The black market's power in New York was immense, its web of connections and resources even surpassing that of the formidable Whyos Gang.
Because of this strength, their methods were far more direct than the back-alley operation in Denver.
Henry put on his mask, walked to the clubhouse entrance, and presented a B-rank identification plaque made of bone—a spoil from the Denver safe. He was immediately led to a partitioned-off room at the entrance.
Under the watchful eyes of three guards, two more men conducted a thorough search. Finding him unarmed, they gave him a brief overview of the club's layout and waved him through.
He passed through the checkpoint and stepped into a large courtyard patrolled by twenty guards armed with pistols, machetes, and axes. The sight was unusual, but in the heart of New York City, it was an effective deterrent. To an unarmed man, they were an impassable wall.
The main clubhouse was a large, square, four-story building. As a B-rank member, Henry could use a private staircase on the side of the building, or the main staircase in the lobby.
He chose to enter through the main doors.
The ground floor was a massive hall, dominated by a huge, twenty-meter-long oval bar. A hundred or so tables were scattered around it, all spaced several meters apart. The room was lit by the soft, colored light filtering through a dozen large, stained-glass windows, each depicting a raven in a different pose.
Even at this early hour, the hall was already a quarter full with dozens of masked men, all studying the four large blackboards that hung on the walls. The boards were covered in chalk, listing the latest available jobs.
Henry knew the system from the files he had read. Literate members read the boards and went to the partitioned rooms on the right to accept a job. Illiterate members had to ask the bartenders or wait for the staff to announce new missions. Confidential jobs and the selling of intelligence were handled in the private rooms on the left.
The food and drinks were absurdly expensive—a single glass of water cost a dollar. The price was a protection fee. All private disputes were forbidden within the clubhouse. If two men had a quarrel, however, they could sign a contract to settle it in the dueling pits in the basement. The club would take bets on the outcome.
He had arrived at the quietest time of day. The duels, which ran through the night, had ended before dawn.
He walked over to the nearest mission board. The first item, at the very top of the list, made his blood run cold.
UNLIMITED MISSION: Ten thousand dollars for the head of Henry Bruce of Denver.
(Subject is expected to arrive at New York station at 6 AM, July 25th. Target is extremely dangerous. Specific intelligence can be purchased for $5-$20. Location will be updated periodically.)
Posted: 11 AM, July 24th.
A thousand thoughts swirled in Henry's mind, but they all settled on a single, grim realization: Truly ruthless.
If not for the heavy guard provided by the great families and the private exit from the station, he would have been ambushed the moment he stepped off the train. The black market's strategy was diabolical. In New York, he couldn't just draw and fire on every threat. The police, who were deeply entangled with the city's criminal element, would use any act of public violence as a pretext to arrest or kill him, turning him into a wanted man.
He suppressed the rage that was boiling in his gut, walked past the other three blackboards—all of them bearing the same notice—and headed for the stairs to the second floor.