Chapter 28 - That Solution, Let Me Tell You
Five armed men suddenly appeared.
As they drew nearer, I could see each one holding a pistol in the moonlight.
This could be a perfect chance to swoop in and take advantage of the chaos.
All I need to do is snatch the debt contract from the corpses of the targets the client wanted to threaten, and the job's done.
Of course, there's no guarantee they always carry the contract on them, but the fact that they've aided smuggling under duress could serve as new leverage for blackmail.
That'll work. As I was watching this situation get more and more interesting—
The newcomers suddenly did something disappointing.
Only one entered the warehouse.
The other four kept watch outside.
From the look of it, they weren't acting like attackers at all.
What are these bastards up to?
Four men casually walked out of the warehouse. One was the armed man who just went in, and the other two were my original targets.
They were chatting away in Italian, but unfortunately I couldn't understand a word they were saying.
One thing was clear: they were on the same side.
Just like that, the number of people I had to take out had doubled to eight.
How am I supposed to handle all of them?
Trying to work out a new plan was giving me a splitting headache.
But just then, another man emerged from the warehouse. Unlike the others, he looked utterly terrified and shrank back.
When they pointed their guns at him, he reluctantly took the lead and began walking along the dock. One of them followed, pulling a handcart that had been next to the warehouse.
I'd originally planned to finish this with a knife. But it looks like I'll need a gun after all.
I took out the thick Bible from my mother's room that I'd packed in my bag. Opening it, I tore out a few pages, revealing the handgun I'd hidden inside.
It was a Colt M1911 I'd concealed for emergencies on the way to Red Hook.
With the pistol in hand, I trailed after them at a careful distance, keeping out of sight.
The man being forced to lead the way was, without a doubt, the harbor security manager who had hired me for this job.
If that's the case, wherever he's leading them is probably the warehouse containing the smuggled goods.
But what could it be?
Looking at the major smuggling items for gangs of this era: To evade high tariffs, they'd bring in luxury liquor and cigarettes imported from certain countries. Coffee and sugar, along with coal, metals, and weapons—all of which had skyrocketed in price due to the war in Europe—were also common contraband.
However, since these men were Italian gangsters—specifically Camorra from Naples—the smuggled goods were most likely cocaine.
The Camorra would process South American coca leaves shipped through the port of Naples and the Mediterranean coastline into cocaine, then re-export them to Europe or America.
In doing so, they established connections between the Camorra in Italy and their counterparts in America. In fact, it made sense to see these men as Camorra who had come over directly from Italy for that very purpose.
The harbor security manager finally stopped at a warehouse where customs inspections were done and only tax payment remained before the goods could be released.
So, they're stealing export goods.
"As promised, this is really the last time."
"We're not done yet. Shut your mouth and just open the door."
The manager let out a deep sigh and unlocked the padlock.
Click.
When the two of them pulled the door open, the group rushed in. I closed the distance to the warehouse as much as possible to get closer during the commotion.
About five minutes passed. Then, the mysterious contraband inside the warehouse was revealed.
A man emerged carrying something long. A metallic barrel gleamed in the moonlight. A rifle?!
Soon after, others followed, each carrying a box in their arms. There were five boxes in total.
"In un periodo di guerra mondiale, quegli irlandesi non hanno proprio senso."
"Vogliono l'indipendenza e spediscono armi all'IRA? Dovrebbero mandarle ai soldati al fronte, non credi?"
"Dico bene?"
Damn, what are they— No, I definitely understood one word.
IRA.
And when you put that together with the weapons—
Those have to be weapons crates.
A year ago, in April 1916.
During Easter, the Irish rose up to win independence from England.
It was known as the Easter Rising.
Several organizations led the movement at the time, but the uprising failed, and the leaders of the rebels were executed one after another. England's harsh crackdown only fueled resentment among the Irish, who had previously been reluctant about independence.
As a result, this year, some of the groups that participated in the Irish uprising have been reborn under the name IRA—the Irish Republican Army.
And, of course, every armed organization needs funding.
You need money to buy weapons and fuel the rebellion.
So where does IRA get its funding? Irish immigrants who fled the potato famine serve as their backbone of support.
In fact, right now in the United States, secret fundraising activities are underway to support the IRA.
I know all this for a reason.
Not only did I get close to a proud Irish comrade back when I was a mercenary in my previous life, but it's also in my blood.
A father from Joseon, whose country was taken by Japan.
A mother from Ireland, whose country was taken by England.
And me, Ciaran Graves, born from that bloodline.
I changed my original plan, which had been to simply take out my target.
This is my chance, right before they load the crates onto the cart.
Aside from the supervisor, there are five men carrying crates and three holding guns.
I burst out from the darkness and pulled the trigger, aiming at the heads of the ones with guns.
Bang!
Bang!
Bang!
Next targets: the guys who, in a panic, dropped their crates to draw their weapons.
As I closed in on them, I pulled the trigger again.
Bang!
Now all that's left is the supervisor and one guy, frozen halfway, fumbling to draw his gun.
Bang!
Click.
Eight headshots, eight bodies hit the ground.
My ammo is completely spent—the slide on my gun locks back, unable to fire anymore.
The original Colt M1911 magazine holds seven rounds.
To make it seven plus one, you chamber a round first, then slot in a full magazine of seven.
I'm thorough like that.
Among mercenaries, there's a saying: "Don't die for lack of ammo—survive by having a round to spare."
I made this happen.
With my gun still drawn, I stared at the Harbor security manager, who was crouched against the warehouse wall, trembling violently.
"Davey Johnson?"
"W-who are you?"
"Nox. Tanner sent me."
"Oh!"
The manager jumped to his feet.
Under the moonlight, I could see his beaming smile, his face streaked with tears.
"Let's get these crates out of here before people start showing up."
"If we leave them in the warehouse, they'll be discovered."
"So what's your alternative?"
The manager bit his lip anxiously.
"Tick-tock, we're on the clock."
Suddenly remembering something, the manager began loading the fallen crates onto the cart.
"There's a place where we won't be found."
I helped him. I grabbed the rifles from the dead men, then loaded the five crates—each weighing over 20 kilograms—onto the cart, and we hurried from the scene.
Without wasting a moment picking up any spoils, the manager just took off, pulling the cart at a run.
We wove through the maze-like rows of warehouses, slipping into a secluded spot where no one would come.
We eventually arrived at a warehouse filled with all kinds of junk.
Interestingly, from the inside, you could drop a thick wooden beam across the door to lock it.
"No one comes here. For now, let's hide the crates in here."
Still catching his breath, the manager opened the door, cleared out some junk, and started sliding the crates inside, one by one.
As I helped with the task, I asked him a question.
"It looks like you've agreed to help send weapons to the IRA."
The manager flinched, his body trembling.
"This is a room for honesty. Time to spill everything."
He stayed silent.
When I drew my knife, he panicked and quickly spoke up.
"I'll talk, I'll talk. For about a month, we've been discussing how to get weapons sent to the IRA."
"Are you also part of one of the organizations involved?"
"I… I did put my name on the list."
"It's fine. I've got Irish blood too."
The manager glanced at my scarf. He looked as though he wanted to see the face beneath it, but gave up and kept talking.
"This weapons smuggling job was a sort of test run for something bigger later."
"So that's why there wasn't much cargo this time. You're probably still fundraising too."
"That's right. After considering several routes, we came up with a plan, and a few people were put in charge of customs clearance and storage."
But somehow, someone spilled the secret, and the Italian gang found out.
"We were already helping them smuggle their goods, so I got used again this time. I swear, it wasn't my choice..."
"What else have you smuggled before?"
"It was cocaine..."
The manager hung his head.
Traditionally, the Irish gangs never dealt drugs, no matter what other crimes they committed.
Sure, there are a few who get involved, but it's always on a small scale—not organized.
You could call it a kind of moral code. The Irish gangs upheld it.
Gangs that were created to protect their community couldn't justify destroying it by dealing drugs—a completely reasonable way of thinking.
Then a thought occurred to me.
"If you say the Irish White Hand controls the harbor, why were the Italians allowed to run a casino there?"
"They were catering to Italian workers, so the Irish looked the other way. Of course... now there are plenty of Irish showing up too."
Given how things are unfolding, it seems like the casino is just a cover and their real goal is smuggling cocaine.
From here, another important question popped up.
"Is the White Hand boss involved in IRA weapons smuggling too?"
"He knows about it, but he's not involved. He doesn't really care about the IRA, either."
Irish independence?
Of course, deep down we all wish for it, but nobody wants to sacrifice themselves for the cause. If it happens, great. If not, so be it.
That's how my mother and the Irish folks we know around here feel.
The White Hand boss is probably the same way.
Voices drifted in from outside the warehouse.
"So, what's your next move?"
Eight bodies found by the docks. What did they take from the bonded warehouse, and who ambushed them?
The police and the reporters will want answers from the manager.
"What I'm really scared of is the White Hand... If they find out I helped the Italians smuggle goods, they'll come after me for sure."
"It's the same with the other side."
"...At this rate, everybody's going to want me dead."
Just when it seemed like one problem was solved, an even bigger one started tormenting the manager.
"If only I could just end it right here..."
"If you say anything about killing yourself, your whole family goes with you. Not by me, of course. Your surviving family will end up doing it themselves."
If you truly care about your family, you have to stay alive and find a solution, no matter what.
"I'll tell you what that solution is."
***
I left the warehouse with the manager. He knew the docks like the back of his hand—he could find his way around with his eyes closed. He stuck to the routes where no one would be around.
Just as we neared the casino, I stopped the manager in his tracks. When he turned to look at me, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"Now, tell me."
"Alright."
Wham!
I punched him in the face. While he lay collapsed, I stomped on him, focusing on the most visible spots—places where bruises would stand out the most. Once he was knocked out cold, I left the scene.
People began flocking toward the docks, where the bodies were. As I was leaving the harbor in the opposite direction from the crowd, a shadow moving stealthily approached me.
I gripped my knife and pressed myself close to the gap between stacked crates. Holding my breath, I watched as a man hurriedly passed in front of me.
He was clutching a bundle in his hands, and under the moonlight, his face and clothes looked familiar.
"Stop."
"!"
The man froze in shock.
When I stepped into the light, he blinked in surprise.
"Are you... that friend from Manhattan?"
It was the Red Hook laborer who'd struck up a conversation with me that morning while we waited for the streetcar.
He'd said he worked at Pier 6—what a coincidence.
"What's in the bundle?"
"Shh!"
The man pressed a finger to his lips and glanced around nervously.
"There's an uprising at the casino right now—a real mess. So I came to get back what I'd left with them. Bastards."
An uprising, he says.
But what I really hear is: I stole back what I lost gambling, and this is how I'm getting away with it. Just as I was feeling disappointed about heading back empty-handed, this was perfect.
"I'll pretend I didn't see anything if you split it with me."
"…Why should I?"
"What do you mean, why? Stolen money ought to be shared."
"Crazy bastard. Do you have a death wish…?"
Shhk.
I pressed my knife to his throat.
"Maybe I'll just take it all for myself."
"…No, sir."
***
It was 10 p.m. The streetcar home was still running.
While I waited for it in the alley, avoiding the glow of the streetlights, a Ford Model T pulled up nearby.
Two men climbed out, their coats billowing, and headed toward the docks.
That was just the beginning; more cars and wagons soon rolled in one after another.
By the time I stepped onto the streetcar I'd been waiting for, a police wagon had also arrived.
The streetcar began to move.
My eyes followed the backs of the police as they raced toward the docks through the window.
As I turned my head, I locked eyes with two punks about my age sitting in the tram's back seat.
"What are you looking at, punks?"
Call for Nox and he'll show up.
There's never a dull moment, even on the way home.