Leo's words sent Desmond into deep thought. After a while, he looked up and asked:
"Politicians lie for a living. I'm no good at that."
"You don't need to be like them," Leo replied, looking him in the eye. "If there ever comes a day where you're forced to choose between your values and your role—you can walk away."
Staring into Leo's sincere gaze, Desmond nodded slowly.
"I believe in you, brother.
So far—aside from that one punch—you haven't made a single bad call.
So yes, I trust you. What do I do?"
"No need to rush.
Don't you want to spend more time with Dorothy?"
Desmond paused, thinking of his fiancée.
"It's exactly because of Dorothy that I need to push harder."
Leo smiled. "You once told me you were close with Pastor Lesterwen from Lynchburg's Seventh-day Adventist Church, right?"
Desmond nodded.
"My mother and I have always been devout members of the Church.
Back when I was a starving kid, it was Pastor Lesterwen who secretly gave us food.
But… how does a priest tie into politics?"
"Everything's connected.
We'll visit him tomorrow—and bring your invitation letter from the White House."
After parting ways with Desmond, Leo and Emily walked together under cover of night back to Leo's house.
The streetlamps flickered weakly along the road. As they turned onto Leo's street, many of the lamps were still old kerosene ones—most broken—casting the whole road into deep shadows.
There wasn't a soul in sight. Not even the chirping of birds—just silence.
"Leo?"
Emily looked at him as he suddenly stopped.
Leo's brow furrowed deeply, his temples throbbing with each heartbeat.
He always got this feeling—this sense of swelling pressure—before a life-or-death moment.
Then, a sharp whistle pierced the night air.
Three men in black emerged from the shadows ahead and sprinted toward them.
Thanks to his keen eyesight, Leo caught a glint of cold metal beneath their coats—Thompson submachine guns.
"Le—" Emily began to speak, but before she could finish, Leo scooped her into his arms and dove behind a dumpster just a few steps away.
The moment they reached cover, gunfire erupted like a torrential storm.
The Thompsons blazed through the night, tracer rounds streaking through the air. Fortunately, the dumpster was sturdy enough to block the bullets' relatively small caliber.
Suddenly, another attacker appeared from behind—sneaking up silently. But Leo had already heard his footsteps.
As the man raised his weapon, Leo was faster.
He turned and fired his M1911, the muzzle flashing in the dark.
A single bullet punched clean through the man's forehead.
The pistol had been taken from Carlo back during the lumberyard incident.
As the gunshot rang out, Emily instinctively screamed—but then immediately clamped a hand over her mouth.
Clutching Leo tightly, she trembled with fear but forced herself to stay silent.
With the rear threat neutralized, the remaining attackers continued to advance.
Leo could tell from their posture they weren't professionals.
Their clothing matched the gangsters from the lumberyard—they had to be Carlo's men.
It was also clear they were aiming exclusively at him—meaning they needed Emily alive.
The situation was dire, but Leo could only process so much in the moment.
He couldn't be sure whether Carlo was acting on his own or if someone higher up had figured out his identity.
The attackers were closing in fast. Leo fell back into his battlefield mindset—cool and precise.
Silently, he counted the enemy's bullets.
He was waiting for one moment—the reload.
Gunfire echoed through the neighborhood, and lights began to flicker on in houses along the street.
Shadowy figures moved behind curtains.
The three killers grew frantic.
They realized time was running out.
Panicking, they ignored their training and clamped down on the triggers.
Empty clicks rang out—the Thompsons were out of bullets.
That was Leo's signal.
He rose up and fired two shots.
One round punched straight through a gunman's eye socket.
Just as Leo was aiming for the last target, a figure burst out from a nearby house—his father, Ricardo.
Wielding a hunting rifle, Ricardo fired at the last assassin mid-reload.
The blast flung the man into the air, slamming him down hard.
Leo knelt and cradled Emily in his arms. She was still shaking with fear.
All he could do was hold her and gently stroke her hair.
From both sides of the street, armed neighbors emerged from their homes.
They raised their weapons, scanning the scene.
Among them was John, Ricardo's longtime friend.
In the dim light, John recognized Ricardo.
"Ricardo? What the hell happened?"
"Someone tried to kill Leo and Emily," Ricardo replied.
"We've taken care of it, but we'll need help cleaning this up."
"God… It's been years since anything like this happened."
Many of the men had lived through the chaos of the Great Depression.
Some were even former western outlaws who'd settled down.
Dead bodies didn't scare them—they'd formed a neighborhood protection league decades ago.
They took shifts guarding the local bank and patrolling the area.
After all, the town's small police force couldn't be everywhere.
"So you're saying they ambushed you?"
That question came from Jonathan, Lynchburg's sheriff—and Joseph's father.
His bloodshot eyes locked onto Leo.
He hadn't slept in two days.
The suspect Joseph had arrested made things incredibly awkward—Jonathan couldn't admit to Mayor Patrick that his son had solved the case.
The mayor had wanted the group to "handle things internally." Joseph's actions defied that order.
So Jonathan had vaguely claimed the suspect turned himself in.
When the mayor later pressured him to eliminate the killer quietly, Jonathan had spent the entire phone call dodging the request.
After so many years in law enforcement, Jonathan knew how to play the game.
If a problem hadn't landed on his doorstep, he could pretend not to see it.
But once it did—procedure was the only way to survive.
He could hear the mayor's discontent in his tone, but it was too late now.
What really pissed Jonathan off was the angry mob that had surrounded the police station the next morning.
He'd promised Patrick he'd wrap up the case quickly to minimize impact.
Instead, this happened.
He hadn't had a moment's rest.
He'd spent the entire day trying to reason with furious townsfolk.
Now, his throat burned from overuse.
Finally, as night fell, he thought he could take a moment to reflect—
like how Joseph, who had no connection to the lumberyard, managed to arrest the killer.
He hadn't even been near the scene.
But before he could piece things together, fate struck again.
Another shootout—right on the street.