Chapter 181: Operation Tagging & Bagging 2

"If you’re suggesting we establish ties with the Fusion Reformers," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a quiet, hard register, "you need to understand one thing right now, De George. The existence of this organization stays in the dark. No political party, no municipal committee, and no district attorney ever learns we exist. The fewer people who know our names, the longer we stay alive."

​De George adjusted his posture in the wooden chair, carefully resting his canvas satchel across his knees. He looked up at Ricky, unblinking.

​"You don’t have approach them directly as a shadow syndicate," De George said, shaking his head. "That’s an amateur’s mistake. What you do is build a legitimate public face. You charter a Midtown Merchants Guild, or a Wholesale Liquor Distributors Association. You put a respectable, clean-cut representative at the front to act as your official voice. That front donates to local charities, hosts dinners, and quietly funds a potential independent mayoral candidate or works alongside the Fusion party leaders."

​John Caldwell leaned against a nearby crate, his arms crossed over his chest. "And Tammany doesn’t sniff out a fake merchant guild?"

​"Tammany has its eyes on the major reform committees, sure," De George replied, turning his head toward John. "They watch the church societies and the high-society lawyers like hawks. But a mid-level trade guild? They just see businessmen looking to protect their margins. Running an independent mayoral ticket is bloody expensive with terrible odds, but it gives your front a clean seat at the political table without drawing a single detective to your doorstep."

​Ricky leaned back against the edge of the workbench, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his knee. "Hmm... I’ll consider it. In fact, I might already have the right person in mind to stand out front and play the respectable merchant." He straightened up, his eyes locking onto the politician. "In any case, your vice operations in the Bronx stop today. Shut them down completely."

​De George let out a dry, breathy laugh and waved a hand dismissively. "That’s fine by me. It’s not as if I can walk down Forty-Second Street without Tammany ward heelers putting a bullet in my spine anyway. My street days are finished."

​"Let’s talk about Sullivan," Ricky said, shifting the subject back to the ledgers. "Where does he spend his time when he isn’t sitting in his clubhouses in Lower Manhattan? Do we have a physical address for his private residence?"

​"Not until about a year ago," De George said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "Big Tim acquired a massive country estate up in Albany. Used to belong to a wealthy textile importer named Adrian Mertan."

​Davis Brians, who was leaning against a timber support beam, raised an eyebrow. "Mertan? Isn’t that the guy who owned the shipping warehouses near the East River?"

​"The very same," De George nodded. "Poor bastard lost his wife and young daughter to a deadly disease within two months of each other. Spiraled right out of his mind. Mertan started throwing his entire fortune away on high-stakes roulette, high-grade cocaine, French champagne, and expensive brothels. When he couldn’t settle his tab with the ward bosses, Big Tim stepped in and seized the Albany estate to clear the debt."

​De George took a short breath before continuing. "Sullivan’s been staying up at that Albany mansion more frequently these past few months. Likely because his health is failing fast from the syphilis and he wants to hide his physical breakdown from the press and his political rivals. If you want to catch him somewhere with minimal guards and little resistance, Albany is where he’s weakest."

​John looked over at Ricky. "We can take two motorcars up the Hudson, hit the estate at night, and clear the place out."

​Ricky shook his head slowly. "Storming a private estate in Albany is far too bold and reckless, John. A raid leaves dead guards, bullet marks, and state troopers crawling over the property within the hour. I’d rather have one of his personal drivers or gardeners retire, then slip one of our own men directly into his household staff."

​"Why go through the trouble of undercover work?" Davis asked.

​"Because when Sullivan finally dies from his illness," Ricky explained, his tone calm and calculated, "his death needs to look entirely natural to the public and the press. And when his brothers meet their ends shortly after, it won’t look like an outside hit—it’ll look like a bloody succession war within the Sullivan clan."

​De George let out a low whistle, a look of genuine appreciation crossing his face as he looked at Ricky. "That is a damn sight smarter than a siege. If that’s the angle you want, my maid informant can work on one of Sullivan’s current drivers. She can convince him to take a quiet cash payout and retire to a farm upstate, then pitch her ’nephew’ from the countryside to fill the open driver’s seat. But who among your men could possibly pull off playing a simple country driver?"

​John Caldwell stepped forward without hesitation. "I can take the assignment, Boss."

​Davis scoffed, shaking his head with a smirk. "The men needs you here running field operations, John. Besides, I played Clarence for three months straight. I know how to drop my accent and blend into a character."

​"He’s right." Ricky said firmly, looking between his two senior lieutenants. "You’ll have to stay here, John. I need you directing field teams whenever I’m tied up with higher-level business. And Davis, I have another task lined up for you."

​Davis raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Who do you have in mind then?"

​A subtle, knowing smile touched Ricky’s lips. "Cameron."

​John and Davis both froze, looking at Ricky as if he had just spoken in a foreign language. They spoke almost in unison.

​"Boss, no," John protested, frowning in total disbelief. "Cameron is the exact opposite of what you need for an undercover job."

​"No offense, boss. Anyone but him." Davis added, throwing his hands up slightly. "He doesn’t socialize with a single soul! He doesn’t hang out with the squad, he doesn’t touch rye whiskey at the dives, and he doesn’t visit the parlors. He just locks himself in his room, reads newspaper comic strips, grunts twice when you speak to him, and goes to sleep!"

​Ricky’s smile widened as he looked at his two lieutenants. "Which is precisely why he is the perfect candidate."

​John crossed his arms, staring at Ricky in confusion. "How does a anti-social brick wall make a good operative?"

​"Think about it," Ricky said, leaning forward. "First off, Cameron looks so plain, dull, and uninteresting that Big Tim won’t give him a second glance. He doesn’t chatter, he doesn’t ask questions about ward politics, and he does exactly what he’s told without offering an opinion. He’d make the most obedient personal driver Tim could ask for. No offense to Cameron, but his total lack of social ambition makes him the ideal country boy."

​Ricky paused, his voice dropping into a quieter tone. "On top of that, Cameron is exceptionally skilled at handling... inconvenient remains. He doesn’t panic, he doesn’t run his mouth, and he never breaks routine. The fact that he avoids people makes his country cover completely bulletproof."

​De George listened to the exchange, rubbing his chin as a slow, approving nod formed on his face. "Actually... you have a point. In my line of work, the loud, charismatic drivers are the ones who get bribed or blabber to reporters in taverns. Sullivan wouldn’t suspect a quiet, simple country boy who minds his business and drives the carriage. He’d just see a loyal, harmless dog."

​John looked over at Davis, the cold logic sinking in. Davis let out a short exhale, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.

​"Damn it," Davis admitted. "When you put it like that, I guess he really is built for it."

​"Now that that’s settled," Ricky said, standing up straight, "have Cameron brought in tomorrow morning for his full briefing. As for our immediate next move, I need men who are fast, agile, and dead-accurate with their sidearms. Our primary target for capture is Frank Knox."

​Ricky turned back to the politician. "What else do you have on Knox’s movements, Mr. De George?"

​"Not a great deal," De George admitted, leaning back in his chair. He doesn’t stick to Charles Murphy’s side unless Silent Charles needs a stubborn assemblyman ’persuaded’ behind closed doors. But like clockwork, every two days Knox dines at Delmonico’s restaurant on East Fourteenth Street. He usually steps out around eight in the evening to catch a private hansom cab or stroll toward Stuyvesant Square."

​"It’ll be simple enough to tail him from Delmonico’s," John noted, taking a notebook from his pocket. "Find a quiet side street between the restaurant and his townhouse."

​"This operation needs to be fast and silent," Ricky instructed, looking at John and Davis. "No unnecessary noise, no commotion, and no gunshots if we can avoid it. Select ten men from the squad, draft a complete tactical layout for a clean snatch-and-grab, and bring the plans to me tomorrow morning."

​"Consider it done, Boss," John said, nodding firmly.

​Ricky smoothed down the front of his overcoat and looked down at De George. "As for you, Mr. De George, you and I are going to sit down and discuss Tammany Hall, ward leaders, and city politics in far greater detail."

​De George offered a faint, weary grin as he held his leather satchel close to his side. "As long as there’s a bottle of good rye whiskey on the table, son, I’m at your complete disposal."

​Ricky turned toward a field agent standing near the supply crates. "Fetch us a bottle and two glasses."