a finger against his lips.

"Either we threaten Mr. Glenn by reducing his military budget for next year, forcing him to obey our command. Or we send someone to give him money in a private capacity to seek his help." Pierce explained, holding up two fingers to count off his options. "I heard that Mr. Glenn hasn't been having an easy time recently; the Van der Linde Veteran Club has caused constant unrest among his soldiers. I think threatening him with money is undoubtedly the best approach." He concluded with a confident nod.

As Pierce calmly explained his cunning solutions, Mr. Henry's and Jessica's eyes immediately lit up, a spark of hope igniting in their previously troubled expressions. But at the very same moment, the commotion in the villa, which had briefly subsided, abruptly resumed, growing louder and more insistent.

"Thump, thump, thump…"

"Ugh…"

Footsteps, rapid and heavy, mixed with distinct human whimpers and stifled cries, suddenly echoed in the villa again, louder and more chaotic than before, even seeming alarmingly close at hand, right outside the study door.

The renewed commotion outside the study door, so close now, made Mr. Henry's already frayed temper flare into a full-blown rage. His face reddened, veins standing out on his neck. He roared, a guttural sound of pure fury, and strode quickly towards the door, his hand seizing the knob. With a violent tug, he yanked open the study door, ready to unleash his wrath.

"Don't test me! You damned bastards, haven't I already said…"

The words had barely left his lips, caught on the very edge of his angry breath, when, as the door swung open, what chillingly greeted his eyes was the dark, gleaming silhouette of a steel pipe, already swung in a swift, silent arc, heading directly towards his forehead.