Chapter 155: Payback

The afternoon air over Pound Ridge still carried a sharp, biting edge, though the heavy winter snow had finally begun to rot away into grey slush along the edges of the dirt yard.

​Ricky stood on the porch of the farmhouse office, leaning against the wooden railing with a steaming tin mug of black coffee cupped in his hands. Out on the muddy field below, Arthur was putting a line of sweat-drenched graduates through an afternoon run, his booming voice echoing off the pine trees every time someone slowed down.

​John Caldwell stepped out onto the porch, pulling his wool collar tight against the wind before standing beside Ricky.

​Ricky took a slow sip of his coffee and looked out over the yard. "Are the Delta squad boys in position down in the city?"

​"Yeah, Boss," John said, leaning his elbows on the top rail. "Davis sent word through the telegraph office an hour ago. They’ve got eyes on Mandy Moore. He’s heading across the East River to Astoria tonight for some high-society sit-down with a new client."

​"Good," Ricky said. "Have the men start packing their gear. As soon as the new batch of recruits arrives from the city, the graduating class rolls out. That includes you, John."

​John turned his head, looking at Ricky in surprise. "Me, Boss? Who’s going to help Arthur run fifty raw boys off the street? He can’t break in a whole new company all by himself."

​Ricky patted John firmly on the shoulder with a faint grin. "The twenty-three who failed the final evaluation three days ago will stay behind to help him. They didn’t make the cut for field operations yet, but additional three months of holding down the fort here will give them the edge they need. The new batch gets the full six months of training anyway."

​"Was six months was always the original plan?" John noted, nodding slowly.

​"It was," Ricky agreed. "I rushed this first group through in three months because we needed boots on the ground, but thirty-seven solid operators out of sixty isn’t a bad yield. The ones staying behind aren’t useless—they just need more time to sharpen up."

​Ricky took another sip of his coffee, looking back toward the road. "You’re going with the new field agents down to Greenwich Village, John. Those boys are going to need a cool head to keep them organized when things get bloody."

​John chuckled, a dry smile touching his face. "I don’t think thirty-seven trained men need much guidance to tear Frank Knox’s neighborhood apart, Boss. What about you?"

​"I’m taking three men and heading straight to Astoria to reinforce Delta squad," Ricky said, his tone leveling off. "If this client Mandy is meeting turns out to be a big politician or a city official, I want to be there in person to see how deep the Tammany roots go."

​Two hours later, inside his second-floor office, Ricky pulled the leather straps tight around his traveling suitcase and buckled them shut.

​He set the suitcase by the door and walked back to his desk, accessing the System interface. A new firearm had unlocked in the inventory catalog—the Colt Model 1911.

​While John Moses Browning had only recently introduced the final design to military trials and the public, the system had already made the .45 ACP semi-automatic pistol available for purchase.

​Ricky purchased the weapon, feeling the sudden weight materialize on the wooden desk. He picked up the heavy piece of blued steel, admiring the clean lines and solid balance. It felt strange holding a handgun so far ahead of its era in 1911, yet its design was timeless.

​He ejected the flat single-stack magazine, thumbed seven thick .45 ACP rounds into the spring-loaded box, and slapped it back into the grip with a sharp, heavy clack. He pulled the slide back, stripping a heavy round into the chamber with a crisp metallic slide, then flicked the thumb safety up.

​Satisfied, Ricky slid the Colt into his leather shoulder holster beneath his heavy wool suit coat, packed three spare magazines into his pocket, grabbed his suitcase, and walked downstairs.

​Out along the tree line near the main entrance, three heavy motor trucks rumbled to a halt on the muddy dirt road, their engines chugging dark smoke into the cold afternoon air.

​Dozens of fresh recruits tumbled out from the back canvas flats, shivering in their light city clothes as their boots hit the thawing slush. Among them was Marcus, a familiar young face from the Greenwich Village tenements, looking around at the timber yard with wide eyes.

​At the same time, the thirty-seven graduating recruits who are now field agents emerged from the main mess hall, dressed sharp in dark tailored suits, woolen overcoats, and brimmed hats, carrying neat leather bags.

​Instantly, shouting and laughter broke out across the driveway. The new boys recognized their old friends and neighbors from the tenement blocks—men they hadn’t seen since they were rounded up back in November 1910. Now, on March 3, 1911, the transformation was jarring. The gangly street kids who had left the city three months ago were stepping toward the trucks looking like seasoned, muscular operatives.

​"Look at you, Elmer! You look like a damn banker!" one of the new recruits yelled, shoving his friend’s shoulder.

​"Keep your hands off the coat, standard attire now, pal," Elmer grinned back, tossing his satchel into the truck bed.

​Ricky and John walked up to the edge of the crowd. As soon as the new recruits caught sight of Ricky, the chatter quieted down, and several men instinctively straightened their backs, calling out respectful greetings.

​Ricky nodded, offering a calm smile. "Welcome to Pound Ridge, boys."

​Marcus stepped forward from the new arrivals, wiping his cold hands on his trousers. "Good to see you, Boss Ricky. Sir Caldwell."

​"Good to see you standing upright, Marcus," Ricky said, shaking the young man’s hand. "How was the winter down in Greenwich Village?"

​"It was a hell of a lot warmer than it usually is, thanks to you," Marcus replied honestly. "The coal shipments and stew kitchens you and Mr. Kowalski set up kept half the block from freezing to death in January. People haven’t stopped talking about it."

​"We take care of our own, Marcus," Ricky said. "How are things with the Dusters?"

​Marcus’s expression hardened, his smile disappearing completely. "It’s been ugly, Boss. Frank Knox hasn’t shown his face down in the Village in weeks—he’s off playing grand politics uptown. In his place, his right-hand man, Red, and that bastard Sullivan are running things alongside a bunch of new lieutenants. It’s pure chaos. They raised the protection fees on local shops to absurd levels, smashed up two grocers who couldn’t pay on time, and their boys are snatching women right off the sidewalks. It hasn’t been this bad since Frank’s younger brother Barney was running the crews."

​"Ah, yes," Ricky said with a cold, sarcastic smirk. "Barney did such a fine job keeping his men disciplined before he lost his head."

​John scoffed softly beside him. "Hardly."

​"Sounds like Frank doesn’t give a damn about maintaining order in the street anymore," Ricky said, thinking it through. "He’s fully focused on moving up into Tammany’s political ranks."

​"I don’t think Frank cares at all," Marcus agreed. "Though the lieutenants are pissed off that Frank still takes the lion’s share of the cocaine profits while he stays up in his high-rise hotel, so they’re wringing the local merchants dry just to fill their own pockets."

​"That explains it," Ricky nodded. "Frank squeezes his own men, so his men squeeze the neighborhood. Well, the folks in Greenwich Village won’t have to put up with it much longer."

​Ricky patted Marcus’s shoulder. "John and thirty-four of our best men are riding back down to the Village with those trucks today. They’re going to clean house."

​Before Marcus could answer, Arthur’s thunderous voice blasted across the clearing.

​"ALL RIGHT, YOU SNOT-NOSED CITY RATS! FORM UP IN SIX LINES ON THE DIRT ROAD! DOUBLE TIME OR I’LL HAVE YOU RUNNING HILLS TILL YOUR LUNGS BLEED!" Arthur roared, stepping into the yard flanked by five of the trainees who hadn’t passed the final exam.

​The new recruits looked bewildered, stumbling around in the slush as they tried to organize themselves.

​One burly new recruit from the Bowery—a hot-tempered street fighter with thick knuckles—glared at one of the assistant instructors who grabbed his arm to shove him into line.

​"Get your hands off me, kid, before I break your—" the Bowery recruit growled, throwing a heavy, wild right hook straight for the instructor’s jaw.

​The assistant instructor didn’t even blink. Stepping smoothly inside the arc of the punch, he caught the big man’s wrist, redirected his momentum, slipped behind his leg, and drove him face-first into the cold slush with a sharp joint lock.

​Thud!

​The Bowery recruit gasped as his face slammed into the mud, his arm pinned tightly behind his back in a leverage hold he couldn’t break no matter how much he squirmed.

​"Keep flailing and your shoulder pops out of its socket, friend," the assistant instructor said calmly down to him. "You need more than big mouth and cheap punches to survive out here."

​The rest of the new recruits instantly went dead silent. The anger and cockiness vanished from their faces, replaced by pure shock and quiet discipline as they realized that even the assistants in this camp could dismantle a street fighter without breaking a sweat.

​Ricky smiled faintly, turning toward the lead truck. "That’s your cue, Marcus. Good luck with Arthur."

​"Thanks, Boss," Marcus muttered, eyeing Arthur nervously as he hurried to join the formation.

​Ricky, John, and the thirty-seven graduated operators loaded their luggage onto the floorboards of the heavy trucks and climbed inside.

​Standing near the gate, Arthur offered Ricky a sharp nod and a brief smile. Beside him, Old Henry stood on his porch, tipping his woolen cap toward the departing convoy.

​Ricky nodded back as the driver shifted into gear. The heavy truck tires churned through the mud, turning down the winding dirt road toward New York City. Spring had finally arrived, and it was time to settle the score.