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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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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.
The man, realizing the horrifying magnitude of his mistake, completely panicked. He tried to scramble backward on his broken legs, tears mixing with the blood on his face, begging for mercy for his family in rapid, frantic Italian, promising to testify, promising to give Caleb everything.
But Caleb had no use for a broken tool, and a public execution would send a much stronger message to the underboss. Caleb took out his Navy Revolver in a smooth, practiced motion, leveled it, and shot the man on the forehead.
BANG.
The body went limp immediately.
The echo of the revolver shot bounced off the brick facades of the Bastille. The crowd of onlookers gasped, some turning away, but none dared to intervene. Caleb slowly stood up, spinning the Navy Revolver on his finger before sliding it smoothly back into his holster. He reached into his coat and pulled out a cigar, biting off the end and lighting it, letting the blue smoke curl into the morning air.
It didn't take long for the law to arrive. The sharp trill of police whistles cut through the murmur of the crowd, and half a dozen Saint Denis police officers pushed their way through the throng, their batons drawn and hands resting nervously on their holsters. The lead officer, a portly man with a thick mustache, stopped short when he saw the body, and then looked up to see Caleb.
"What in God's name happened here?" the officer demanded, though his tone lost some of its edge when he recognized the heavily armed man smoking the cigar.
Caleb reached into his breast pocket with slow, deliberate movements. He pulled out his official bounty hunting licenses, forged beautifully by the system, but perfectly legitimate to any municipal eye.
"Bounty hunter business, Officer," Caleb said smoothly, projecting his voice so the crowd could hear. He activated his Persuasion skill, lacing his tone with a calm, unbothered authority. "This man was a known fugitive wanted in three states. He took a shot at me from that roof up there while I was having my morning coffee. Bullet nearly took my head off. I tracked him down, and he drew a hidden derringer on me. Self defense."
The officer looked at the shattered legs of the dead man, then up at the roof, then back to Caleb. It was a flimsy story, but in Saint Denis, money and reputation spoke louder than forensics. Caleb stepped closer, his body shielding his hands from the crowd's view, and smoothly pressed a folded wad of cash, fifty dollars, into the officer's palm.
"I'll be filing a full report at the station later, of course," Caleb added quietly. "For the paperwork."
The officer felt the thickness of the bills, coughed into his hand, and nodded sagely. "Right. Well. Self defense is a tragic necessity in your line of work, Mr. McLaughlin. We'll get the meat wagon down here to clear up the street. You go about your day."
Caleb tipped his hat. "Much obliged."
He turned on his heel and walked back to the hitching post where Morgan was tied. He mounted the horse, the animal sensing the cold fury radiating from her rider.
"Change of plans, girl," Caleb muttered, steering her away from the Bastille and pointing her nose toward the Garden District. "We're going to pay a visit to the boss."
The ride to Angelo Bronte's mansion was brisk. Caleb's mind was a whirlwind of tactical calculations. Guido Martelli had forced his hand. The internal cold war was now hot.
Caleb couldn't just let an assassination attempt slide, it would show weakness. But more importantly, he could use this to completely sever Martelli from Bronte's organization, taking the underboss's resources for himself.
When he arrived at the mansion gates, the guards, still riding high on the victory of the previous night's dock ambush, waved him through with enthusiastic salutes. Caleb didn't return them. He rode up to the front steps, dismounted, and threw the reins to the stable boy.
He marched through the front doors, ignoring the butler who tried to intercept him, and headed straight for the study. He pushed the double doors open without knocking.
Bronte was inside, sitting behind his massive oak desk, sipping an coffee and reviewing ledgers. He looked up, annoyed by the intrusion, but the annoyance vanished when he saw the dark, thunderous expression on Caleb's face.
"Mr. Brotne," Caleb said, dropping all formalities. He walked to the desk and slammed a bloody silver medallion down on the polished wood. He had stripped it from the assassin's neck before the police arrived, a known token given only to Martelli's personal enforcers.
Bronte stared at the blood stained silver. "What is this, McLaughlin? What has happened?"
"I was shot at this morning," Caleb said, his voice deadly quiet. "A sniper put a bullet through my hotel room wall. Missed my head by an inch. I crippled the shooter, followed him to the street, and had a little chat with him before he expired."
Bronte's face flushed with anger. "Id it Cornwall? His men dare to strike at you in the city in broad daylight after his defeat yesterday?"
"Not Cornwall," Caleb corrected, leaning over the desk, invading Bronte's space. "The shooter spoke Italian, Mr. Bronte. He was very proud of the fact that his family would be taken care of by the man who hired him. A man he specifically named before I put a bullet in his brain."
Bronte went utterly still. The implication hung heavy in the air. "Who?"
"Guido Martelli," Caleb said flatly.
Bronte stared at Caleb, then down at the medallion. The mob boss's breathing grew shallow. It wasn't just that Martelli had tried to kill a valuable asset, it was that Martelli had acted without Bronte's permission. It was an ultimate act of insubordination.
"Guido," Bronte whispered, the name tasting like ash in his mouth. "He was jealous... he felt threatened by your success at the docks, idiota!"
"His jealousy almost cost you your best weapon against Cornwall," Caleb stated, refusing to let Bronte off the hook. "I deliver you the docks, I cripple your enemy, and your right hand man rewards me with a sniper bullet. I cannot work under these conditions, Mr. Bronte. You have a rot in your house."
Bronte stood up, sweeping the ledgers off his desk in a sudden explosion of rage. "Traditore!" he screamed to the empty room. "He dares! After everything I have given him!"
Bronte turned to Caleb, his chest heaving. The mob boss looked at the cold, untouchable bounty hunter standing before him. He saw the future of his empire, and he realized he had to make a choice.
"What do you want to do, McLaughlin?" Bronte asked, his voice shaking with a mixture of anger and resignation.
"I want the problem solved Mr. Bronte," Caleb replied instantly. "I want Martelli removed. Quietly, efficiently, and permanently. And I want to do it myself."
Bronte looked at the bloody medallion for a long moment. Finally, he gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Do it," Bronte commanded. "Make it clean. And when it is done... we will discuss your new position in this family, Underboss."
Caleb offered a curt nod, spinning on his heel and leaving the study. A grim smile finally touched his lips as he walked out into the sunlight.
The game board had completely flipped. He wasn't just a hired gun anymore. He was about to take control of the largest criminal syndicate in the South as the second in command.
Caleb mounted Morgan. He needed to prepare. He steered the horse toward the slums, heading for Doyle's Tavern. His new intelligence network was about to get its first real test.
The tavern looked even better in the daylight. The fresh wood gleamed, and the new sign hung proudly. As Caleb walked in, the smell of fresh stew and spilled beer greeted him. The place was already half full of dockworkers nursing afternoon drinks.
Doyle was behind the bar, looking frantic but happy. When he saw Caleb, he nodded quickly and gestured toward the back room.
Caleb walked past the bar, noticing two large, hardened men standing near the entrances. Ex military, clearly. Doyle had followed instructions perfectly, the new bouncers looked like they could break a man in half but kept their hands away from their weapons unless necessary.
In the back room, Doyle hurried in wiping his hands. "Boss! I have hear about what happened at the Bastille, are you okay boss?"
"I'm okay, Doyle. As you can see yourself," Caleb said dryly, taking a seat at a small table.
"Right, of course," Doyle stammered. "What do you need? Food? Drink?"
"I need information," Caleb said, his tone turning completely business. "I need you to deploy those waiters and cleaners you just hired. I need them listening to every whisper in this tavern, out on the streets, and near the factories. I am looking for Guido Martelli."
Doyle's eyes widened. "Mr. Martelli? The underboss? Boss, that's dangerous territory."
"He's a dead man walking, Doyle. He just doesn't know it yet. I need to know where he is hiding. He won't go to Bronte's mansion now. He knows he failed, and he'll be paranoid. He'll be marshaling his loyalists."
Caleb reached into his satchel to go to his inventory and pulled out another thick stack of bills around 150 dollars, tossing it onto the table. "Pay for the information. Buy drinks, bribe the street urchins. Find out where Martelli is sleeping tonight. The man who brings me his location gets a hundred dollar bonus."
Doyle looked at the money, then at the terrifying resolve in Caleb's eyes. He nodded firmly. "I'll put the word out immediately, boss. We'll find him."
Caleb leaned back in his chair, pouring himself a measure of whiskey from a bottle on the table. The gang war was shifting. Cornwall was bleeding on the outside, and now Bronte's empire was fracturing on the inside.
All the while, Caleb sat at the center, pulling the strings. The Van der Linde gang, miles away, remained completely safe, their pursuers destroying each other.
Caleb settled into the chair in Doyle's back room, the wood creaking slightly beneath his weight. The whiskey glass was in his hand, the amber liquid catching the dim light from the single oil lamp on the table. He took a slow sip, letting the burn spread through his chest, and allowed his mind to drift into the future he was building.
Underboss. It was a title that carried weight, but Caleb's ambitions stretched far beyond being second to Angelo Bronte. The don was useful now, a shield, a source of resources, a tool to bleed against Cornwall. But Bronte was also volatile, paranoid, and ultimately expendable.
The path was clear, neutralize Martelli, consolidate power, and then, when the time was right...
Thorne's mob.
The thought surfaced with cold satisfaction. He would rebrand the organization, strip away the old Italian exclusivity, make it something more efficient, more modern.
And with control of Saint Denis's underworld, he would use that power to amass more power so that he could destroy Cornwall completely. He intended to take over some, if not all, of Cornwall's business, not just in the surrounding states but also at the other states where Cornwall had his business.
The industrialist's businesses stretched across multiple states, railroads, coal mines, oil fields, shipping lines. When Cornwall fell, and he would fall, eventually, his empire would be a carcass for vultures. Caleb intended to be the biggest, most well fed vulture in the sky.
Cornwall had rivals, competitors who would love to see him brought low. He had family members who would tear each other apart fighting over the inheritance.
A well placed assassination, a few strategic leaks to the press about his failures, a push from his enemies in New York's financial circles, all of it could be orchestrated from Saint Denis, once Caleb held the reins. Caleb intended to be the one picking up the most valuable pieces while they fought over the scraps.
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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: 250,992 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: -