Chapter 166: Runaways

The orange glow of a single grease lamp cast long, nervous shadows across the peeling wallpaper of a cramped second-floor flat off Seventh Avenue.

​Red paced the worn carpet, his boots squeaking against the floorboards as he pulled at his collar. Across the small parlor table sat Sullivan, his face pale and slick with sweat beneath a crude, blood-stained linen bandage wrapped tight around his left shoulder.

​"How did it fall apart like that?" Red muttered, slamming a fist into his palm. "Forty armed men. Six crates of fresh iron. And in less than an hour, the whole ward is swarming with bulls."

​"It’s because of those masked bastards," Sullivan growled, his jaw tight as he slammed his tumbler of rye onto the oak table. "They were waiting for us all along! They had the high ground, they had military rifles, and then... Christ, those dynamites in the alley! We played right into their hands."

​Red stopped pacing, turning his sharp eyes toward Clarence, a slim lieutenant sitting in the corner with a notebook. "How many men do we have left, Clarence? Give me a real count."

​"Not enough," Clarence said quietly, looking up from his paper. "We’ve got around thirty who managed to slip through the dragnet and some of them are boys who weren’t known to the local shopkeepers. The rest... sixty of our men are sitting in the Ninth Ward holding cells right now."

​Sullivan let out a harsh, bitter laugh, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounded shoulder. "Thirty men won’t hold a single block, Red. We brought forty last night and got chewed to pieces! And now every copper from here to the Bowery is looking for our faces. We ain’t got the numbers, we ain’t got the hardware, and we sure as hell ain’t got the cash to buy more."

​"What about the extortion money?" one of the younger lieutenants asked from the doorway. "What about the loot from the pawnshops?"

​"Jack took his cut for the weapons up front and that’s all we have," Sullivan snapped. "And whatever cash was left in the vault went down with the rest of the stash!" He turned his glare onto Red. "Which brings up another question—how the hell did Teague’s men find that basement vault so fast? We didn’t even tell our own collectors where the cocaine was stored!"

​Red stood frozen in the middle of the room, his eyes narrowing as the reality settled in. "Because nobody knew that address except us... and Frank."

​The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence.

​"Frank sold us out," Red said, his voice dropping into a cold whisper. "He gave Teague the location of the vault to save his own neck with the Midtown bosses. He threw us to the coppers so he could look clean."

​"So that’s it then?" the other lieutenant muttered, his face turning pale. "Frank cut us loose? Are we on our own?"

​"Looks like it," Sullivan spat, staring down at his glass. "No money, no protection, and every copper in the city hunting us."

​Clarence shifted in his wooden chair, clearing his throat softly. "Listen to me, all of you. I... well, I might have made an arrangement a few weeks back. Just in case something like this happened."

​Sullivan’s head snapped toward him, his hand instantly dropping to the grip of the revolver resting on the table. "The next words out of your mouth, Clarence, had better explain why you were making side deals behind our backs. Otherwise, you aren’t leaving this room alive."

​"Hold on, Sullivan!" Clarence said quickly, raising both hands. "Hear me out! I acted on insurance. I hated watching Frank take ninety percent of our cocaine profits while leaving us to bleed for every scrap in the Village. I wanted a safety net for us if Frank ever decided to cut ties. So I quietly reached out to a few old acquaintances—men who hate Frank just as much as we do right now, and who happen to have their own supply."

​Red stepped closer, his eyes hard. "Who?"

​"You remember what happened around three or four months ago when Barney was still running the Village?" Clarence asked, leaning forward. "Barney was running his lieutenants ragged. So a few of his senior men—Henry and Reggie Wells, along with Peter Hathaway—orchestrated that row between Barney and Kid Yorke. While everyone was distracted by the street fight, they finished Barney off, raided all of the private stash house, stole a fortune in processed cocaine, and slipped out of town before Frank even heard his brother was dead."

​Red frowned, rubbing his chin. "Yeah, I remember the Wells brothers. I thought they ran off to Jersey and scattered."

​"They didn’t scatter," Clarence said. "They took almost one hundred and fifty veteran boys with them into hiding. They’ve been lying low, building up their funds, and waiting for Frank’s hold on the Ninth Ward to crack."

​"We can’t trust the Wells brothers," Red said instantly, shaking his head. "They’re traitors. They want the Village for themselves, and they’ll shoot us in the back the second they get what they want."

​"Look at our situation for five seconds, Red!" Sullivan interjected, his voice stern as he leaned over the table. "We don’t own the Village anymore! We’re hiding like rats while Teague’s men haul our boys off to the Tombs! If Reggie Wells and his crew have spent the last three months gathering cash, weapons, and hundred and fifty men, joining forces with them is the only chance we have of surviving this storm. If Frank comes back down to the Village, he won’t find a helpless crew—he’ll find a wall of lead."

​The remaining lieutenant nodded in agreement. "Sullivan’s right. We know Frank’s network better than anyone—how his couriers move, where his secondary accounts are kept, how his precinct payoffs work. The Wells brothers have the muscle and the money, but we have the intelligence. Together, we can take Circular Jack’s territory, push Kid Yorke out of Chelsea, form a new syndicate, and leave the Hudson Dusters in the dust for good."

​Red looked around the dim room, seeing the grim determination on the faces of his remaining men. He let out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders slumping slightly.

​"Alright," Red conceded softly. "Set up a sit-down, Clarence. The sooner, the better."

​Clarence nodded, standing up from his chair. "I’ll have word sent to their courier tonight."

​Over on Minetta Street, twilight had settled over the quiet alleyways of the Village.

​Inside Marcus’s apartment, the curtains were drawn tight against the cool dusk air. Ricky stood near the front window, his fingers lightly parting the lace fabric just enough to watch two precinct patrolmen walk past the streetlamp below, their nightsticks tapping rhythmic beats against their thighs.

​Behind him, the heavy oak door opened and closed with a soft click. John Caldwell slipped into the room, slid the deadbolt into place, and removed his dark bowler hat.

​"The patrolmen are still thick all over Greenwhich," Ricky noted without turning around. "Are they still sweeping for Dusters, or are they hunting for us?"

​"Mostly Dusters," John replied, walking over to the dining table. "Teague is desperate to show the newspapers he’s clearing the streets. Red and Sullivan managed to slip through with a handful of lieutenants, but the coppers rounded up over sixty of their rank-and-file today."

​Ricky pulled his hand back, letting the curtain fall shut, and turned to face the room. He walked over to the table and took a seat across from John. "A pity Red and Sullivan got away, but sixty men off the streets cripples their local structure. Though if Teague puts those men in the precinct cells, they’re out of our reach for now—especially if they get transferred up the river to Sing Sing."

​"It keeps them off our backs regardless," John said, pulling a small folded notebook from his breast pocket. "While we wait for Miller’s team to update us on John Delane, I have the weekly dispatches from up north."

​Ricky leaned back, resting his hands on the table. "Let’s hear them."

​"First, from Pound Ridge," John began, skimming his notes. "Arthur reports that the new recruit intake is progressing well. The senior recruits have taken over the daily instruction. Arthur says the newcomers are ’deeply inspired’ by their predecessors—though he noted he wasn’t entirely sure if having drill orders shouted at them at five in the morning counts as inspiration."

​A faint, amused smile touched the corner of Ricky’s mouth. "If it builds discipline, it works. What about White Plains?"

​"The Williams Trading Company is moving fast," John read. "They’ve officially expanded their supply runs out to Scarsdale, and they’re establishing new delivery routes all the way through Port Chester, Rye, and Mamaroneck. To cover the extra distance, they purchased four new Mack Truck Senior models."

​John looked up from the page. "They’re using the heavy Mack Seniors for the primary haul between Pound Ridge and White Plains, while reallocating the older truck fleet to cover the coastal runs down through Port Chester and Rye."

​Ricky nodded approvingly, considering the logistics. "Tell them to set up a permanent branch depot in Port Chester. Have Michael step in to manage that hub directly. For long-distance freight, instruct them to utilize the rail lines for bulk transport, and keep the truck fleet focused on short-haul runs from the freight depots to the local warehouses. It’ll cut down on fuel costs and vehicle wear."

​"I’ll have that included in the morning dispatch," John said, making a quick note. "And finally... a personal update from Miss Evelynn."

​Ricky’s attention sharpened slightly, his eyes fixing on John. "What does she say?"

​"She’s decided to remain at the publishing house for a while," John explained, reading from a small slip of paper tucked inside the ledger. "Despite her original promise to return to her secretarial duties right after winter, she feels it’s best to oversee the production floor until our business in here is fully resolved. She noted that production on the new comic book lines is expanding rapidly."

​John turned the slip over. "Between the Williams Trading Company’s haulage contracts and the publishing house’s distribution sales, the combined net earnings for both enterprises reached forty-three thousand, five hundred and sixty dollars over the last three months."

​Ricky sat back, mentally processing the figure.

​Forty-three thousand dollars was a remarkable return for two legitimate businesses that had only been operational for a single quarter. While it was only roughly ten percent of what Marek was pulling in through their heavy industrial supply channels, it proved that their legitimate foundations were rapidly growing self-sustaining roots.

​"She’s doing exceptional work," Ricky said smoothly, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling over him. "Send word back to Evelynn. Tell her she has full authorization to manage the publishing house as she sees fit—and that her post beside me will be waiting the moment she’s ready to return."

​"Understood, Boss," John said, closing his notebook. "I’ll have Gary’s birds deliver the messages before midnight."