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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Caleb then slung his repeater and moved from his cover, running toward a better vantage point, he climbed up a crane nearby, relian on his high Strength and Agility stats, he climbed it easily and reached the top of the cabin.
There he have a bird eye view of the battlefield, and from there he took out the Carcano rifle from his inventory, and began to snipe down Cornwall's men one by one, prioritizing the ones that are suppressing Bronte's men, making it look like he was helping them while in actuality he was just making sure the fight dragged on longer so both sides suffer more casualties.
He saw a group of Cornwall's men trying to breach the warehouse entrance, and he snipe the one carrying the dynamite, causing it to explode and killing the entire group, the explosion rocked the area and caused part of the warehouse wall to collapse, crushing two of Bronte's men who were taking cover behind it.
"Oops," Caleb muttered, but his face remained emotionless. The battle raged on for another hour, the sounds of gunfire and screams filling the air of Saint Denis, the police surely have been alerted but they wouldn't dare to come close to this warzone, Bronte must have paid them off or they are just too scared to intervene.
Finally, the gunfire began to die down, Cornwall's men are retreating, their numbers decimated, and Bronte's men are in no condition to pursue, the warehouse is half burned, and many of them are dead or wounded.
Caleb seeing this, put the Carcano back inside his inventory, climbed down from the crane, and approached the warehouse, where the surviving mobsters are gathering, coughing from the smoke and tending to their wounds.
They looked at Caleb with awe and fear, seeing him unscathed while they are battered and bruised. The capo who was with him approached him, his face covered in soot and blood, "Signor McLaughlin... we won... but the cost..." he gestured to the bodies of his men. Caleb nodded his head solemnly, "Victory always has a price. But we held the line. Cornwall's men are broken."
He then instructed the capo to gather the wounded and the dead, and to secure the area, while he will go and report to Bronte personally. The capo nodded his head and began to shout orders to the remaining men.
Caleb then walked toward where Morgan was hitched, thankfully the area was safe from the crossfire, and she was calm, just watching the chaos with indifference. Caleb gets on Morgan and rode back to the mansion, leaving the carnage behind him. As he rode, he thought of what he st happened.
Caleb smiled, the night was a success. He reached the mansion and was greeted by the guards who looked anxious, seeing him returning alone.
"The battle is over," Caleb announced. "We won."
The guards cheered, and the gate was opened. Caleb entered and was immediately ushered to the study where Bronte was waiting. Bronte looked pale, pacing around the room.
When he saw Caleb, he rushed to him. "McLaughlin! The noise... the fire... tell me, is it done?" Caleb nodded his head, "It is done, Mr. Bronte. Cornwall's men are dead or retreating. The docks are still yours and we have crippled Cornwall's operations for now."
Bronte let out a sigh of relief, collapsing into his chair. "Bene... Bene... And my men?"
"Many brave men died tonight," Caleb said, his voice somber. "But they died protecting your empire."
Bronte nodded, pouring himself a drink with shaking hands. "They will be honored. And you... you have saved us all."
Caleb just nodded, playing the humble soldier. "I did what had to be done."
Bronte then looked at Caleb with a strange glint in his eyes, "You know, McLaughlin... with men like you by my side... maybe I don't need to fear Cornwall. Maybe... maybe we can take the fight to him."
Caleb's eyes widened slightly, this was better than he planned. Bronte was getting ambitious. "That is a bold thought, Mr. Bronte."
"Yes... bold..." Bronte muttered, staring at the map. "Go, rest now Caleb. You have earned it. We will talk more tomorrow."
Caleb nodded and took his leave. He walked out of the mansion, feeling the adrenaline fading, replaced by exhaustion. He rode back to the Bastille, the city now quiet, the storm passed. He entered his room, stripped off his gear, and collapsed onto the bed.
He didn't even bother to clean his guns. That could wait. Tonight, he slept the sleep of the victorious, knowing that tomorrow, the game would continue, and the stakes would be even higher.
The sleep was deep and dreamless, the rest of a man who had orchestrated chaos and walked away untouched.
When Caleb's eyes opened, gray morning light was filtering through the curtains, painting pale stripes across the ceiling. He lay still for a moment, letting consciousness return gradually, the events of the previous night settling into place like puzzle pieces.
Victory. At a cost, but victory nonetheless. Bronte's men had bled, Cornwall's mercenaries had been shattered, and Caleb had emerged as the hero once again. The don's ambition was now stirring, his thoughts turning toward taking the fight to Cornwall rather than simply defending. It was better than Caleb had dared to hope.
Caleb sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and swung his legs over the side of his bed. He reached down and put on his boots, stomping his heels into the leather to secure the fit.
Suddenly, a sharp, icy prickle raced down his spine. His high Perception stats flared, an almost instinctual alarm bell ringing loudly in his mind, warning him of a danger coming fast.
He didn't hesitate. Trusting the system implicitly, he dove in, throwing his entire body weight forward into a low, desperate roll. As he moved, his hand shot out, taking his Litchfield Repeater which was leaning at the cupboard beside his bed. He clutched the cold metal of the rifle to his chest just as the air above him tore apart.
CRACK!
The sharp, deafening sound of a high-powered rifle shot echoed through the morning air. A split second later, the glass on the balcony door of his room shattered completely, raining sharp, glittering shards across the carpet.
A fist sized hole was opened right on the interior walls, passing precisely through the empty space where Caleb had been sitting just a fraction of a second previously. Dust and plaster puffed into the air.
From outside, the sudden violence broke the morning peace. Frantic shouts and noises could be heard from below in the street as the passing townsfolk reacted to the sound of sniper fire in the heart of the wealthy district.
Caleb, feeling profoundly thankful he listens to his perception, immediately stood up, brushing glass from his trousers. He pumped the lever of his Litchfield, chambering a round, and went out to the ruined balcony.
He didn't bother scanning with his naked eyes. He immediately activated his Dead Eye Skill.
The world instantly turned a hue of sepia, the vibrant colors of Saint Denis washing away into stark contrasts of shadow and light. Time slowed down very considerably, the falling shards of glass from the doorframe seemed to hang suspended in mid air, and the frantic screams from the street stretched into low, distorted groans.
Caleb looked around with preternatural speed. Across the street, perched dangerously on the slate roof of a three story building opposite from the balcony, was a man.
To Caleb's enhanced senses, the assassin was running very, very slowly, holding a scoped rolling block rifle in his hands, desperately trying to find cover behind a chimney stack.
Caleb raised the Litchfield. With a flick of his wrist, he immediately put a red 'X' on the man's left thigh, and another red 'X' on the man's right calf. He didn't want him dead yet, he wanted answers.
He released his trigger.
The world snapped back to normal speed with a dizzying rush.
BANG! BANG!
Two shots rang out in rapid succession. Across the street, the man shrieked loudly, a piercing cry of agony that cut through the city noise. His legs gave out instantly.
He slipped off the steep pitch of the roof, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the slick slate. He slid down rapidly, tumbling over the rain gutter, and fell down to the cobblestone street below with a sickening crunch.
Caleb looked below, leaning over the balcony railing. Through the settling dust and panic, he could see the man was still alive, writhing on the ground in a pool of his own blood.
Caleb immediately shouted for the pedestrians below to clear out the area. He needed to control the scene before the local police arrived to complicate things. He projected his fake persona loudly, the booming, authoritative voice of the famed bounty hunter McLaughlin.
"Clear the street! Stand back!" Caleb roared. "This man is a dangerous criminal! Stay away for your own safety!"
Hearing the authority in his voice and seeing the heavy repeater in his hands, the pedestrians below shrieked and scattered like frightened birds, distancing themselves from the bleeding man and pressing themselves against the alley walls.
Satisfied, Caleb left the balcony, entering back into his room. He moved with cold efficiency. He put on his hat, making sure it sat perfectly, and then strapped on his gun belts, securing his twin Navy Revolvers to his thighs. He threw on his duster coat, effectively turning himself into a walking armory, before then he left his room and hurried down the hallway.
As he was running downstairs, the heavy thud of his boots drew attention. Ezra, who was already manning the bar counter and looking pale from the sound of the gunfire, immediately asked Caleb what happened after seeing him running down the stairs looking ready for war.
Caleb paused for a moment, and with a solemn, grave voice, said, "I have someone who wanted to assassinate me. A sniper. But I managed to incapacitate the man. He's bleeding out in the street right now."
The entire morning patron crowd of the Bastille heard what he said and was utterly shocked. Gasps rippled through the room. After all, who dares to try and assassinate the famed bounty hunter McLaughlin? The man who everyone just heard in the morning supposedly involved in the massacre at the docks yesterday?
Meanwhile, Caleb didn't care about their whispered gossip. He pushed through the swinging doors, getting out of the Bastille, and headed toward the man which was lying on the street to the right of the door.
The crowd had formed a wide, terrified circle around the assassin. Caleb walked step by step toward the man, the metal spurs on his boots chiming ominously against the cobblestones.
The sniper was groaning in pain, his legs shattered from the Litchfield rounds and the subsequent fall. He didn't have any energy left to do anything, his hands weakly clutching at his ruined limbs due to how much he was feeling the pain.
Caleb then crouched down, placing his repeater across his knee, to look the man in the eye.
"Who sent you?" Caleb asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that only the bleeding man could hear. "If you tell the truth, then maybe I will stop you from feeling the pain. A clean bullet is better than bleeding out in the gutter."
The man, despite his agony, coughed up some blood and actually chuckled. A wet, rattling sound. He looked at Caleb with a mixture of hatred and smug superiority, and then spoke in Italian.
"Stupido americano," the man rasped in Italian, smiling through bloody teeth, detailing how he would never know who sent him because he will never tell him.
He boasted that he was paid a fortune not to talk if he failed, but laughed that the contract didn't specify whether he had to stay quiet in English or Italian. Since he assumed this moron bounty hunter couldn't understand Italian, he figured he could just talk smack and say whatever he liked as a final act of defiance.
Caleb hearing that put on his max level Acting skill. He narrowed his eyes, tilting his head to act completely confused and frustrated.
"Speak English, you rat. I don't understand your gibberish. Tell me in English!" Caleb demanded roughly, playing the part of the ignorant American.
In reality, Caleb understood full well what the man said. Thanks to his system, his max level Trilingual Language Proficiency in Germanic, Italian, and Chinese translated the man's insults instantly in his head, as clearly as if the man were speaking plain English.
Falling for the act, the man laughed again, another spray of crimson dotting his chin. He continued to speak in rapid, mocking Italian, telling Caleb how he would never know that the one who sent him was the underboss.
He bragged that he could rest easy as well in death, knowing that since he kept his mouth shut in English, his family is protected by the underboss and will be well compensated for his sacrifice.
Caleb hearing that wasn't surprised at the identity of the culprit, but he was also a bit surprised as well at the same time that Guido Martelli chose to act now and not yesterday during the chaos of the dockyard shootout, which was a bit of a stupid move tactically.
Caleb's calculating mind pieced it together instantly, maybe Guido was thinking if Caleb failed yesterday and was killed by Cornwall's men, then he wouldn't need to risk his own neck taking out this new asset who was beginning to replace him, since Bronte would be disappointed or Caleb would be dead anyway.
But since the ambush was a massive success, Guido realized Bronte's favor was permanently lost. That was why he chose to kill him now, in a desperate, panicked move.
As he was thinking that, Caleb let his confused facade drop. The cold, calculating predator returned to his eyes.
He leaned in close to the bleeding man and simply said, "Guido Martelli."
The man's mocking laughter died in his throat. His eyes went wide with sheer, unadulterated shock.
To which Caleb then spoke in fluent, flawless Italian, his accent indistinguishable from a native Roman. "È una sorpresa, eh? It's a surprise, huh? You must not have expected that I could speak Italian."
The color completely drained from the assassin's face, leaving him a sickly pale. Caleb continued in Italian, his tone dripping with malice. "I understood everything you said. You failed. And don't worry... your family will join you soon." It was a blatant, calculated threat to break whatever resolve the man had left.
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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: 3,334 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 251,192 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: -