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"He was inside for two hours. When he left, it was in a closed carriage with reinforced sides. The boss sent some of his boys to follow. Lost him in the traffic near the trolley depot. He hasn't been seen since. But the feeling is… he's still here. No one knows where he's staying. Or who he's talking to."
Caleb finished his whiskey, the plan reforming in his mind with this new, critical data. "Sounds like the boss has a pest problem that needs more permanent removal."
Ezra simply gave a slow, meaningful nod. "The boss knew you were the right man, after all you were the only one who understands pest control under him but free to do however you wsnt."
"I'll keep that in mind." Caleb pushed back from the bar, leaving another dollar as a tip. He moved through the crowd, accepting a few more murmured greetings, before taking the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
His usual room, reserved for him whenever he was in the city, was unlocked and waiting. It was opulent in the Bastille's style, heavy velvet drapes, a large bed with a carved oak frame, a writing desk.
He placed his satchel on the bed, unpacking his Litchfield repeater and his pump action shotgun, leaning them against the footboard within easy reach. He sat in the chair by the window, which offered a view of the bustling street below, and lit a cigarette.
The information from Ezra was precisely what he'd come for, but it painted a more volatile picture than he'd hoped.
The Pinkertons weren't gone, they'd just gone to ground, fighting a shadow war with Bronte. Milton was a specter, protected and hidden, likely by someone with deep pockets and political clout, someone who saw value in the Pinkertons' continued pressure on Bronte, perhaps a rival or a reform minded official.
His original plan, simple reconnaissance, evaporated. A new, more aggressive strategy coalesced in the smoke filled quiet of the room.
First objective: Track Milton down and kill him.
Killing the agent was no longer just another potential favor for Bronte, it was a strategic necessity for his own safety and the gang's future. Milton was the only living Pinkerton who could connect the ambush to a specific shooter. His death would cripple their investigation and likely force a full, final retreat. Bronte would pay handsomely for such a service, The lodge acquisition alone would drain thousands. Renovation would consume more. Every dollar mattered.
Second Objective: Intelligence on Bronte.
While working for the man, he would observe, listen, and collect. Ledgers, names, routes, blackmail material, anything that could be used not for petty betrayal, but for ultimate control. He needed to understand the machinery of Bronte's empire well enough to seize its levers or break them at the right moment.
Letting Guido Martelli inherit a functioning organization was not an option. If Bronte fell, his empire should crumble to dust, leaving a vacuum others, like a certain savvy investor, could fill.
Both plans were ambitious. Both were dangerous. And he at most have, two, maybe three days. It seemed impossible. But Caleb had built himself on doing the impossible in this world.
Caleb exhaled slowly. "I didn't come here to sit idle," he murmured.
He stubbed out the cigarette. Action was required. He changed into darker, less conspicuous clothes, a black coat, a simple hat, and armed himself with his Navy revolvers and the Mauser pistol he have inside his inventory system, he put it under his coat. The repeater & shotgun would stay, this was work for close quarters and sneakinh combined together.
His first stop was not Bronte's mansion. That would come later, with a report and an offer. First, he needed to see the battlefield for himself.
He left the Bastille by through the front door, get son Morgan, and fnen melted into the late afternoon crowds.
He started in the dockyards, where Ezra had mentioned the violence. The air here was thick with the smell of fish, tar, and rotting riverweed. He moved like a ghost himself, slipping between stacks of crates, listening to the talk of stevedores and smugglers.
In a dim alley behind a cannery, he found the evidence, a dark, stubborn stain on the cobblestones that no rain had yet washed away, and the shattered remains of a lantern.
A few discreet questions posed as a concerned merchant's guard to a grizzled old dockworker confirmed it. "A week back. Hell of a shootout. Men in nice suits and men in long coats. Didn't stick around to see who won."
Next, he visited the trolley depot, the site where Milton's carriage had vanished. It was a chaos of wires, clanging bells, and crowds. Perfect for losing a tail. He noted the side streets, the private carriage houses, the underground access points for maintenance. Milton's protectors knew what they were doing.
As dusk settled, casting long shadows through the gaslit streets, Caleb made his way to the fringes of the French Quarter, to a small, unassuming café that served as a clearing house for information not meant for the Bastille's bar.
He took a corner table, ordered an espresso, and waited. Within twenty minutes, a thin, ferret faced man named Claude slid into the seat opposite him. Claude was a messenger and a gossip, neutral in the conflict between both side, only offering his service to the highest bid.
"McLaughlin. Heard you were back."
"Word travels. I'm looking for a particular rat. One that scurried into the government building and then into a hole."
Claude's eyes darted around. "That is a dangerous rat. With powerful friends."
"The price is equally powerful." Caleb slid a 30 dollar bill across the table. It disappeared into Claude's sleeve. "I don't need an address. Just a pattern. Servants' gossip. Garbage collection. Unusual deliveries. Anything that smells of a hidden nest."
Claude thought for a moment. "The carriage that took him… it was black, with a slight crack in the left rear wheel rim. I know a boy who shines shoes by the depot. He remembers the crack because it made a specific sound. That carriage has been seen twice since, late at night, entering the walled courtyard of the old Granville place, up in the trade district. The place is supposed to be empty, owned by some bankrupt family."
Caleb's pulse quickened. It was a thread. "The Granville place. Good. What about the other side? How is our Italian associate weathering the storm?"
Claude leaned in further. "Oh he is is angry alright. Impatient. His men are good at collecting protection money and running brothels, but this… this secret war is not their style. They are losing more than they are winning. He has brought in some new faces. Mercenaries, from up north. Tough men. He is preparing for something bigger."
New faces. Mercenaries. That changed the calculus. Bronte was escalating, which meant the conflict was coming to a bigger head. The time to act was now, in the chaos of that escalation.
Caleb left another 20 dollar bill for Claude. "Keep your ears open. If you hear when the new faces are moving, or where, I'll double that."
Back in his room at the Bastille, under the glow of an electric lamp, Caleb mapped it out in his mind. The Granville mansion was a potential Milton safehouse. Bronte was fortifying with mercenaries for a major strike. The city was a huge powder keg.
He would visit Bronte tomorrow, presentinh himself once again as the willing, expert blade. He would volunteer to find and excise the Milton problem.
That would give him permission from Bronte to continue operate, give him access to Bronte's intelligence, and a reason to be in the places he needed to be.
And while doing Bronte's bidding, he would be gathering the very information that would one day be used to bury him.
The next morning broke heavy and humid over Saint Denis, the kind of heat that clung to skin and stone alike. Caleb woke before the city fully stirred, already alert, already calculating.
The information from the previous night had settled into something solid, dangerous, volatile, but rich with opportunity.
Just as he had planned.
He dressed carefully, not as the shadow slipping through alleys, but as the man Bronte expected to see. Clean coat, well kept boots, hat set at the right angle.
His weapons remained holstered openly this time, signaling confidence rather than secrecy. Today was about legitimacy, about stepping into the light without revealing how deep his shadows ran.
Morgan was restless when he brought her around, sensing the city's tension. Caleb mounted and rode westward through Saint Denis, past widening streets and grander facades, until the buildings gave way to iron fencing and manicured greenery.
fences like a declaration of power.
Tall stone walls. Black iron gates wrought with elaborate patterns. Guards stationed with the casual alertness of men who had been paid well and had seen violence often enough to respect it. Caleb swung down from Morgan, hitched her neatly at the post near the gate, and approached on foot.
One of the guards recognized him immediately. There was a flicker of surprise, then respect.
"McLaughlin," the man said, stepping aside. "You're expected."
Caleb gave a short nod and passed through as the gates were opened. He noted the details automatically, the number of guards, their spacing, the lines of sight from the balconies, the angles of approach. The mansion grounds were beautiful, but beauty did not negate function. This place was designed to be defended.
Inside, the air cooled noticeably. Marble floors reflected soft light from tall windows. As he stepped through the main door, a slender, impeccably dressed man with silvering hair approached him, posture rigid with old world formality.
"Ah. Signor McLaughlin," the butler said in a smooth Italian accent, dipping his head. "Welcome back. The master will be most pleased to see you. Please, allow me to escort you."
"Of course," Caleb replied evenly.
The butler led him through the mansion, past rooms filled with art and wealth, until they reached a set of glass doors opening onto the back garden.
Caleb stepped out into sunlight and greenery, and immediately clocked the situation.
Angelo Bronte sat beneath a massive white parasol at a wrought iron table, a crystal glass of whiskey in his hand. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp, constantly moving. Across from him sat two men Caleb had never seen before.
They were not city thugs. They had the weathered, hardened look of men who'd fought in real wars, not street skirmishes. The older one, maybe fifty, had a scar that pulled his lip into a permanent half snarl and the calm, dead eyes of a career killer.
The younger was bigger, with the thick neck and battered knuckles of a brawler, but his eyes were alert, intelligent, constantly assessing the garden's perimeter. The mercenaries. The escalation.
Claude hadn't exaggerated.
The butler's smooth voice cut the air. "Scusi, Padrone. Signor McLaughlin has returned and wishes to meet with you, sir."
Bronte turned, and for a heartbeat his expression was unreadable. Then he broke into a wide grin and stood, arms opening slightly.
"Ah! Benvenuto!" Bronte laughed, switching into Italian as he stepped forward. "Signor McLaughlin! You return to me in my hour of need. I have been waiting for this day."
Caleb smiled and inclined his head. "It seems I've come at the right moment, Mr. Bronte."
Bronte gestured for him to come closer. "Always. Always the right moment with you."
Caleb took in the scene as he approached. The mercenaries watched him closely, eyes assessing, measuring. He let them. McLaughlin had nothing to prove. "I hear Ross's death has stirred up a hornet's nest," Caleb said lightly. "Seems the Pinkertons didn't take it as… gracefully as hoped."
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting ((Lvl 4)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,471 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 77,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, & 1 Broken Pirate Sword
Bank: -