Chapter 157: Cleaning Up The Rats

Across the street from the brightly lit inn, Astoria Park lay shrouded in the cold gloom of late evening. The bare branches of the oak trees rattled in the damp river breeze coming off the East River.

​Davis stood tucked against the trunk of a broad oak, the tip of his cigarette glowing a faint orange beneath the shadow of his hat. Up above him, hidden high in the thick crotch of the tree, Rico sat completely motionless with his rifle rested against a sturdy branch, his iron sights trained steadily on the inn’s front entrance.

​A soft rustle of dead leaves sounded behind the tree line.

​In a fraction of a second, Davis’s hand slipped beneath his wool overcoat, his fingers locking onto the grip of his Colt 1908 pocket hammerless. He spun quietly, thumbing the safety off as he brought the pistol up.

​"Easy, Davis," a low voice whispered from the gloom.

​Ricky stepped out from behind a stand of young maples, flipping open a brass Zippo lighter to touch a flame to his own cigarette. Behind him stood three men from the graduating squad—Miller and two others—all sharply dressed in matching black woolen suits, dark neckties, and flat black caps. One posted himself by a tree to the left, another melted into the shadow behind them, and the third took position on the right.

​Davis let out a slow breath, easing his hammerless Colt back into his shoulder holster. "Lord’s sake, Boss. You move like a ghost."

​Ricky took a pull from his cigarette, the tip flaring red in the dark. "What’s the lay of the land?"

​"The inn’s open and taking business," Davis reported in a quiet rasp, nodding toward the roadhouse across the street. "Nothing major stepping through the doors yet—just mid-level ward heelers and local moneyed boys looking for a quiet gamble. Mandy Moore rolled up twenty minutes ago, but there’s still no sign of Christopher Galnick."

​"And Floyd?" Ricky asked.

​"He’s inside," Davis said. "Crotten took the bait and walked him straight through the front doors into the private wing."

​Ricky nodded slowly, watching the two armed bouncers standing on the inn’s front porch. "Alright. I’m leaving two of the boys here with you and Rico to hold the perimeter and draw fire if things go sideways inside. Once Floyd comes out with the name of their political backer, my team will shadow Galnick back to his main hideout. Your squad goes straight for the Irishtown pub."

​Davis tilted his head. "To sweep the office?"

​"Exactly," Ricky said. "Galnick keeps his second set of ledgers hidden somewhere in his private quarters upstairs. Get those books, get the list of payoffs, and hand the whole stack over to our contacts in the NYPD. We’ll let the precinct captain haul Galnick and his lieutenants straight to Sing Sing for the electric chair."

​"Clean and permanent," Davis agreed with a firm nod. "We’ll get the ledgers."

​Ricky gestured toward Miller, turning his collar up against the wind. "Let’s move."

​The two extra agents remained behind, quietly leaning back against the tree trunks with their hands tucked inside their coat pockets.

​Up in the branches directly above them, Rico heard every word of the exchange. He didn’t say a thing, merely shifting his weight slightly on the wooden branch to keep his left leg from going numb in the cold air. Politics, court trials, and Sing Sing meant very little to him. As long as he had a clear sightline and permission to squeeze the trigger when the shooting started, everything was fine.

​Miles away in Greenwich Village, the sharp evening chill settled over the brick tenements along Mulberry Street.

​Inside the warm, flour-dusted kitchen of Schmidt’s Bakery, twenty-one-year-old Clara Schmidt was wiping down the glass display counter with a clean rag. With her bright blue eyes, soft smile, and kind disposition, Clara was well-loved by the neighborhood regulars who came in every morning for fresh rye bread and sweet rolls.

​From the small living room behind the shop, her mother sat in a wooden rocking chair, a thick wool shawl wrapped around her trembling shoulders as she stared anxiously at the front window. ℯℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

​"He should have been back hours ago, Clara," Mrs. Schmidt said, her voice thin with worry. "The sun went down at six. You know how those rowdy men get down at the corner saloon once the whiskey starts flowing."

​Clara set her rag down and walked over, placing a gentle hand on her mother’s shoulder. "Don’t fret, Mama. Papa probably just got to talking with Mr. Weber about the flour prices."

​"I ought to go fetch him myself," Mrs. Schmidt muttered, attempting to push herself up from the chair.

​"No, you stay right here," Clara said firmly, offering a warm, reassuring smile. She gently guided her mother back down into the rocker, pulling a woolen blanket over her knees and tucking it neatly around her legs. Leaning down, Clara pressed a soft kiss to her mother’s forehead. "You’ve been on your feet since four this morning. Rest your eyes. I’ll walk down to the saloon and bring Papa home before his dinner gets cold."

​Mrs. Schmidt sighed, patting Clara’s cheek. "Be quick, child. And stay on the main street under the gas lamps."

​"I will, Mama. I’ll be back before you know it."

​Clara adjusted her heavy winter coat, pinned her dark hair neatly under a small felt hat, and stepped out the front door into the brisk night air.

​She walked quickly down the cobblestone sidewalk, her boots tapping lightly against the pavement. A block away from the bakery, near a darkened alleyway, two men were sitting on an upturned wooden crate outside a closed butcher shop. Both wore greasy cloth caps and frayed wool jackets—the unmistakable look of low-level Hudson Dusters enforcers.

​As Clara passed under the streetlamp, one of the men sat up, letting out a sharp, sleazy whistle.

​"Well, well... look what stepped out of the bakery tonight," the taller thug grinned, standing up and brushing his hands on his trousers. "Where are you rushing off to so fast, sweetheart?"

​Clara kept her eyes straight ahead, quickening her pace. "Good evening, gentlemen. I apologize, but I have urgent family business to attend to."

​"Hold on now, don’t be so cold!" the second thug barked, stepping off the curb to cut across her path.

​Before Clara could turn, the two men closed the distance, stepping directly in front of her to block the sidewalk. The tall one smirked, leaning in uncomfortably close. "A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be walking the Village alone at night. Why don’t you come have a drink with us down at the taproom?"

​"Please move out of my way," Clara said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound polite. "I am going to fetch my father."

​"Your father can wait!" the tall thug growled. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, yanked her toward him.

​Instinct took over. Clara swung her free hand around and slapped him across the jaw with a loud, stinging CRACK!

​The thug’s head snapped back. He stumbled against the wall, clutching his red cheek as his eyes filled with rage. "You little bitch!"

​Before she could scream, the second man lunged from behind, wrapping a thick, filthy forearm around her neck and shoving a heavy hand over her mouth, smothering her cries into muffled gasps. Together, they dragged her backward into the pitch-black shadows of the narrow brick alleyway.

​They threw her violently against the cold brick wall. Clara fell to her knees, her hat knocking loose as she desperately tried to scream, but the tall thug pinned her arms against the damp stone.

​"Shut her up!" the tall one snarled, ripping open the front of her heavy woolen coat. He yanked hard on the collar of her cotton dress, tearing the fabric down the front to expose her white petticoat and chemise.

​Clara kicked wildly, tears streaming down her face as the second thug dropped to his knees, roughly grabbing her ankles and trying to force her legs apart. "Hold her still, Bart! Hold her still!"

​Suddenly, a strange sound echoed down the narrow brick alley.

​Tap... tap... tap...

​It was the steady, rhythmic sound of heavy iron-heeled boots walking slowly over the wet cobblestones from the deep shadow near the back street. Accompanying the footsteps was a soft, low voice, humming the slow, melancholy melody of an old church hymn.

​Both thugs froze.

​The man holding Clara’s legs looked back over his shoulder into the pitch darkness of the alley corridor. "What the hell is that?"

​"Probably just some filthy alley cat or a drunk," Bart growled, shaking his head. "Forget it! Keep her pinned!"

​Clara sobbed against the wall, pulling her torn dress over her chest as best she could.

​Tap... tap... tap...

​The humming grew slightly louder, clear and resonant against the tall brick walls.

​The second thug gritted his teeth, standing up from the ground. "Wait a second, Bart. Let me go see who’s poking around down there."

​"Don’t waste time, damn it!" Bart snapped, slapping Clara across the face to stop her struggling before leaning down to press his mouth against her neck.

​The second thug pulled a heavy brass knuckleduster from his pocket, stepping slowly into the pitch-black corridor of the alley. "Hey! Who’s down there? Speak up or I’ll break your damn jaw!"

​He disappeared into the shadow.

​Three seconds passed in absolute silence.

​"Frank? You find him?" Bart called out over his shoulder, still struggling with Clara.

​No answer came from the dark.

​Bart paused, his brow furrowing as a cold sense of unease washed over him. He stood up from the mud, turning toward the blackness. "Frank! What are you doing out there?!"

​Suddenly, a heavy, staggering figure emerged from the shadows.

​It was Frank, but he wasn’t walking upright. He was limping forward, his eyes wide with absolute horror, both hands clutched tightly around his own throat. Bright arterial blood was spurting out between his fingers, pouring down his front in a hot crimson wave. He let out a wet, gurgling gasp, collapsed forward onto his knees, and fell flat on his face right at Bart’s boots.

​Bart gasped in shock, stumbling backward. "Frank! Oh God, Frank!"

​Tap... tap... tap...

​The low, calm humming reached the edge of the moonlight.

​Panicking, Bart reached inside his coat and yanked out a snub-nosed revolver. He aimed blindly into the black alleyway, pulling the trigger wildly.

​BANG! BANG! BANG!

​Muzzle flashes illuminated the narrow brick walls for a fraction of a second, revealing nothing. "WHO IS IT?!" Bart screamed, his voice cracking in terror as his friend gurgled his last breath on the ground. "SHOW YOURSELF, YOU BASTARD!"

​THWACK!

​A flash of steel zipped through the air. A small, double-edged throwing knife buried itself straight through the back of Bart’s gun hand.

​Bart shrieked in agony, dropping the revolver onto the cobblestones as blood gushed from the back of his palm. He dropped to his knees, clutching his ruined hand against his chest.

​From the deep shadow, a figure stepped smoothly into the pale light of the moon.

​He was dressed completely in a tailored black suit, black leather gloves, and a dark wool cap. Covering his entire face was a smooth, stark white mask with two narrow, almond-shaped eye cutouts that completely hid his identity. In his right hand, he casually spun a heavy trench knife fitted with a finger ring, while three more small throwing blades rested between the fingers of his left glove. He was still humming the low, quiet tune of the hymn.

​Bart stared up at the masked figure, his face pale with raw terror. "Do... do you have any idea who we are?!" Bart screamed, backing away on his rear. "We’re Hudson Dusters! We run this whole ward! Frank Knox will have fifty men hunt you down and skin you alive!"

​The masked man didn’t say a word. He raised his booted foot and kicked Bart square in the chest with crushing force.

​THUD!

​Bart flew backward, slamming his head against the stone wall. Before he could recover, the masked man stepped forward, placing his heavy boot directly onto Bart’s chest to pin him flat on his back.

​With lightning speed, the masked man drove a small throwing knife straight through the palm of Bart’s right hand, pinning it flat into the dirt between the cobblestones.

​"AAAAAGGGHH!" Bart shrieked, thrashing violently.

​THWACK!

​A second knife pinned his left hand to the ground.

​Bart sobbed frantically, his body pinned spread-eagle on the alley floor, blood pouring from his hands. "Please! Please, mister! Don’t kill me! Take my money! Take whatever you want! Just let me go!"

​The masked man crouched down, bringing his white porcelain face inches from Bart’s eyes. His breath fogged faintly through the mouth slits of the mask.

​"The people of this neighborhood shall suffer your injustices no longer," the masked man said, his voice flat, cold, and entirely devoid of emotion. "Only cruel and evil men have reason to fear the dark."

​Before Bart could scream again, the masked man drove the ringed trench knife straight down into his forehead with a swift, decisive strike.

​Bart’s body jerked once, then went completely limp.

​Silence descended over the alleyway, broken only by the sound of Clara’s ragged, terrified breathing. She cowered against the brick wall, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, staring up at the masked killer in absolute horror.

​The masked man slowly wiped his blade on the dead man’s sleeve, stood up, and turned to face her.

​Clara recoiled, pressing her back as hard as she could against the cold stone, shielding her exposed chest with her hands.

​The masked man stopped three paces away. He didn’t move toward her aggressively. Instead, he slowly reached down and offered her a gloved hand.

​Clara hesitated, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at the bloody corpses on the ground, then up at the stark white mask. Slowly, trembling uncontrollably, she reached out and placed her small hand in his.

​The masked man gently pulled her up to her feet. He unbuttoned his own heavy black wool overcoat, slipped it off his shoulders, and wrapped it carefully around her, covering her torn dress and exposed skin.

​"Go home to your family, miss," the masked man said softly, his tone quiet and protective. "Stay inside your house for a few days. We are cleaning the streets."

​Clara swallowed hard, clutching the heavy black coat tightly around her shoulders. "Thank... thank you..." she whispered through her tears.

​The masked man offered a brief, respectful nod. Clara turned and ran out of the alley as fast as her legs could carry her, sprinting down the moonlit street toward the safety of her father’s bakery.

​When she glanced back over her shoulder at the entrance of the alleyway, the bodies were still lying in the dim light, but the man in the white mask was gone—having vanished completely back into the darkness.