Chapter 183: Final Review

The MacDougall Alley warehouse had quietly turned into the crew’s primary staging area. Inside the cavernous brick building, cigarette smoke drifted beneath the high timber rafters, cutting through the heavy smell of machine oil and sawdust.

​Around fifteen men were scattered across the floor—a quarter of the sixty-man unit, while the remaining forty-five stayed out on the streets of Greenwich Village, keeping a tight lid on local trouble. A few agents sat on overturned wooden crates around a makeshift table, rolling dice and slapping playing cards onto a timber board. Near the rear wall, two men sat on cots, carefully field-stripping and cleaning their syndicate-issued Colt 1911 semi-automatic pistols, having completely phased out their older double-action revolvers.

​"Village has been quiet all morning," Davis remarked, leaning against a support beam as he looked over the floor. "The Dusters don’t even know Frank’s lost his best lieutenants. With Red and Sully dead and buried, Knox’s remaining crews are running around in circles without orders."

​"Let them wander," John said softly. "It keeps them divided. Meanwhile, Jack is making a fortune off the docks, smuggling contraband past the customs house and flipping it to out-of-state buyers for three times the cost."

​"And what about Kid Yorke?" Ricky asked, walking up beside them.

​"Yorke’s Chelsea operation is booming," John replied. "He’s working hand-in-glove with Owney Madden and the Gophers. Madden’s officially legitimizing his gang as a wholesale trading company in Hell’s Kitchen now. He’s even cracking down on street extortion in his own neighborhood—which is rich, considering he was shaking down those exact same shopkeepers five months ago. But with your backing and Marek’s supply lines, Madden’s playing the respectable merchant and keeping the precinct captains happy."

​Ricky nodded once. "Good. Let Madden take the spotlight." He scanned the warehouse floor. "Alright, let’s get this moving. Where’s Cameron?"

​From a shadowy corner near the back wall, a figure lying across a makeshift bed of stacked wooden crates raised a hand. He lifted his flat wool cap off his face with his other hand, shifting his dark eyes toward Ricky, but didn’t say a word.

​"Stand up, Cameron," Ricky called out. "Come over here. I’ve got an assignment for you."

​Cameron sat up slowly, pulled his cap over his dark hair, and swung his boots over the edge of the crate. He stood up, dusted off the lapels of his heavy wool coat, and walked over to the group. He was slightly taller than John, with a broad, muscular frame, a dark brownish complexion, and medium-length black hair tucked behind his ears. He stood before Ricky in complete silence, his face entirely unreadable.

​De George reached into his leather bag, pulled out a brown manila folder, and handed it to Ricky. Ricky passed the file directly to Cameron, who took it without hesitation.

​"Your mission is an undercover operation," Ricky said, looking Cameron over. "You’re going into the private residence of State Senator Tim Sullivan up in Albany. The original plan was to replace his carriage driver, but Sullivan is currently assembling a fresh detail of private guards for his estate—men from outside the city who don’t have ties to the NYPD or Tammany politics. You’re going to volunteer for that detail."

​Cameron opened the folder, his eyes scanning the handwritten notes.

​"Everything you need is in those papers," Ricky continued. "The target’s habits, his personal inner circle, and your new identity. From this moment on, your name is John Matthew Morston. You’re the son of a Joel Morston, a small farmer from upstate, and you’re related to Mathilda Rickshaw—Sullivan’s personal maid."

​Ricky paused, leaning in slightly. "Your primary objective is to eliminate Sullivan, but his death must look entirely natural. How much do you know about brewing poisons?"

​Cameron glanced up from the folder, his voice low and raspy—barely loud enough for Ricky to hear. "Not much."

​"You don’t need to be an alchemist," Ricky said smoothly. "A potted foxglove plant will do the job. Buy one as a decorative plant or a garden gift for the estate. Every part of that flower contains digitalis, a toxin that directly attacks the heart. If you crush the leaves and mix a refined dose into his nightly whiskey or tea over a day or two, his heart will fail."

​De George nodded in agreement. "Any coroner in Albany who examines him will attribute it to acute heart failure. Given that Sullivan is already suffering from advanced tertiary syphilis, no doctor in the state will question it."

​"There’s more," Ricky added, catching Cameron’s eye. "While you’re inside that mansion, you’re to gather every piece of intelligence you can find on his brothers, his family, and his financial ledgers. If the opportunity arises, let Sullivan notice you. Don’t put on an act—just be yourself. A quiet, obedient hand from the country who minds his own business."

​Ricky tapped the folder in Cameron’s hand. "Primary target is Sullivan, but you do not strike until after his gun control legislation passes through the state Senate. That gives us a window of a month or two. Is that clear?"

​Cameron gave a single, slow nod, his gaze dropping back to the papers as he tucked the folder inside his coat.

​"You have until tomorrow morning to memorize every detail in that file," Ricky said, patting Cameron on the shoulder. "You leave for Albany at dawn."

​Without a word, Cameron turned on his heel and walked back to his corner, sitting down on his crate and opening the file again under the dim lantern light.

​Ricky turned to John Caldwell and Davis Brians. "Are these the ten men you picked for the city detail?" He said looking out the scattered men around the floor.

​"They are," John confirmed, gesturing toward a group of ten squad members standing near the workbench. "They’re the fastest shooters and most agile movers from the winter training camp. Every one of them passed marksmanship with high marks."

​"Walk me through the plan for capturing Frank Knox," Ricky said.

​John stepped over to the workbench and unrolled a hand-drawn map of Fourteenth Street and Stuyvesant Square. "We start by blending in as middle-class clerks and deliverymen around Delmonico’s. We’ve already drafted forged employment papers for existing businesses on the block so the local shopkeepers don’t look twice at them. Once we have Knox’s precise dinner schedule pinned down, two of our men will dress in full NYPD patrol uniforms."

​"Go on," Ricky said, studying the map.

​"We will acquire two Ford Model T touring cars, painted the exact same shade of dark blue," John explained. "Both vehicles will be staged nearby during the extraction window. The first car acts as our diversion—we load the rear tonneau with a crate of dynamite and detonate it two blocks over near the square. The blast draws every copper and pedestrian away from Fourteenth Street. In the confusion, the fake patrolmen grab Knox outside the restaurant, shove him into the second Model T, and drive him out of the city."

​Ricky frowned, raising his hand to stop John.

​"The dynamite is far too theatrical, John," Ricky said firmly. "It’s a tactic that’s been overused across the borough. If a bomb goes off on the Upper East Side while Knox vanishes, the police department will immediately link it to the White Hand gang and the restaurant bombing in East Village. They’ll lock down the district and set up roadblocks before your getaway car reaches the bridge."

​John paused, rubbing his chin as he re-evaluated the plan. "Alright. No explosives."

​"You don’t need explosives," Ricky said. "A staged mechanical breakdown or a quiet street altercation between our fake patrolmen is more than enough to divert the foot patrol on Fourteenth Street. Keep it clean, keep it quiet, and keep Knox alive when you throw him in the back seat."

​"Understood, Boss," John said, nodding to Davis. "We’ll adjust the blueprint tonight and have the team ready by tomorrow."

​"Get moving then," Ricky instructed, looking over the squad. "Frank Knox is just the first domino. We have a long list of Tammany figures to deal with, and every single one of them requires precise infiltration. Bold, noisy hits won’t work when the whole city is on high alert."

​John and Davis gave crisp nods, turning to gather the ten-man extraction team.

​"Good luck, boys," Ricky added softly, watching as the warehouse burst into quiet, purposeful activity.