Chapter 471: Seriously Injured

As Martin casually flicked off the remnants of the hamburger, he rapidly swapped out the magazine of his gun with practiced ease. Glancing back, he flashed an 'OK' gesture to Bruce, who was taking cover behind the robust body of a Ford truck.

The atmosphere was thick with tension at the small, unassuming dock management office. Suddenly, a piercing cry shattered the air, emanating from Nicholson, "3 o'clock position! 3 o'clock!"

Nicholas, aided by his companions and rushing towards the danger, heard the shout. Despite not understanding English, the urgency in Nicholson's voice spurred him on, his pace unrelenting.

Martin, however, was struggling under the oppressive fire from Boris, making it impossible for him to even raise his head.

A sudden fall to the ground reminded Martin of Jonathan's mishap during a movie shoot. Scanning the ground, Martin's gaze locked onto a pair of large, menacing feet approaching. Without hesitation, he aimed, fired, and watched as the owner of the feet – a middle-aged man with a rugged beard – collapsed with a scream, still clutching his gun.

Martin, trained extensively for his role in "John Wick," relied on muscle memory. His movements were fluid and automatic; the gun's muzzle twitched ever so slightly as his finger tensed on the trigger.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Three consecutive shots rang out, and Nicholas' head burst open, akin to a watermelon exploding.

Without missing a beat, Martin retreated swiftly.

Boris, now in his 60s and lacking the sci-fi prowess of a Stallone character, was showing signs of age. His reactions, dulled by time, struggled with the unfamiliar AR, a stark contrast to the AKs he was accustomed to.

Martin, seeking refuge, ducked behind the wheels of an engine. Bullets whizzed by, striking the stony road and ricocheting wildly. Some even hit the car's chassis, creating secondary deflections.

A sudden, sharp pain erupted on Martin's left leg, accompanied by a cracking sound and the acrid smell of burning rubber. He quickly inspected the injury, discovering that a ricocheted bullet, after possibly multiple deflections, had struck his Nokia 1100 – a secret contact device given by Nicholson. The bullet, losing force, was lodged in the phone, causing a superficial wound on Martin's leg.

The brief lull in gunfire was Martin's cue. He sprang forward, firing towards Boris who had taken cover behind a mobile cold drink vehicle. Meanwhile, Bruce was effectively pinning down another gunman hiding behind decorative roadside rocks.

It was now a 2v2 standoff.

Martin, with only one magazine left, boldly maneuvered from behind the car. He caught a glimpse of the Russian adversary, an older man. Swiftly, Martin took cover behind a sturdy lamppost, firing a series of shots, including several aimed beneath the mobile cart, to prevent return fire.

Boris, attempting to shoot from under his cover, was forced to recoil as a bullet ricocheted off the car's chassis. His frustration mounted as his men fell one by one, each a skilled thug from his gang.

Driven to desperation, Boris emerged from the cold drink truck, unleashing a barrage from his AR. The shots, however, missed their mark as Martin had already vanished into a dense green belt nearby.

Discarding his empty AR rifle, Martin drew a vintage M1911 pistol. Seizing the momentary pause in gunfire, he rose and opened fire on the cold drink truck. The M1911, despite the distance, was remarkably accurate.

Boris, old but wily, narrowly avoided the shots. As the bullets pelted the truck, one grazed his arm, the pain intense enough to force him to drop his gun. The air was heavy with the smell of gunpowder and imminent danger, the sound of each shot echoing through the now chaotic dockside.

As Martin unleashed his final round, he lunged towards the cold drink truck with a ferocity that matched the urgency of the moment. Planting his foot solidly on the truck's front, he propelled himself upwards with a powerful leap. In a maneuver reminiscent of John Wick's signature move from their high-speed chase scenes, Martin hurled his now-empty M1911 pistol at Boris. The gun, spinning through the air like a thrown knife, struck Boris squarely on the head.

The impact sent Boris reeling backwards, crashing into a plastic crate filled with bottled Cokes beside the vehicle. Reacting swiftly despite the disorientation, Boris grabbed a glass Coke bottle and hurled it at Martin. The act of throwing while seated awkwardly proved challenging, but Boris managed it with a grunt of effort.

Martin, agile and alert, leapt from the car and skillfully caught the bottle mid-air as it sailed through the window of the cold drink truck. Boris, now on his feet, mirrored Martin's action, clutching a glass Coke bottle of his own.

Meanwhile, a few intrepid reporters, sensing a monumental story unfolding, rushed towards the scene. The air was thick with anticipation, and bystanders, including tourists and movie fans, congregated on higher ground to witness the unfolding drama. They watched in awe as Martin, against all odds, took down gunner after gunner.

Now, they observed the two adversaries, each armed with nothing more than a glass Coke bottle, engaged in a tense standoff. Some onlookers couldn't help but wonder if this unexpected bandit truly thought he could best Martin, the so-called 'God of War of Coke', in his own element.

Onlookers, including some who had been hiding on the beach, emerged to catch a glimpse of the action, their attention captured by the reporters' cameras zooming in on Martin and Boris.

From the roof of the dock management office, Leonardo, fraught with anxiety, cursed the LAPD under his breath and whispered a prayer to a God he seldom believed in: "May God bless Martin!" Nicholson, having exerted himself to the point of hoarseness, stood by helplessly, unable to see the outcome behind the cold drink truck.

In the distance, the faint wail of sirens signaled the approach of LAPD patrol cars, but Martin and Boris, ensconced in their battle behind the truck, were deaf to everything but their own confrontation. In their eyes, only the adversary existed – it was a fight to the death.

Boris, filled with regret, realized too late that Martin's combat prowess far exceeded that of any professional gangster. "I should've shot from a distance," he thought bitterly. But now, it was too late for second thoughts.

"Die, bastard!" Boris snarled, his voice seething with desperation.

Martin, silent and focused, intercepted Boris's attack. As Boris swung his Coke bottle, Martin deflected it with his arm, the glass shattering upon impact. Wasting no time, Martin counterattacked, smashing his own bottle towards Boris's head.

Boris, despite his attempts to block, was no match for Martin's youthful strength. The bottle connected with a sickening crack, breaking Boris's upper arm. The pain was excruciating, but in this desperate struggle, there was no room for weakness.

Martin, though his left hand throbbed painfully, pushed through the agony. He knew the importance of relentless assault, giving his opponent no quarter. With a swift motion, he launched a powerful kick to Boris's abdomen. The Coke bottle in his right hand became a weapon, shattering with a resounding crash upon Boris's head.

The scene was a brutal testament to the raw, unforgiving nature of a fight for survival.

The air was thick with tension, the lingering scent of gunpowder melding with the metallic tang of blood. Glass shards, like scattered diamonds, lay strewn across the rough asphalt, glinting under the harsh glare of the streetlights. In the midst of this chaotic aftermath, Boris, his face a mask of pain and fury, stumbled backward, his body collapsing onto the cold, hard ground with a thud.

Martin, his arms and legs aching from the exertions of battle, stood over Boris, his eyes blazing with an untamed ferocity. The night had transformed him, awakening a primal instinct that knew no mercy. He advanced, his boot connecting viciously with Boris' face. A grotesque symphony of crunching bone and splintering teeth filled the air as Boris hit the ground, teeth scattering like pearls from a broken necklace.

In broken, heavily accented English, Boris, undeterred even in his beaten state, growled, "Come on, bastard, I will never let you go!" His words were a testament to his unyielding spirit.

Martin, unflinching, stooped to retrieve a Coke bottle from a shattered glass frame. With a calculated throw, he launched it. The bottle traveled the short distance, finding its mark with a sickening thud against Boris's head. Martin repeated this action, each throw an echo of his simmering rage.

Around them, the scene was slowly coming under control. The sharp, staccato bursts of gunfire had ceased, replaced by the approaching wail of sirens. Bruce, having neutralized the last of the gunmen, signaled to Martin, a silent communication of camaraderie and relief.

Martin, his strength waning, threw the last bottle and acknowledged Bruce with a nod. He then sank onto the stone steps, the adrenaline leaving his body in waves. Across from him, Boris lay still, the cruel fire in his eyes extinguished, leaving only spasmodic twitches in his battered frame.

A bold reporter, camera in hand, edged closer to Martin. "Martin, you're injured," he called out, a note of concern threading through his professional detachment.

A wry smile played on Martin's lips. "Can't die," he quipped, his spirit undiminished even in the face of pain. To the reporter, he asked, "My fans, and you, are you okay?"

"Except for the gunmen, everyone's safe," the reporter replied, his camera diligently capturing the aftermath of the chaos.

Martin's body swayed, and he slumped against the steps. His ears caught the distant cries for an ambulance, his name being called out in frantic worry. He knew the gravity of his injuries was manageable, but the thespian in him saw an opportunity for dramatic effect.

The sirens crescendoed as police and FBI vehicles swarmed the area. Fans and bystanders, tears streaming down their faces, shouted for medical assistance. The LAPD swiftly took command of the scene, pushing back the growing crowd of onlookers.

Paramedics rushed to Martin's side, expertly assessing his condition before lifting him onto a stretcher. As the ambulance doors closed, the flashing cameras captured the moment, knowing this event would resonate across the nation.

In the midst of chaos, Martin's defiance and resilience had woven a story of heroism and survival, a narrative destined to be immortalized in the annals of media history.