Chapter 671: Blackmail Shooting!

The dark-colored Dodge pickup truck rumbled into the open-air camp. Behind the wheel, Pedro glanced around, asking, "Boss, where can we find that idiot Hodgson among all these cars?"

Sanchez, riding shotgun, pointed ahead, "Look for a particularly large Mercedes-Benz RV. There's only one."

Sergio in the backseat suddenly pointed, "Boss, is that it, over there on the left?"

Sanchez and Pedro followed his gaze, spotting the towering RV in the distance. The Mercedes-Benz logo gleamed under the lights, unmistakable in the sea of vehicles.

Sanchez double-checked his phone, confirming, "That's the one."

Pedro maneuvered the truck toward the RV, navigating through the congested campsite. Eventually, they reached a point where they could no longer drive, so they parked and got out.

With a bag slung over his shoulder, Sanchez headed towards the Mercedes-Benz RV, simultaneously texting Hodgson, "I'm here with the goods. Got enough for three months. Have the cash ready!"

Impatiently, he sent another text, "Don't try anything funny, or you'll regret it!"

The reply came swiftly, "Money's ready."

Satisfied, Sanchez smirked. This deal promised hefty profits—a 30% markup plus delivery fees.

As they made their way through the bustling camp, Sanchez cautioned his brothers, "Watch out for troublemakers."

Southern California's not known for its tranquility, prompting Pedro and Sergio to instinctively check their pistols.

Near the RV, the atmosphere shifted, becoming eerily quiet as if the campgoers intentionally avoided the area.

...

Back in the Mercedes-Benz RV, the impromptu party wound down. Ridley Scott, Jessica Chastain, and the others bid farewell, mindful of their work the next day.

Left behind were Martin, Daddario, Bruce, and Andy Weir, the author of "The Martian."

Andy, once a struggling programmer turned successful sci-fi writer, raised his glass, "Martin, thank you for everything."

Martin clinked glasses, "Congratulations on your new book."

With a gulp, Andy finished his drink, acknowledging, "Without you, 'The Martian' would've stayed a blog post."

He continued, "I'm heading to New York tomorrow for the book launch. Your support means the world."

Martin poured him another glass, "Here's to your success."

Their collaboration had sparked immense interest, reminiscent of the buzz surrounding "Gone Girl's" adaptation.

As Andy's novel neared its official release, anticipation for the movie adaptation soared, promising success for both author and studio.

Andy Weir, in high spirits but lacking verbal finesse, indulged in a few more drinks before bidding farewell and stumbling out.

Martin escorted him to his destination before returning to the car with Bruce.

As Bruce was about to shut the door, he spotted three unfamiliar men emerging from behind a trailer. Tattoos adorned their arms and necks, signaling trouble.

The leader, a tattooed figure with a black backpack, approached cautiously, flanked by his vigilant companions.

Bruce's experienced eye detected the anomaly immediately. "Martin, pay attention," he warned, signaling Daddario to duck down.

Martin, quick to react, ushered Daddario to safety, but she mistook his gesture, snatching at his belt for a weapon.

"Get down, it's dangerous!" Martin urged, but Daddario's response lagged.

Finally comprehending, she hunkered down, while Martin retrieved a Glock pistol, grateful for his childhood firearm training.

Meanwhile, Bruce discreetly armed himself, concealing a pistol beneath his coat.

Nearby, Martin's bodyguards also readied their weapons.

Sanchez, eyeing the RV, mistook it for Hodgson's. "Where's Hodgson? The goods are here. Bring him out!" he demanded.

Bruce, maintaining composure, asserted, "No Hodgson here. You're mistaken. Leave."

Sanchez, undeterred, insisted, "Quit stalling. Give me the money!"

Bruce activated the alarm, alerting nearby crew security.

Pedro interjected, "They're playing us."

Sanchez's temper flared, hand inching towards his gun as Bruce reiterated, "Leave now!"

Frustrated, Sanchez brandished his weapon, but before he could act, Pedro and Sergio drew their guns.

Just as Sanchez prepared to fire, a gunshot shattered the tension.

In the dimming twilight, the serene silence around the luxurious Mercedes-Benz RV was shattered by the stark flare of muzzle flames. Inside, Martin's hands were steady as he unleashed a barrage of bullets through the open window. Each shot was a thunderous declaration in the quiet, echoing with grim determination.

"Boom! Bang!" The night air vibrated with the sounds of conflict.

Sanchez, caught in the crossfire, hissed in pain as bullets tore through both his arms, forcing his pistol to clatter to the ground. Blood sprayed, painting a gruesome picture on his skin as he collapsed, a scream tearing from his lips.

Martin, without a moment's pause, redirected his aim toward two adversaries who had drawn their weapons in desperation. Elsewhere, the trusted Bruce initiated his own barrage, his gunfire syncing with another eruption of shots from a neighboring trailer.

Though Martin's bodyguards prided themselves on their knack for uncovering hidden trackers, they found engaging these stationary targets far less challenging. The night was soon filled with the relentless sound of gunfire, as Bruce, determined to leave no quarter, and Tarrus, alongside the bodyguards, emptied their magazines into the fray.

Pedro and Sergio fell, their bodies riddled with bullets, lifeblood seeping into the earth beneath them.

In a desperate bid for safety, Daddario squeezed himself into a narrow space next to the sofa, one hand clutching his head, the other stifling his cries, fearful of undermining his comrades' resolve.

Outside, Martin kept vigilant watch, gun at the ready, as Bruce swiftly reloaded and flicked a switch. Suddenly, the area was bathed in the harsh light of the RV's searchlights, revealing the dire scene in stark clarity.

Pedro and Sergio lay silent, their struggle ended. Sanchez, however, attempted a feeble escape, crawling with what strength he had left until a bullet from Bruce grazed his head, halting him.

"Don't shoot! I won't move," Sanchez pleaded, pain lacing his voice, his thoughts inexplicably wandering to Johnny Depp, mixing anger with a bizarre sense of betrayal.

The calm of the night was disrupted as security personnel approached, their leader, Harrington, calling out to assess the situation. Bruce's succinct explanation was followed by Harrington's swift commands, securing the scene and ensuring no further breaches occurred.

Upon discovering the state of the assailants—two dead, one feigning death—Harrington ordered his capture and the immediate notification of the authorities. With the area declared safe, Bruce interjected to prevent any tampering with evidence until the arrival of law enforcement or the FBI.

Inside the RV, Martin reached out to an old FBI contact, Neves, ensuring a rapid response. Meanwhile, Bruce focused on the wounded, ensuring their survival until professional medical help could arrive.

As Martin reviewed footage from the RV's surveillance system, confirming the ordeal was captured in its entirety, a call from Ridley Scott came through. Reassurances were given, and Daddario was comforted, the ordeal drawing to a close with a shared moment of relief over Coke and dessert, a brief respite in the aftermath of chaos.