Chapter 121: The Night The Trojan Horse Opened.

"Where’s the rest of your men, Pete?" Barney asked, his heavy boots thudding against the cobblestones. He looked nervously over his shoulder at the small squad of five men walking alongside them down the quiet stretch of Gansevoort Street. "Why’d you only bring a handful of guys for a job like this? If we run into Kid Yorke’s crew on these streets, they’ll surround us in five minutes."

​Peter didn’t slow his pace. "If we march down the avenue with forty men, boss, Kid’s lookouts will spot us three blocks away. A small group moves fast, looks unthreatening, and stays quiet. Trust me."

​Barney grunted, chewing on his lower lip as his eyes darted from rooftop to alleyway. "Yeah... yeah, I suppose that makes sense."

​They turned the corner, passing beneath the shadow of a four-story brick tenement. Suddenly, bright flashes of light erupted from the second-floor windows directly across the avenue.

​BANG! BANG! BANG!

​"Ambush!" someone screamed.

​Peter immediately dropped low, grabbing Barney by his coat collar and yanking him toward the pavement just as a volley of lead slammed into the brick wall behind them, showering them with red dust and stone chips.

​A heavy bullet tore through Barney’s pant leg. He let out a high-pitched, hysterical shriek like a frightened child. "MY LEG! GODDAMN IT, THEY SHOT MY LEG!" Barney clawed at the cobblestones, clutching his bleeding calf as dark blood soaked through his trousers.

​Peter grabbed Barney by his vest, dragging him backward across the street while bullets kicked up sparks against the streetlamps. "Keep your mouth shut and crawl!"

​Around them, absolute chaos erupted. A horse hitched to a milk wagon bolted in terror, smashing the wooden cart against a streetlamp and spilling iron cans across the block. Civilians shrieked, diving behind stoops and trash barrels. A stray round caught a butcher’s assistant in the shoulder, sending him tumbling onto the sidewalk with a wet thud.

​Across the avenue, Kid Yorke’s shooters were leaning out of upper windows and ducking behind street corners, pouring a wall of lead down on Barney’s small squad.

​"Alvin!" Peter bellowed, looking toward a horse trough fifty feet down the block where two of their men were ducking. "Give us covering fire! We’re taking the boss into the Indy Saloon!"

​Alvin hesitated for a fraction of a second behind the wooden trough, a dark glint in his eyes that suggested he’d like nothing more than to watch Barney bleed to death in the gutter. But with half a dozen gang members watching, Alvin spat on the ground and roared, "Lay down cover! Focus on those top windows! Move!"

​Barney’s street shooters opened up with their revolvers, pinning the tenement snipers for a brief second.

​Peter gestured to his two men. "Grab him! Move!"

​They hauled Barney up by his arms, his bad leg dragging uselessly as they sprinted through the front doors of the Indy Saloon.

​Inside, twenty of Barney’s enforcers were huddled behind overturned mahogany tables and the long bar, listening to lead bullets thudding heavily into the exterior brickwork.

​Barney groaned, his face slick with cold sweat as he glared at them from the floor. "What the hell are you fools sitting in here for?!" he barked, his voice trembling with rage. "Get back outside and spread out! Hold the alley and keep ’em off us until the rest of the crew gets here! If they corner us in here, they’ll burn this place down with us inside!"

​The men looked at Barney’s bleeding leg, hesitating for a moment, but the wild fury in his eyes forced them moving. They racked their shotguns, checked their cylinders, and rushed out the side doors into the crossfire.

​Peter and his men hauled Barney up the narrow rear stairwell to his private second-floor room, laying him flat on the mattress.

​"Guard the door," Peter instructed two of his men standing in the hallway. "Nobody comes in unless I say so."

​Inside, Barney panted heavily, clutching his leg. "Thanks, Pete... Christ, it stings..."

​"Stay still," Peter said calmly, unwrapping his linen necktie and tying it tight around Barney’s thigh as a tourniquet. "It’s just a gunshot wound in the calf. You aren’t going to bleed out. Wait here, I’ll go see if I can find someone to dig the lead out."

​Peter slipped out the bedroom door, closing it softly behind him. He looked at his lieutenant standing guard in the corridor. "Where are the others?"

​"Already at the first and second stash houses, boss," the lieutenant whispered, leaning in close over the sound of gunfire outside. "They’re clearing out the crates right now."

​Peter’s jaw tightened slightly. "Kid’s crew moved faster than I thought. He’s already on Gansevoort."

​"What do we do, boss?"

​"Stick to Plan B," Peter murmured. "Wait for Henry’s men to arrive and pin Kid’s boys down. I’ll have to do my part a bit early before the police arrive."

One of his men reached into his inner coat pocket and handed Peter a small, corked glass vial filled with a clear, odorless liquid. Peter pocketed it, nodded, and stepped back into the room.

​Barney looked up from the bed, his forehead slick with sweat. "Did you find a doctor?"

​"No doctor nearby," Peter said, walking over to the sideboard table where an unspotted bottle stood. "But the bartender has a strong painkiller."

​Peter picked up a clean tumbler and poured a heavy shot of cheap whiskey. Before turning around, he uncorked the glass vial and emptied its contents straight into the alcohol. He carried the drink to the bedside and handed it over. "Drink it all down. It’ll take the edge off."

​Barney grabbed the glass and gulped the whiskey down in three desperate swallows, wiping his mouth with his trembling sleeve. "Ah... god... that burns..."

​Peter stood over him, his expression flattening into cold steel.

​"Boss," Peter said quietly. "Do you remember a whore named Jellyfish?"

​Barney blinked, a tired, greasy smirk creeping onto his lips despite the pain in his leg. "Jellyfish? Ha... yeah. Yeah, I remember her. Crazy bitch. Her screams... her screams of pain made me turned on like nothing else. Accidentally killed her when I was done with her, though. Best night I ever had. That was... three years ago, right?" Barney let out a hoarse chuckle. "Why the hell are you asking about whores all of a sudden, Pete?"

​Peter reached under his coat, drew his heavy revolver, and pointed the barrel straight between Barney’s eyes.

​"She was my eldest sister."

​Barney’s laughter died instantly. His bloodshot eyes widened in absolute horror as he stared down the iron cylinder. "P-Pete..." Barney stammered, raising a shaking, clammy hand. "Pete, come on... I didn’t know... put that away, Pete, that’s dangerous!"

​Peter looked at the gun in his hand, then quietly lowered it back into his holster. "Yeah... shooting you would leave a bullet in the wall. Too risky for me."

​"W-what do you mean?" Barney rasped.

​Suddenly, Barney gasped. A violent wave of dizziness hit him, making the ceiling spin. A sharp, burning spasm seized his stomach like a red-hot iron. He clutched his throat, his face twisting in agony as he gagged, vomiting dark bile across his chest. His eyes went bloodshot, the veins in his neck bulging as he clawed at his skin for air.

​"W-what... what did you... do to me... you bastard..." Barney choked out, his chest heaving violently.

​Peter stood beside the bed with his arms folded, watching without blinking.

​"Before my sister ended up on the streets," Peter said quietly, "she had a talent for alchemy. Spent years mixing poisons in hopes of creating a medicine. She tested her mixes on rats, but she always wanted to test them on real men. In the end, she abandoned it and became a whore because our family was starving."

​Peter stepped closer to the bed as Barney’s vision faded. "And then you killed her. So, technically... by poisoning you, my sister avenged herself."

​Barney’s legs twitched violently against the mattress. A thick white foam bubbled from his lips as his breath rattled one last time. His body went rigid, then collapsed back into the pillow, his glassy eyes staring blankly at the ceiling.

​Peter waited until Barney stopped moving completely. He reached down, closed Barney’s eyelids, wiped the foam from his mouth, and pulled the heavy blanket up over his shoulders so he looked as if he were sleeping.

​Peter walked out of the room, nodded to his men, and they exited through the back door into the alley.

​Out on Gansevoort Street, the battle was turning fast.

​Kid Yorke’s main force had arrived, flooding the street from the North. Outnumbering Barney’s scattered men nearly three to one, Kid’s enforcers pushed hard, firing from behind parked wagons, brick stoops, and alley corners. Barney’s men were getting pinned down against the front wall of the Indy Saloon, their ammunition running dangerously low.

​"Push ’em back!" Kid Yorke screamed from behind a brick pillar, firing his revolver into the storefront windows. "Drive ’em into the street!"

​"Where the fuck are our reinforcements?!" Alvin yelled from behind an overturned cart, reloading his revolver with shaking hands. He looked over at Andy, who was crouched beside him bleeding from a graze on his forearm. "We can’t hold these bastards off much longer!"

​Kid Yorke leaned out from his cover, shouting across the roar of gunfire. "Is Barney dead yet, you bastards?!"

​"You’ll die before he does, old man!" Alvin roared back, firing a wild shot toward Kid’s window.

​"That’s what you get for burning down our saloons!" Kid yelled.

​"And that’s what you get for stealing our customers!" Alvin screamed back.

​"It ain’t my fault ours is just better!" Kid shouted over the cracks of pistol fire. "If you had a smarter boss, none of this would’ve happened!"

​"Fuck you! You stole our cocaine, asshole!" Alvin screamed.

​Kid paused, a confused scowl crossing his face. He turned to Dennis, who was kneeling beside him racking a shotgun. "What’s he talking about? Stealing cocaine?"

​"I don’t know, boss!" Dennis said, leaning out to take a shot down the avenue.

​CRACK!

​A sharp rifle shot split the air from down the block. A heavy round caught Dennis right in the temple. A spray of blood hit the brickwork behind him, and Dennis slowly slouched down onto the wooden floorboards, his eyes going lifeless instantly.

​"Dennis!" Kid yelled, grabbing his lieutenant’s collar, but Dennis was already gone.

​Kid’s men pressed forward aggressively, closing the distance. Two of Barney’s shooters were cut down trying to sprint across the street, their bodies collapsing into the gutter. Kid’s enforcers began encircling the Indy Saloon, moving house to house, pressing Barney’s men so tight they could barely lean out to aim.

​"We’re getting flanked!" Andy panicked, ducking as plaster exploded off the doorframe above his head. "They’re gonna wipe us out!"

​"Hold the line, goddamnit!" Alvin screamed, but his voice was shaking. Kid’s men were fifty feet away now, moving in for the kill with shotguns leveled.

​Just as Kid’s front line prepared to swarm the saloon entryway, heavy rifle fire erupted from the eastern intersection of 9th Avenue.

​BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

​A volley of high-powered rifle rounds tore through Kid’s flank. Three of Kid’s enforcers advancing down the sidewalk were instantly lifted off their feet, their bodies crashing hard against the cobbles.

​"What the hell was that?!" Kid yelled, spinning around toward the sound.

​Down the avenue, Henry stepped out from behind a stone archway, flanked by twenty well-armed riflemen. Henry held a military-grade Mauser 98 bolt-action rifle resting comfortably against his shoulder.

​Crack! Henry worked the bolt with practiced, fluid precision, ejecting a steaming brass shell onto the pavement. "Four," he muttered coldly as another of Kid’s men collapsed.

​Crack! "Five."

​Henry’s men poured disciplined, heavy fire into Kid Yorke’s exposed flank. The sudden, brutal arrival of Henry’s force shattered Kid’s momentum instantly. Kid’s men, who seconds ago were closing in for the kill, were now caught in a murderous crossfire between the Indy Saloon and Henry’s rifle line.

​"To the alley! Take cover!" Kid screamed, realizing they were being butchered in the open street.

​Henry tracked Kid Yorke’s figure through his iron sights as Kid turned to run toward an alley mouth. Henry adjusted his aim down toward Kid’s legs and squeezed the trigger.

​CRACK!

​The heavy rifle round smashed straight into Kid’s calf. Kid shrieked in pain as his leg buckled beneath him, sending him tumbling violently onto the rough cobblestones.

​"Boss is down! Grab the boss!" two of Kid’s enforcers yelled, lunging forward under heavy fire to grab Kid by his shoulders and drag his bleeding body around the brick corner into cover.

​"RETREAT! PULL BACK!" Kid screamed, clutching his mangled leg as his men dragged him frantically down the dark alleyway. "PULL BACK NOW!"

​Henry worked his bolt again, watching the alleyway entrance. "Fuck. Lucky bastard," he grumbled softly. He adjusted his rifle sights toward the remaining stragglers and kept firing.

​Within two minutes, Kid’s surviving force was in full flight, scattering North into Chelsea.

​As the gunfire began to die down, the sharp, shrill sound of police whistles began echoing from three blocks south, growing louder with every second.

​"Coppers! Scatter!" Alvin yelled, putting on a grand show of panic for any onlookers watching from the windows.

​"Retreat!" Andy shouted, turning to run.

​Henry lowered his Mauser and called out sharply to both of them from the alley entrance. "Alvin! Andy! Over here! Quick!"

​Recognizing Henry as an ally, Alvin and Andy sprinted into the dark alleyway, panting heavily as they leaned against the damp brick wall to catch their breath.

​"Shit..." Alvin gasped, wiping sweat and gunpowder residue from his eyes. "Shit, that was close. Well... that was fun."

​Behind them, Henry calmly unholstered a snub-nosed revolver from beneath his coat and pressed the steel barrel directly against the back of Andy’s neck.

​BANG!

​Blood splattered against the brickwork as Andy collapsed face-first into the alley dirt without making a sound.

​Alvin spun around in sheer horror, his eyes wide as saucers. "What the—"

​BANG!

​Henry pulled the trigger again without a second’s hesitation. The bullet struck Alvin squarely through the middle of his forehead. His head snapped back violently, and his body crumpled onto the stone threshold.

​Henry casually holstered his smoking revolver, stepped over Alvin’s body, and walked calmly away through the rear alley exit into the morning fog.

​By the time the first squad of police officers turned the corner onto Gansevoort Street with whistles blaring, there was no one left to arrest. Kid Yorke’s wounded men were fleeing North, Barney’s remaining crew had scattered into the city, and behind the closed doors of the Indy Saloon, Barney lay dead and forgotten under a heavy wool blanket.