Chapter 153: Early Draft

Upstairs on the second floor of the old farmhouse, the wind rattled the single-pane glass windows, sending a faint chill across the room. Ricky sat behind a wide oak desk that had been cleared of farm ledgers and repurposed into his central operational headquarters. Maps of Manhattan’s lower wards and the Brooklyn waterfront were pinned to the wood-paneled walls, alongside neatly handwritten organizational charts listing the sixty recruits divided into four-man squads.

​A firm knock sounded at the door frame. John Caldwell pushed the heavy door open, stepping into the room and brushing a thin layer of snow off his wool coat.

​"You called for me, Boss?" John asked.

​Ricky looked up from a stack of personnel files, gesturing to the wooden armchair across from him. "Yeah, John. Come on in, close the door and take a seat."

​John closed the door tightly behind him, shutting out the faint sounds of boots stomping on the staircase below, and sat down. He rested his hands on his knees, watching Ricky closely. "What do you need?"

​Ricky reached under his desk, pulled out a thick, brass-clasped manila folder, and slid it across the polished desktop toward John. "These are our primary targets for the upcoming push."

​John picked up the folder, unfastening the clasp and flipping open the heavy cover. He slowly turned through photographs, hand-written surveillance logs, and police report transcriptions.

​"Who are we looking at here?" John asked, his eyes scanning the top dossier.

​"The first two are Christopher and a saloon operator named Mandy," Ricky explained, leaning back in his chair. "They present themselves as independent businessmen, but they’re tight as thieves—either close personal partners or sharing the exact same bank accounts. Mandy runs a string of mid-level saloons down in the city, but that’s just his front. His primary revenue comes from distributing high-grade cocaine directly to the upper-crust crowds in Astoria and the Upper East Side. He caters to rich folks who can afford expensive vices and want their names kept far away from any police blotter."

​John grimaced slightly as he turned the page to Christopher’s file. "And this Christopher fellow?"

​"He handles the darker side of their joint venture," Ricky said, his tone turning flat and sharp. "He operates hidden prostitution rings across several wards, including brothels that cater to wealthy clients looking for young children. There are people in this city with money who think their stature places them above basic humanity, and Christopher makes a fortune giving them what they want."

​John tapped the next page in the file, his brow furrowing as he read the handwritten notes. "And what about this third name? Johan?"

​"Same breed of vermin," Ricky said. "Johan runs a similar operation, but he specializes in forced brothels stocked with runaway teenage girls and young sodomite men who got turned out of their homes with nowhere else to go. But listen to me, John—our objective isn’t just to walk into their establishments and put bullets in their heads."

​John looked up from the dossier. "What’s the larger play?"

​"We use them to trace the web," Ricky said, pointing a finger at the folder. "Men like Mandy, Christopher, and Johan don’t operate operations that massive without deep protection inside Tammany Hall. They pay off precinct captains, ward bosses, and city inspectors every single month to keep the police from kicking down their doors. Before we eliminate them, we’re going to track their money trails and find out exactly which politicians and police officials are sitting in their pockets."

​John nodded slowly, closing the folder with a heavy thud. "Gather the intelligence first, then strike when we can cut the political ties at the same time. Makes good sense." He set the folder on the corner of the desk. "As for the camp, the men are coming along steadily with the Phase One module. To be honest, when we first brought them out here, a lot of them thought they were just here to learn how to shoot rifles in the woods. But after sitting through the evening lectures and reading the manuals, they’re taking it much more seriously now. They still need work, but they’re putting in the effort."

​"Do you think they’ll be ready by spring?" Ricky asked.

​"I do," John answered without hesitation. "Give us another two months of daily CQC drills, range work, and tradecraft lectures, and they’ll be ready for real field operations."

​Ricky leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "Alright. If we had to put together an advance team for our very first operation, who stands out to you right now? Who are your top candidates?"

​John tilted his head back slightly, running through the camp roster in his mind before speaking. "Well... first off, there’s young Rico Johnson. The kid is young, but on the long-distance rifle range, he’s unmatched. He’s consistently hitting steel targets out at five hundred yards in these biting crosswinds. The gap on the leaderboard between him and the man in second place is massive. His pistol work is accurate enough at twenty-five yards, though he doesn’t have the speed for fast indoor room clearing yet. But if you need a man to sit on a roof and drop a target from five hundred or a thousand yards away, Rico is the best shooter we have."

​Ricky picked up a fountain pen, jotting Rico’s name down on a notepad. "Who else?"

​"Joey McMahon," John continued. "He doesn’t have Rico’s eye with a rifle, but put a blade or a revolver in his hand inside a narrow corridor and the kid moves like lightning. It’s raw, unpolished talent, but he’s got quick instincts and zero hesitation. And then there’s Davis Rickenshaw."

​Ricky raised an eyebrow. "The former army veteran?"

​"That’s him. Thirty-four years old," John said. "He isn’t a young prodigy like Rico, but he’s got years of military experience and absolute discipline under his belt. He currently holds the fastest average clear time in the CQC house—three minutes and two seconds flat. He didn’t waste a single motion or glance. He’s calm, focused, and seasoned."

​"Good," Ricky said, nodding in approval. "We need more men like Davis. Experience and a cool head keep men alive when live rounds start flying."

​"If you need more veterans, the other former army guys in camp are solid too," John added. "It’s just that Davis immediately stood out because he treats every single drill like a live combat scenario."

​"Alright," Ricky said, capping his pen. "Those three and plus one are likely our primary candidates for the first mission over in Brooklyn once spring hits."

​John leaned back in his chair. "And what about the rest of the squads once they finish their training?"

​"We’ll deploy them back down into Greenwich Village," Ricky explained, gesturing to the city map on the wall. "Once the Brooklyn team is active, we’ll have the Village squads systematically hit the Dusters gang. We’ll strip away their territory and eliminate their core leadership structure—every lieutenant, collector, and enforcer they have on the street—except for Frank himself."

​John raised an eyebrow. "You want Frank left alive?"

​"Precisely," Ricky said with a calm, calculating smile. "When his entire organization vanishes around him in a matter of days, Frank will panic. He’ll run straight to his political handlers in Tammany Hall to beg for protection or extra muscle. We follow him, see who opens their door to him, and find out exactly how deep his connections go into the city government."

​Down on the outdoor rifle range, a quarter-mile behind the main timber yard, the bitter winter wind whipped down from the mountain ridge, whistling through the snow-laden pine trees. The cold was sharp enough to make a man’s eyes water, but along the firing line, twenty recruits lay belly-down in the snow or knelt behind low wooden barricades, their heavy wool coats dusted with white powder.

​Crack! Crack! Bang!

​A volley of rifle fire echoed through the valley, sending echoes bouncing off the frozen hills. Wisps of white smoke curled out from the muzzles of Springfield rifles, instantly swept away by the wind.

​Arthur stood ten paces behind the firing line, bundled in a thick wool overcoat with his collar turned up against the chill, his leather-gloved hands clutched behind his back. He paced up and down the line, his heavy boots crunching into the frozen dirt.

​"Hold your breath on the squeeze, damn it!" Arthur roared over the whistling wind, stopping behind a young recruit whose bullet had just kicked up snow ten feet wide of the target. "You’re letting the wind carry your lead six inches off because you’re snatching at the trigger like it’s a hot stove! Squeeze it smooth! Compensate for the breeze coming off the west ridge!"

​Further down the range, sitting comfortably at a wooden shooting bench under a open-sided timber shed, Rico Johnson calmly worked the bolt of his rifle. He loaded a heavy round into the chamber, snapped the bolt down, and rested his cheek against the frosted wooden stock. His breathing was slow and steady, untroubled by the biting air.

​He lined up his iron sights on a small steel plate mounted against a granite boulder five hundred yards down the valley—a target that looked like little more than a tiny dark dot against the snow.

​Crack!

​A second later, a distinct, metallic CLANG echoed back down the valley.

​Rico didn’t smile. He smoothly worked the bolt, ejecting the spent brass casing onto the wooden table, chambered another round, and pulled the rifle butt tight against his shoulder.

​Crack!

​CLANG!

​A small group of four recruits standing nearby, waiting for their turn on the firing line, stared out into the valley with wide eyes, their hands shoved deep into their coat pockets.

​"How in the hell is he doing that?" one whispered, shaking his head. "I can barely even make out the steel plate through the wind fog, and he’s ringing it like a dinner bell."

​"He ain’t normal," another recruit muttered, leaning closer. "I missed three straight shots at the two-hundred-yard line earlier, and Rico’s sitting there treating five hundred yards like a parlor game."

​A heavy shadow fell over the group as Arthur stepped up behind them, his jaw set firm.

​"What are you four gaping at?" Arthur barked, making all four recruits jump in surprise. "Sharpshooters don’t sit around running their jaws while other men are working! You think Rico got an eye like that by standing around flappin’ his mouth in the cold? Get your tail ends back over to the two-hundred-yard line and adjust your sights before I have you running laps around the perimeter till your boots melt!"

​"Yes, sir!" the recruits scrambled immediately, hurrying back to their assigned lanes.

​Just past the timber shed, separated by a high dirt mound, several squads gathered at the twenty-five-yard pistol range. Despite the freezing air stiffening their fingers, the recruits stood in two-handed shooting stances, thumbs locked, driving revolvers forward from their chests just as Ricky had taught them.

​Pop-pop! Pop-pop!

​Brass shell casings bounced off the snow-covered ground, glinting in the pale winter light. Paper targets fluttered in the breeze, peppered with tight clusters of bullet holes near the center rings as the men quietly focused on perfecting their craft, taking no notice of the cold.