Henry counted thirty-six rooms on the second floor, with eight armed guards patrolling the main hall.
"Sir," a young clerk said, approaching from the bar, "are you here to post a mission or to find one?"
"Find one," Henry said, his voice a low grumble.
"Please, follow me." The clerk led him to room #19 and flipped the white plaque on the door to black.
The room was laid out like the one in Denver, but with leather sofas instead of wooden stools. A portly, middle-aged handler sat behind a desk, a single guard standing behind him.
"What kind of work are you looking for, sir?" the handler asked. "Or do you have a certain rate in mind?"
"I'd like to know the details of the bounty on Henry," Henry said.
"Ah, yes. That's an unlimited contract; anyone can accept it, no deposit required. If you want his intelligence file, it's twenty dollars. B-rank members get a twenty percent discount, so sixteen for you. Do you need it?"
Henry took out a ten, a five, and a one-dollar bill and slid them across the desk.
"Very good," the handler said, taking the money and pulling a file from his drawer. "Here is his basic profile."
Henry opened it. The first page was the photograph the New York Sun reporter had taken of him by the train. He had to admit, the beard and mustache made him look like a completely different person. No one had given him a second glance.
The file contained his basic information and a detailed account of his recent exploits: the annihilation of the eighty-plus cavalry, the duels with Barrett and Billy the Kid, and the slaughter of the sixty-eight train robbers. It also contained his latest itinerary: his arrival in New York that morning and his plan to escort Linda's family to her parents' house.
The final page was a recommendation: Target is a master gunman, ruthless and extremely dangerous. Assassination, ambush, or surprise attack is advised.
Just then, there was a knock on the door—one long, two short. The clerk from the hall entered, handed a new document to the handler, and then left.
The handler glanced at the paper and smiled. "It seems we have a fresh update on Henry's location. Ten dollars. Eight for you, with your discount. Do you need it?"
"I do," Henry said, and handed over the money.
The new document detailed his party's departure from the train station, the strength of their guard, background information on Linda's parents, and their home address. It also noted that Pete and Mary had checked into the Astor House, and that Henry himself had left the carriage midway through the journey.
The conclusion: Henry was likely staying at either the Astor House or with Linda's parents.
He had been followed from the moment he stepped off the train. He had been careful, but they were professionals.
The handler saw him look up and was about to speak, but Henry's left hand moved, a blur of motion.
A sharp, cold point pricked the handler's neck. His eyes darted downward and he saw the tip of a long, elegant rapier. The guard behind him was silent. He knew, with a sickening certainty, that the man was already dead.
"One wrong word," Henry said, his voice a chilling whisper, "and this blade will go through your neck and out the back of your skull. Now, who are the leaders in this building, and where are they?"
Behind the handler, the guard, a 15-centimeter throwing knife buried in his eye and another in his throat, slumped silently in his chair.
"The boss here is Travis, he's on the fourth floor," the handler stammered, his body rigid with terror. "The head of security is Alvin, he's in the back courtyard. The supervisor for this floor is John; his office is in the back."
"How many guards are in this building? What's their deployment?"
"I don't know about the third and fourth floors. On this level, besides the eight in the hall and the twenty-four in the side rooms, there are another six in the warehouse section. And there are over a hundred more in the courtyards."
"Where are the warehouses? The archives? The vault?"
"The warehouses are in the back of this floor and in the sub-basement. I don't know about the archives or the vault. When a client needs intel we don't have on hand, we send a request to the bar, and they bring it up."
"How do I get to the back area from here?" Henry asked, pressing the tip of the blade slightly deeper.
"Behind the bar," the handler gasped. "Knock two long, two short."
"And the other three buildings?"
"I don't know! Two or three hundred men in each, I suppose."
"How many have bought the intel on Henry today?"
"I don't know about the others. I've sold four, including yours…"
Henry pulled the rapier from the man's throat, severing his spine. He had wanted more information, but he was out of time. He had to act now, before his own updated location was leaked.
He had to destroy this place. He had to cut off the head of the snake. It was the same old trick he had used in Denver. As long as the building fell and the leadership was eliminated, the immediate threat to him and his loved ones would be neutralized.
He retrieved his two knives from the dead guard and walked out of the room.
He activated his Super Reflexes.
In the space of a single, silent second, his hands became a blur, a whirlwind of death. Twenty-four throwing knives flew through the air, and the eight guards and four clerks in the main hall all collapsed, a blade in each of their eyes and another in each of their throats.