If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"Exactly," Caleb said. "However, to make sure they don't retreat back to the trains, someone needs to close the trap from the ground level. A vanguard force to cut off their escape and force them into the kill zone."
Unbeknownst to Bronte, Caleb was crafting a plan that would cause quite the casualties on his side. By suggesting Bronte's men pack into the upper gantries, he was grouping them into a confined space, perfect targets if the mercenaries or Caleb, in the confusion, decided to use dynamite or fire bottles.
"And who cuts off the retreat of these imbeciles?" Bronte asked. "That is a dangerous position. Very exposed."
"I will take the ground Mr. Bronte," Caleb said, his voice devoid of hesitation. "I'll position myself here, behind the crates near the crane. It looks risky, but it gives me a clear line of sight to the rail tracks."
"You would do that?" Bronte looked impressed. "You would stand in the open?"
"It's the only way to ensure none of them escape to report back to Cornwall," Caleb lied.
In actuality, it was very safe for him. With his Dead Eye ability and his gun skills all at max level, Caleb could slow down time and pick off threats before they could even aim at him.
Furthermore, being on the ground gave him mobility. If the warehouse caught fire, which he planned to ensure it did, he could simply slip away into the shadows while Bronte's men burned in the rafters and Cornwall's men died in the crossfire.
Bronte, of course, was more listening than suggesting. He wasn't a soldier, he was a kingpin. He showed an admiration that Caleb would go to such lengths, placing himself in harm's way for the "family."
"This plan..." Bronte murmured, looking at the trap Caleb had drawn. "It is perfect. Ruthless. Perfetto."
His Persuasionand Acting Skill had already influenced him heavily, blinding him to the obvious flaw, that he was committing his best men to a static position based on intelligence provided solely by the man who would be guarding the back door.
In the end of the discussion, Caleb straightened up. "Based on the movement reports, I predict the attack would happen tomorrow at dusk. The shifting light makes it harder to spot intruders, and the shift change at the docks creates confusion."
He looked at Bronte. "So, your outfit needs to be told by you Mr. Bronte, to begin preparing according to the plan. Ammunition, positioning, and most importantly outmost silence."
"No need to worry about that," Bronte waved his hand dismissively. "My men are fast in doing so. They jump when I snap my fingers. I only need to ensure that the situation tomorrow will go according to plan."
"I will try my best, Mr. Bronte," Caleb responded.
"I know you will." Bronte nodded his head, satisfied with the answer. He reached for the decanter of brandy. "We shall drink to—"
Before he could say anything, however, suddenly there was a knock on the door. It was a hesitant sound, followed by a voice.
"Boss? It is Guido. May I enter?"
Bronte's face soured instantly. He snorted, rolling his eyes at Caleb as if to say 'See what I have to deal with?' before barking, "Enter!"
The heavy doors opened, and Guido Martelli stepped in. He looked tired, his suit slightly rumpled, a stark contrast to Caleb's pristine appearance. When Guido entered, he was surprised to see Caleb inside.
He froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting from Caleb to Bronte, and then to the map spread out on the table, the war room he had been excluded from.
He knew he was being left out by his boss. The realization hit him like a physical blow. He began to feel a sense of crisis even bigger than before. He saw Caleb now not as a talented and trusted enforcer, but as a predator. A usurper. Someone who will replace him if he doesn't do anything to convince Bronte to do otherwise.
"Ah, Guido," Bronte said, his voice dripping with condescension. "You are late. The planning is finished."
Martelli's jaw tightened. "Planning, boss? For the docks?"
"Yes, for the docks," Bronte said, pouring a drink for himself and Caleb, but notably not for Guido. "Signor McLaughlin and I have devised a masterpiece. While you were... doing whatever it is you do."
Caleb turned to Martelli, offering a polite nod that was infuriatingly calm. "Mr. Martelli. Good morning."
Martelli stared at Caleb, hate burning in his eyes, but he forced a stiff nod. "McLaughlin."
"Don't just stand there with your mouth open, Guido," Bronte snapped. "Go to the barracks. Prepare the men. Tell them Signor McLaughlin has tactical command for the operation tomorrow. Whatever he says, happens."
The silence in the room was deafening. Martelli looked as if he had been slapped. Tactical command? Given to a freelancer over the underboss?
"Boss..." Martelli started, his voice straining. "Is that... wise? The men know me. They might not follow a stranger."
"Then you will make them follow him," Bronte shouted, slamming his glass down. "Or are you telling me you cannot control your own capos?"
Martelli flinched. "No, boss. I can. I will."
"Good. Then go. Do not waste my time."
Martelli cast one last look at Caleb, a look of pure, unadulterated venom, before bowing his head and retreating from the room, closing the door softly behind him.
Bronte sighed, picking up his glass again. "Sometimes, I wonder why I keep him."
"Loyalty is hard to find, Mr. Bronte," Caleb said, taking his own glass. "Even if it is... unimaginative."
"True," Bronte clinked his glass against Caleb's. "To the ambush. To the end of Leviticus Cornwall."
"To the end," Caleb echoed, sipping the expensive brandy.
The meeting concluded shortly after. Caleb excused himself, citing the need to prepare his own gear for the coming battle. Bronte walked him to the door of the study, his hand on Caleb's shoulder, treating him like the prodigal son.
As Caleb walked out of the mansion and down the marble steps, the humid air of Saint Denis felt cool compared to the stifling atmosphere of the study. He mounted Morgan, who was waiting faithfully at the post.
"Did you have fun?" the horse snorted, tossing her head.
"Immensely," Caleb whispered, patting her neck. "The board is set."
He rode out of the gates, passing the guards who saluted him. As he turned onto the main road, he let out a long breath. The manipulation was exhausting, but it was working. Bronte was overconfident. Martelli was desperate. And Cornwall... well, Cornwall was about to walk into a buzzsaw that didn't exist, fighting a war he didn't know he was losing.
He steered Morgan toward the slums. He needed to check on Doyle's Tavern one last time before the chaos started. The tavern would be his listening post for the fallout. When the smoke cleared on the docks tomorrow, people would talk. Survivors would drink. And Caleb would hear every word.
As he rode, the image of Martelli's face lingered in his mind, the look of a drowning man realizing someone was standing on his head.
Caleb felt a flicker of pity for the man, but he crushed it instantly knowing that this man would be much worse than Bronte and to dangerous to give pity on. In this world, you were either the hammer or the nail, and Caleb will always choose to be the hammer.
And Guido was a threat now, not an immediate one, but a danger. A man with nothing to lose, who knew the organization inside and out, who could choose to act against him if given the chance. He would need to be managed. Or, if necessary, removed.
With that strategic framework locked in his mind, Caleb continued to ride, guiding Morgan away from the manicured lawns of the Garden District and back into the choking soot of the industrial sector. The transition was always stark, like stepping from a ballroom into a furnace, but today it felt like stepping onto a stage he had built himself.
Soon he reached Doyle's Tavern.
He pulled back on the reins, bringing Morgan to a halt, and took a moment to admire the transformation. It was fully renovated, yet it didn't scream "new money."
The exterior wood had been treated and sealed, replacing the grey, rotting planks with a rich, dark timber that looked capable of withstanding a hurricane.
The roof, once a patchwork of tin sheets and prayers, was now uniform and solid. The windows were clean, the grime of a decade wiped away to reveal actual glass, though they were still modest in size. It looked like a fortress disguised as a pub, sturdy, reliable, and unobtrusive. It fit the slums perfectly, not as an eyesore, but as an anchor.
He nodded, satisfied by this balance of aesthetics and utility.
As he dismounted, he saw the heavy oak door swing open. Doyle stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands on a clean apron, followed closely by Isaac and his crew. They carried toolboxes and empty sacks, the weary but proud look of men who had finished a job well done.
Doyle, looking more confident than Caleb had ever seen him, was just handing Isaac a final stack of bills, the last of their payment currently, when he spotted the rider.
Doyle's face lit up, and he stepped forward, his hand raising in a wave. "Thereyou are B—"
He froze, the word hanging in the air like a dropped plate. He caught the slight narrowing of Caleb's eyes, the imperceptible tilt of the head that warned him of the slip. Doyle swallowed hard, his survival instincts kicking in.
"...Ah, Mr. McLaughlin!" Doyle corrected himself, his voice pitching slightly higher. "You finally came here. Just in time."
Hearing what Doyle had just said, Isaac and his crew turned and saw Caleb. The recognition was immediate, to them, he was the facilitator, the man with the deep and scary reputation as bounty hunter who was helping "Mr. Doyle."
"Mr. McLaughlin," Isaac said, tipping his cap respectfully. The other three men murmured their greetings, shifting their feet.
Caleb gets down from Morgan, dusting off his coat. He walked up the steps, the new wood solid beneath his boots, no creaking, no give.
He returned the greeting with a professional nod. "Gentlemen. Isaac." He looked at the carpenter. "Is the job already finished?"
"Yes, it have," Isaac said, beaming with professional pride. He gestured back toward the open door. "The furniture have been installed. Tables, chairs, the bar... everything is bolted down or set solid. And rest assured, Mr. McLaughlin, we have made sure that the furnitures are all good quality. Solid oak and pine, but with cheaper prices for Mr. Doyle. We called in a few favors."
Caleb turned to look at Doyle, verifying the claim.
Doyle nodded his head, playing his part. "Yes, they have made sure of that. The qualities are all good enough, don't worry."
Then, Doyle subtly signaled to Caleb, a small, almost invisible nod and a tap of his finger against his thigh, where it says, 'Rest assured, boss. It's exactly what you wanted.'
Caleb nodded his head at that, accepting the report. He turned back to Isaac.
"Good work," Caleb said. "Since your job is finished, you can go now. And don't worry, Mr. Doyle will look for you when he has another building needs to be renovated or constructed. You've proven yourselves reliable."
Isaac laughed, a relieved, hearty sound. "We appreciate that, sir. Truly. Work is scarce these days."
He shook Doyle's hand vigorously, then offered a hand to Caleb, who took it with a firm grip. "Thank you, Mr. Doyle. Mr. McLaughlin."
Isaac then takes his leave with his crew, their footsteps fading down the muddy street as they headed home with full pockets.
Once they were out of earshot, the dynamic shifted instantly. Caleb turned to look at Doyle, the mask of the distant benefactor dropping to reveal the calculating owner. "Show me," Caleb instructed. "Show me the result of the furniture placement inside."
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 1)
- Leadership (Lvl 1)
Money: 3,350 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 253,192 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 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, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -