Chapter 162: Escalation

Ricky settled back into the wooden armchair, letting the quiet of the Minetta Street flat take hold before shifting the conversation.

​"Now then," Ricky said, looking over at John. "Let’s move on to our primary targets. What did we learn from yesterday’s movements?"

​John stepped away from the doorframe, resting his folded hands over the top of a wooden chair. "Floyd managed to get an opening last night. He had a brief meeting with the patron who’s been funding the entire setup from behind the curtains."

​Ricky raised an eyebrow. "And?"

​"The patron was quick to brush Floyd off," John said. "The man clearly doesn’t trust fresh faces inside his inner circle, which is expected. But Floyd managed to pull a name before the meeting cut short."

​"A name is plenty for now," Ricky said calmly. "We can work with that. Have Miller’s boys put a tail on him immediately."

​"It’s already taken care of," John replied. "The man goes by John Delane. Miller’s squad is tracking him as we speak. But there’s another detail Davis and Rico picked up while watching the inn."

​Ricky leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What did they see?"

​"Delane and Christopher Galnick arrived at the inn together," John explained. "They went straight into a private suite without so much as a glance toward Mandy Moore. From the looks of it, Delane and Galnick are working far more closely with each other than Moore is even aware of."

​Ricky tapped his chin thoughtfully, considering the implications. "You think Moore is just a front?"

​"It’s very possible," John said. "Right now, we only have vague assumptions based on who walks through the door together. I’d suggest we hold off on taking out Galnick and Moore for the time being. If we strike too early, we risk spooking Delane before we even confirm if ’John Delane’ is his real name. Delaying the hit gives us time to gather concrete evidence against Moore while Miller’s squad digs into Delane."

​Ricky sat in thought for a long moment, watching the yellow flame flicker inside the lamp. "Alright. We’ll reschedule it. It doesn’t really matter. We wait until Miller comes back with a full report on Delane’s network. It gives us a cleaner board anyway." He looked up at John. "How do we handle Floyd’s position in the meantime?"

​"Mandy Moore swallowed Floyd’s cover story whole," John said with a faint smile. "He believes Floyd represents a private gentlemen’s club for young heirs."

​"Then we reinforce it," Ricky said without hesitation. "Send two more agents in, styled as wealthy family heirs visiting from out of state. It makes Floyd’s story airtight, and it puts two extra men beside him in case things go sideways."

​John nodded. "I’ll have two of our operatives briefed by midnight."

​Ricky turned his eyes back to Gary MacKellar, who was still holding the cryptography manual against his coat. "Gary, your first task is to construct a simple substitution cipher for our primary routes. Pick a small, trustworthy team of bird handlers from your watchers and get that communication line operational as fast as possible."

​Gary gave a firm, determined nod. "Consider it done, Boss. I’ll pick four of my best men and have the lofts prepped before morning."

​Before Ricky could respond, a soft, rhythmic knock sounded against the outer door—three quick taps, followed by two slow ones. John stepped over and unlatched the lock. A young watcher slipped into the room, whispering rapidly into John’s ear for a few brief seconds before stepping back out into the hallway.

​John closed the door, his expression hardening as he turned back to the table.

​"Boss," John said, his tone grim. "Word just came through one of our moles inside the Dusters. Red and Sullivan are mobilizing forty men down at the Hudson River docks right now."

​Ricky didn’t move. "What are they gathering for?"

​"They’re buying heavy weapons from Circular Jack’s warehouses," John said. "Red plans to arm forty of his men with rifles and scatter them across the ward tonight. They want to create so much chaotic violence on the streets that our men are forced into the open to stop it, so they can spring an ambush."

​Gary looked between the two men, his breath catching slightly at the mention of forty armed Dusters.

​Ricky, however, stared into the dim light of the lamp for a beat. Then, a wide, razor-sharp grin spread across his face.

​"Forty men with rifles," Ricky murmured softly, his eyes glinting in the dark room. He looked directly at John. "Bring ’those’."

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​Down at the edge of the Hudson River, the damp night air reeked of salt, coal smoke, and stagnant river water. Inside one of Circular Jack’s massive brick freight warehouses, high-ceilinged timber rafters stretched into darkness above stacks of imported crates, barrels of lard, and heavy machinery parts.

​Under the sharp yellow glow of four hanging kerosene lanterns, warehouse clerks and dockworkers moved with practiced efficiency, hauling wooden crates across the concrete floor on heavy iron hand-trucks.

​Standing near the main loading bay was Jack himself. Though he held equal rank with Frank Knox in the ward’s underworld hierarchy, Jack was built differently—a broad, quiet man who preferred ledger books, smuggling lines, and freight manifests to street brawls. He sat behind a long oak trestle table, dipping a steel-nibbed pen into an inkwell as he noted down crate numbers.

​The heavy sliding doors groaned open, and forty Duster gang members stepped into the warehouse. They were a mix of senior lieutenants, street collectors, and young goons, all wearing flat caps and heavy coats. Leading them were Red and Sullivan.

​Red marched straight up to the oak table, placing both hands flat on the wood. "We need rifles, handguns, and every box of ammunition you’ve got in stock, Jack."

​Circular Jack didn’t look up immediately. He finished writing a line in his ledger, blotted the wet ink with a piece of paper, and then raised his cold eyes.

​"I hope you realize what you’re doing, Red," Jack said in a calm, flat voice. "Stirring up a full-scale shooting war in the middle of the night is going to force the coppers to barge right into our territory just to settle the public noise."

​Red scoffed, leaning closer over the table. "I thought you knew how the ward works, Jack. The coppers are on our payroll. Captain Teague might have just replaced Thompson as precinct commander at the Ninth Ward, but he’s just as dirty as any bull in Manhattan."

​"I know Teague takes Frank’s money," Jack replied smoothly, resting his pen on the tray. "But Captain Teague was appointed directly by the Police Commissioner, and the Commissioner isn’t a friend of Tammany Hall. When blood starts flowing down Bleecker Street in broad daylight, even a bought precinct captain gets forced to make arrests. Otherwise, the newspapers start screaming, and Tammany gets uncomfortable. I’m sure they don’t want kind of stain right in the middle of their consolidation of power."

​Sullivan stepped up beside Red, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rumble. "It ain’t your place to tell us how to handle our business, Jack. Just like we don’t tell you how to run your docks."

​Jack held up his hands, a faint, cynical smirk playing on his lips. "Fair enough, gentlemen. Far be it from me to meddle in Frank’s affairs. Just don’t come crying to me when the headlines turn bad tomorrow morning."

​"Are you selling us the hardware or not?" Red snapped, slapping the oak table.

​"Of course I am," Jack said, his tone entirely businesslike. "Provided I see the color of your money first. Frank always pays up front for goods so I can clear accounts with my suppliers. And since I’m not running a military arsenal—we aren’t Moses Browning here—you get what’s in the crates. Used stock, but it shoots straight."

​Sullivan didn’t waste time arguing. Without taking his eyes off Jack, he flicked two fingers behind his back.

​A broad-shouldered Duster enforcer stepped forward, hauling a heavy leather satchel up onto the table. He unbuckled the straps and dumped the contents. Stacks of crisp greenbacks spilled across Jack’s open ledger.

​Jack looked down at the money, a satisfied smile touching his face. He gestured to two of his warehousemen holding crowbars. "Crates four through nine. Open ’em up."

​The warehousemen jammed the iron crowbars beneath the lids of six long pine shipping crates. With loud, splitting cracks, the wooden tops were pried loose, revealing rows of dark steel and oiled wood. Inside lay used lever-action rifles, short-barreled double shotguns, heavy top-break revolvers, and several smaller wooden boxes packed to the brim with brass cartridges.

​Red reached into the nearest crate, pulling out a lever-action rifle. He worked the action, the steel mechanism snapping open and shut with a clean, heavy metallic click.

​Sullivan reached into another box, lifting a short double-barreled shotgun and checking the break-action. "This’ll do fine," he muttered.

​Behind them, the forty Duster thugs crowded forward with eager grins, snatching up revolvers and rifles, scooping handfuls of heavy brass cartridges from the ammo boxes and stuffing them deep into their coat pockets.

​Jack gathered the stacks of cash into a canvas bag, nodding politely to Red and Sullivan. "Pleasure doing business with you boys, as always."

​Red slammed a handful of cartridges into his rifle’s loading gate, a dark, vicious sneer spreading across his face as he looked out over his armed men. "Let’s see how those white-masked bastards like a taste of real lead."