Chapter 148: Winter Training Begins

At four-thirty in the morning, the warm, quiet dark inside the barracks was shattered by the sharp, metallic clang of an iron ladle banging against a heavy soup pot.

​Arthur marched down the center aisle, pounding the ladle with a deafening rhythm that echoed off the wooden rafters. "Up! Out of those bunks! Five minutes, boys! Every single one of you outside on the yard in five minutes, or you’ll be running laps through the drifts until your legs turn to ice!"

​A collective groan rippled through the long room. Young tenement boys buried their faces deeper into their feather pillows, complaining under their breath, but the older army veterans were already swinging their legs off their cots.

​Robert yanked the thick wool blanket off Joey’s bunk, tossing a pair of heavy socks straight at the kid’s face. "Up and moving, Joey! You heard the Sergeant! Get those boots laced before he gives the whole squad extra laps!"

​"I’m up, I’m up!" Joey grumbled, rubbing his eyes and pulling his flannel shirt over his head.

​Five minutes later, sixty men stood lined up in four disciplined rows in the freezing twilight outside the barracks. Steam rose from their breath as they stamped their boots against the hard, snow-dusted ground, bundled tight in their new dark blue wool coats, thick gloves, and knitted caps.

​Arthur stood at the front of the formation, flanked by two heavy wooden shipping crates. He adjusted his coat collar against the biting wind and glared across the ranks.

​"Winter storm or no winter storm, training doesn’t stop!" Arthur shouted, his voice cutting clearly through the whistling wind. "If you think a bit of snow is going to halt our work, you’ve got another thing coming! You get used to the freeze until you don’t even notice it!"

​Arthur stepped toward the first wooden crate, jammed a crowbar beneath the lid, and popped it open with a loud crunch of splintering pine. Inside lay rows of heavy iron snow shovels.

​"Before the sun tops those pine trees at five o’clock, every inch of the obstacle course and running tracks around this camp will be cleared down to the frozen dirt!" Arthur ordered. "Standard morning physical drills continue right after!"

​The men eyed the shovels, but before anyone could break ranks, Ricky stepped out from the shadow of the main house. He wore his tailored winter overcoat against the chill, hands tucked into his pockets as he walked to the front of the formation alongside Arthur.

​The noisy shifting immediately stopped. Sixty men snapped to attention, silent and focused.

​"Listen up," Ricky said, his calm voice carrying effortlessly across the yard. "Starting today, every Friday and Saturday will be dedicated to advanced operator modules. I’ll be instructing these classes personally inside the mess hall and the new CQC house."

​A quiet ripple of interest passed through the ranks.

​"After lunch on Fridays and Saturdays, we begin the dynamic indoor pistol course," Ricky announced. "You will be trained on how to clear a structure from top to bottom—clearing a building, a hallway, and a room, covering every blind angle, either solo or with a partner, as fast and efficient as possible."

​Elmer tilted his head slightly toward Floyd. "Clearing rooms with handguns?" he whispered.

​"The layout of the CQC house will change every single run," Ricky continued, catching the whisper without breaking stride. "You won’t be able to memorize where the walls or doors are. This course isn’t about memorizing a floor plan—it measures your reflex speed, trigger discipline, and accuracy under live pressure."

​Ricky paused, his sharp gaze sweeping over the attentive faces.

​"The rewards for this category are higher than the rifle range," Ricky added with a faint smirk. "At the end of the term, the top five men on the pistol leaderboard will receive substantial cash bonuses alongside a custom, hand-tuned firearm. The number one spot earns the rank of Squad Leader, taking command of a four-man operational team."

​A wave of hushed mutters broke out among the younger guys. A custom handgun and a squad command were major incentives.

​"Along with pistol work, we are introducing a new close-quarters combat drill," Ricky said. "You’ll be learning techniques designed to eliminate a target silently and instantly in tight spaces using combat knives or your bare hands."

​He turned slightly, gesturing toward the warm windows of the newly finished mess hall behind them.

​"Following physical training, we will hold a two-hour study session in the mess hall every Friday and Saturday evening," Ricky explained. "You will each be issued manual copies covering Phase One of the Field Operator Training Course."

​Ricky took a step closer to the formation, settling into a measured, steady explanation.

​"Phase One is divided into four primary operational pillars," Ricky said, holding up a single gloved finger. "Pillar one: The Paper Trail. You are going to learn the science of constructing an authentic ’Legend’—a completely bulletproof background built on physical documentation. You’ll be taught how to forge transit papers, bank drafts, employer references, and letters of introduction that can pass inspection by bank clerks or municipal officers."

​"Wait," Floyd muttered in a low rasp to the man beside him. "We’re learning to print our own bank papers now?"

​"It goes deeper than just writing on parchment," Ricky continued, hearing the mutter. "A fresh sheet of paper from a modern printing press will get you exposed instantly if you claim it’s a ten-year-old reference letter. So, you will learn practical aging methods. Steeping paper in black tea washes, controlling sunlight exposure to yellow the edges naturally, and applying controlled heat to crack fresh ink so it looks decades old."

​Floyd blinked, leaning toward Elmer. "Tea?" he whispered in disbelief. "We’re aging fake documents with black tea?"

​"It works," Elmer whispered back, keeping his eyes on Ricky. "My uncle used to age fake horse bills the same way down in Maryland."

​Ricky held up a second finger. "Pillar two: Social Chameleon Mechanics. Having the right papers won’t save you if you open your mouth and sound like a lower Manhattan dockworker while standing in a midtown drawing room. You will adopt distinct vocabulary, class dialects, mannerisms, and high-society etiquette."

​"High society?" Joey whispered under his breath to Rico, a nervous grin touching his mouth. "You think I can learn to talk like one of those Fifth Avenue millionaires?"

​Rico snickered quietly. "Not with that Bleecker Street accent of yours. You’d give us away in five seconds."

​"You will also learn how the British aristocracy carries themselves at a dinner table," Ricky stated, ignoring the quiet banter. "How French high society handles formal introductions, and how Prussian military officers stand when addressing superiors. You will learn which fork to touch first, how to hold a crystal glass, and how to speak without revealing where you grew up."

​The older veterans in the back row exchanged impressed glances. "That’s how you get inside big houses," Robert grunted under his breath. "Walk right through the front door."

​"Pillar three," Ricky continued, holding up a third finger. " The Art of Disguise. And I don’t mean wearing fake beards or cheap wigs that fall off in a breeze. You will learn non-prosthetic physical alterations. Using custom dental pads inserted inside your cheeks to broaden your jawline or change the shape of your face entirely."

​In the middle row, Elmer scratched his jaw, his eyes widening. "Putting pads inside your mouth to shift your jawline? That’s clever as hell."

​"You’ll also learn to use subtle shoe inserts to alter your walking gait," Ricky added. "If a target is looking for a man who walks with a heavy left heel, you change your posture and stride until you look like a completely different person from behind. On top of that, we will cover subtle application of hair dyes, skin stains, and greasepaint to shift your tone without drawing attention under bright lights."

​A low murmur of genuine astonishment rippled through the ranks. The young tenement boys had figured disguise meant pulling a cap down over their eyes, but this was a whole different level of tradecraft.

​"And finally, pillar four," Ricky said, raising a fourth finger. " Alias Management. Maintaining multiple separate identities across different boarding houses in New York without cross-contamination. You cannot leave a physical or paper trail that connects your real self to your cover names. If one identity gets burned by the police or a rival gang, you drop it cleanly, step into another boarding house under a different name, and your enemies hit a dead wall."

​"That’s like keeping three separate lives going at once," Robert whispered, nodding thoughtfully. "Clean, quiet, and no loose ends."

​Ricky motioned to two men standing off to the side of the formation. Phil and James McClain stepped forward, offering brief, disciplined nods to the gathered company.

​"Phil and James will be personally leading the practical workshops on document forgery, ink mixing, and paper aging," Ricky said. "Every squad built in this camp will eventually be deployed to different sectors across New York. You’ll take on assumed identities and live those covers for weeks—sometimes months—waiting patiently to eliminate a target or gather intelligence on inner circles."

​He looked every man in the eye, his tone growing sharp and solemn.

​"You won’t always have a squad standing beside you. Sometimes you’ll be operating entirely alone behind enemy lines. A field operator must become a one-man army—not because you stand in the middle of the street shooting at fifty men head-on, but because you outsmart, outmaneuver, and outplay them before they even realize you’re in the room."

​Ricky pulled his wool gloves tighter over his hands. "We run two weeks per Phase. Phases One through Four will progress every fortnight. Sundays remain your rest day—use it to wash your kit, rest, and study your manuals. By spring, we conduct the final Field Agent Graduation Examination. Those who pass will earn a short city pass before taking on their first active team mission. Those who fail will stay behind at Pound Ridge to refine their skills and mentor the new recruits arriving in the spring."

​Ricky paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the frozen yard. "That is all from me. If you have questions, ask me during the mess hall session tonight."

​Arthur immediately stepped forward, his heavy boots crunching into the snow as his voice boomed out. "You heard the boss! You’ve got twenty minutes until five o’clock! If these tracks aren’t cleared down to the dirt by then, you’ll be running deep-powder laps until breakfast! Move!"

​"Grab a shovel! Move, move!" Miller roared, diving toward the wooden crates.

​The men swarmed the crates, iron shovels clattering together as they pulled tools from the pine boxes. Within seconds, sixty men dispersed across the camp, snow flying high into the freezing morning air as the rhythmic scrape of metal against frozen ground echoed across Pound Ridge.