At the same time, 17 Van Brunt Street, Brooklyn, the air inside the warehouse carried the scent of pine, oil, and cold metal.
Mikhail crouched near a row of freshly delivered wooden crates, prying one open with a crowbar. Several old shelving units leaned against the lime-washed wall, while scattered wrenches and crates littered the floor.
The iron door to the basement was ajar, the damp chill rising from below. Target sheets pocked with bullet holes still clung to the far wall—evidence of recent weapons testing.
The warehouse door creaked open, and Vik stepped in, bringing a rush of cold air and a thin layer of snowflakes on his coat. He held a thick kraft envelope under one arm.
"It's here," he said, adjusting his plain spectacles. "The security license. Mr. Cassidy chose the name—Vanguard Security Group. Sounds proper. Respectable, even."
Mikhail gave no reply. He walked to a crate in the corner and brushed aside the straw lining. The dim light caught the bluish gleam of Thompson submachine guns and Colt Army revolvers nestled inside. The mingled scent of gun oil and pine filled the air, sharp and metallic.
"Mr. Cassidy's right," Mikhail murmured, almost to himself. "Those gentlemen in tailored suits will soon need men who can solve problems quietly."
Vik's gaze flicked to the weapons. "Everything arranged with Volker?"
Mikhail nodded. "His family arrived by ship yesterday. They're settling in. Mine too." He closed the lid of the crate with a heavy thud.
Vik hesitated before speaking. "My parents and sister will come on the next ship. A week, maybe less."
Mikhail placed a hand on his shoulder, his palm stained faintly with oil. "Don't worry. Mr. Cassidy's seen to everything." After a pause, he added quietly, "Tomorrow, once we board, this place—and the freight company—will be in your hands."
The next morning, February 10, 1928, New York Harbor lay under a biting wind. The White Star Line's RMS Olympic, a gleaming giant of steel and smoke, rested at Pier 54, her black funnels exhaling white plumes into the frozen air.
Shaneturned up the collar of his camel hair overcoat against the cold, the Atlantic breeze carrying a damp, briny sting.
Behind him, dockworkers in navy coats hoisted the last of his luggage aboard the ship. The leather suitcases, monogrammed with his initials, held more than clothing—inside were contract drafts, encrypted ledgers disguised as travel guides, and a gold-trimmed film projector meant for Charlie Chaplin himself.
On the pier, Mikhail, Jay, and Olki oversaw several plain wooden crates being loaded under false customs declarations—"Industrial Alcohol for Film Use." The ink on the papers was so fresh it smudged at the touch.
Nearby, William Catterson, legal counsel for Pioneer Optics, was signing the manifest with a gold-nibbed pen. His assistant hovered close, ensuring every "fragile" box stayed upright after one careless porter nearly toppled a stack.
Mary Cassidy's fingers twisted a frayed wool scarf as she stared up at him, her eyes glistening.
"Mary, don't look like that," Shane said with a faint smile, opening his arms. "I'm not going to war. Practice the piano pieces I left you. I'll test you when I'm back."
That did it. Mary broke. She lunged forward and buried her face in his coat. The scent of salt air clung to her hair. Her shoulders shook with restrained sobs.
"Brother… send three letters a week," she managed between gasps. "One before breakfast, one after dinner, and one more before bed…"
Shane chuckled softly. "I'll try." He felt a small weight slip into his coat pocket. When she stepped back, eyes red, the sweet smell of butter and cinnamon told him what it was.
"I added almonds," she said quickly, wiping her face with her sleeve. "You said that was your favorite snack."
He looked down. The hem of her scarf was worn to threads, and a single strand of red hair clung to her cheek, trembling in the cold.
Volker approached, his broad frame half-silhouetted by the ship's steam. He gripped Shane's shoulder firmly. "Everything's set in Brooklyn. Vanguard Security was approved yesterday. The range will be operational next week."
Shane nodded once. His eyes drifted to Mikhail, who was quietly checking a pistol before slipping it into his inner coat pocket.
Then—a sharp screech of tires broke the morning calm.
A black Cadillac V8 skidded to a halt near the pier gate, scattering slush. The car door swung open, and a swirl of cigar smoke drifted out before Henry James Hill emerged, wrapped in a long wool coat, moving without his usual cane.
He carried something long, wrapped in a Scottish cashmere scarf. His gold watch chain gleamed under the pale light.
"For those people in London," he said, walking straight to Shane. He pushed the bundle into his hands—a bottle of 1er Cru wine, wrapped with care. "Give it to Harry Crocker—and the rest of those smug Englishmen."
Shane glanced at the cork. Etched on it, in small letters, were the words: "To talk or to drink—that's the question."
A smirk tugged at his mouth. Old Henry's humor—Shakespeare with a Wall Street twist.
The ship's second whistle bellowed across the harbor. Steam rolled thick over the pier.
Henry leaned closer, gripping Shane's wrist. "Listen, kid," he whispered, his breath a mix of cigar and mint balm. "Those bankers in London still worship the damn gold standard. If they insist on settling in bullion, toss the contract into the Thames and let the fish negotiate."
Shane smiled faintly. He hugged the old man firmly, feeling how thin he'd become. Beneath the fabric of Henry's coat, Shane felt the tremor in his back—steady but frail.
As they drew apart, a telegram peeked from Henry's inner pocket. Shane caught a glimpse of the Chicago Board of Trade letterhead, and beneath it, the words "URGENT NOTICE" and "wheat data anomaly."
Henry reached in, but instead of the telegram, he pulled out an old, curling photograph. "Take this," he said gruffly. It showed Charlie Chaplin, young and laughing backstage at a vaudeville theater, a button missing from his shirt.
"Remind that Englishman he still owes me. If I hadn't stepped in back in 1915, Mack Sennett would've strangled him with a contract."
The ship's third whistle cut through the harbor air. Henry turned sharply, waving one last time before limping back toward the Cadillac. The hem of his overcoat flapped wildly in the wind.
Shane stood still, clutching the bottle and photo. Then he turned toward the gangway.
The Olympic's massive engines thundered to life, pushing the ship slowly away from the pier.
From behind the glass of the first-class promenade deck, Shane watched New York blur into gray mist—the towers of the city fading into a distant dream.
Then, through the veil of steam and snow, he saw movement—a small figure running down the length of the pier.
It was Mary, her red hair blazing against the dull sky, like a flame refusing to die.
She kept running, even as the ship drew farther away, until the pier, the harbor, and her figure dissolved into the horizon.