Chapter 191: Debt Paid In Full

Frank sat slumped in the wooden chair, his face slick with sweat and grey with shock, staring up at Ricky. He looked like a man who had stepped off a curb expecting solid pavement, only to fall straight into an open sewer.

​"You..." Frank choked out again, his jaw working uselessly. "You bastard!... you’re the ones who turned Greenwich upside down."

​Ricky stayed seated on the edge of the workbench, his arms folded across his chest. He looked down at Frank with a flat, unhurried gaze.

​"Dismantling your home base, was so easy Frank." Ricky said, his voice quiet in the damp basement. "A month ago, Greenwich went up in smoke and flames, it wasn’t a gang war or some kind of rebellion. It was us. We made sure while we are killing your men, we blamed it all on them, on you. Cutting your ties with your own gang was the last string you could ever sit comfortably in Greenwhich, your hometown."

​Frank’s eyes widened as the realization settled in. "Red... Sully..."

​"Red’s at the bottom of the East River, and Sully died in an alley off Houston Street," Ricky replied without a trace of emotion. "Your remaining lieutenants are gone. Your gang scattered. And now you’ve given us every account, every safe, and every lawyer Charles Murphy uses to move his cash."

​A heavy set of footsteps echoed down the timber stairs.

​The door at the top opened, and Davis Brians stepped into the yellow light of the hanging bulb. Behind him came John Caldwell and three of the squad’s senior field agents—men who had spent the last six months training in the shadows of the MacDougall Alley warehouse.

​Frank’s head snapped toward the stairs. When his eyes landed on Davis, he froze. He didn’t know who he was, but he recognized the shape of his jaw, the hard set of his shoulders, and the icy, dark intensity in his eyes.

​"I think it was six months ago," Ricky said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a dull knife. "The Ninth Precinct ward."

​Frank’s chest heaved. He tried to pull back against his ropes, but there was nowhere to go.

​"You and your two dead lieutenants set me up for Barney’s murder," Ricky continued, his voice dropping into a cold, measured rhythm. "You had the precinct coppers chain me to a wall in the basement for two days. You guys worked on me until your own arms got tired. But I didn’t break, did I? I just stood there on that concrete floor, looking right at you, smiling and mocking every single word that came out of your mouth."

​John Caldwell leaned his hip against the stair rail, his face grim, his leather-gloved hands bunched into tight fists. Beside him, Davis’s breathing had turned heavy, his knuckles turning white at his sides.

​"You realized pain wasn’t going to get you anything from me," Ricky said softly. "So you brought in Danny."

​Frank’s lip twitched.

​Ricky said, his eyes locking onto Frank’s trembling pupils. "I still remember what you did to him that day while I was pinned against the opposite wall. I had to watch him convulse on those cell floorboards for twenty minutes. He died spitting up bubbles, looking right at me through the iron bars, and I couldn’t move in to help him. But now, you’re gonna suffer fate worse than death."

​Davis took a slow, heavy step forward, his boots crunching against the grit on the floor. His gaze was fixed on Frank’s face with a hatred so deep it vibrated in his chest.

​Frank looked at Davis, then back at Ricky. He saw the men standing in a semicircle around his chair—men who looked up to Danny like an older brother.

​Frank realized there was no deal coming. There was no federal prosecutor. There was no way out of it.

​The terror in Frank’s eyes suddenly snapped. When a man realizes he has lost everything—his position, his reputation, his gang, and his life—the fear sometimes curdles into something hideous.

​A sharp, ragged sound bubbled up from Frank’s throat. A second later, he threw his head back and began to laugh.

​It wasn’t a normal laugh. It was a harsh, hysterical cackle that echoed off the damp stone walls, sharp and grating.

​"Look at you!" Frank barked, blood flecking his lips as he sneered at Ricky. "Look at the big boss! You tricked me! You got the names! You got the books! But you know what, kid? You couldn’t do a damn thing six months ago, and you can’t do a damn thing now!"

​Frank leaned forward as far as the ropes allowed, his bloodshot eyes bulging. "Go on! Tear my skin off! Break my bones! Cut me into pieces! It doesn’t change a single goddamn thing! Your friend is still six feet under in a unmarked grave, rotting in the dirt! He died and you couldn’t do a damn thing! Killing me won’t bring your friend back!"

​Davis let out a low, guttural groan, his whole body shaking as he fought to hold back the rage tearing through his chest. He took another step toward the chair, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

​"I wish this bastard was already dead," Davis growled through his teeth.

​Ricky sat quietly on the workbench. He didn’t yell. He didn’t scowl. His expression remained as flat and motionless as stone. Frank had answered every question about Tammany Hall. He had given up Arthur Bellamy, Edwin Mercer, and the Atlantic Commercial ledgers.

​Frank Knox had fulfilled his purpose.

​Ricky looked over at Davis, then at John and the three operatives standing in the shadows. He gave a single, quiet nod.

​"He’s yours," Ricky said softly. "Don’t kill him yet."

​Davis didn’t wait a second. He closed the distance in two fast strides, swung his right arm back, and drove a devastating, heavy-gloved hook straight into the side of Frank’s jaw.

​The impact sounded like a wet sandbag hitting a stone wall. Frank’s head snapped sideways, his teeth clacking together as a spray of blood and spit hit the concrete. The heavy wooden chair creaked violently under the force.

​Before Frank could recover, John Caldwell stepped in from the left, driving a sharp, compact blow straight into Frank’s ribs. The three field agents swarmed the chair, their hands dropping on Frank with a quiet, brutal, terrifying precision.

​Punches rained down on Frank’s chest, jaw, and stomach. Heavy leather boots slammed into his shins and knees. They didn’t scream or shout as they struck him; the room was filled only with the heavy, rhythmic thuds of fists hitting bone and muscle, accompanied by Frank’s choked groans and ragged gasps for air.

​They hit him for Danny. They hit him for the months he had forced them to operate in secret. They hit him until their knuckles throbbed and their breath came in heavy, ragged gasps.

​After three brutal minutes, Davis grabbed Frank by the hair, yanking his head back. Frank’s left eye was swollen completely shut, his nose broken and bleeding freely down his chin, his mouth a ruined mess of red foam and broken teeth. He slumped limply against the hemp ropes, his chest heaving in shallow, wheezing gasps, barely conscious.

​Davis stood over him, his chest rising and falling, his knuckles covered in red smears. He looked down at the ruined enforcer, his rage finally spent, leaving behind only a hollow, cold ache.

​Ricky stood up from the workbench.

​He didn’t say a word as he walked across the concrete floor. His footsteps were light and deliberate. He stopped two feet in front of the chair, looking down at the bloody mess that had once been Tammany Hall’s primary enforcer.

​Ricky reached inside his dark wool overcoat. His fingers wrapped around the heavy, checkered walnut grip of his Colt M1911 .45 ACP.

​He drew the heavy steel automatic from its shoulder holster. With a smooth, practiced flick of his wrist, he racked the slide. The sharp, mechanical clack-clack of a forty-five caliber round entering the chamber cut through the quiet room like a bell.

​John and Davis glanced over, startled by the sudden draw.

​Ricky stepped directly up to the chair. He didn’t offer a final speech. He didn’t ask Frank if he had any last words. He simply raised the heavy dark barrel, placing the steel muzzle an inch from the side of Frank’s temple.

​BANG.

​The gunshot exploded inside the enclosed concrete room like a cannon blast, deafening and absolute. A sharp flash of orange fire illuminated the damp walls for a fraction of a second.

​Frank’s head jerked violently to the side, his body tensing for a single instant before going completely limp against the ropes. The heavy wooden chair rocked back on two legs before settling flat on the floorboards.

​A thin wisp of grey gunsmoke drifted up from the muzzle of the Colt.

​The men stood frozen in the dim light, their ears ringing from the blast, staring at the motionless corpse tied to the chair. The sudden, cold finality of the execution hung heavily in the air.

​Ricky lowered the pistol, engaged the thumb safety with a soft click, and slid the heavy Colt back into his shoulder holster beneath his coat. He adjusted his lapels, smoothing down his wool vest with calm, methodical care.

​He looked around at Davis, John, and the winded men.

​"I hope you’ve had your fill with him," Ricky said, his voice flat, steady, and entirely untroubled. "Now that it’s out of your system, wipe off your hands and get this room cleaned up. We’ve got the real work to start tomorrow."

​Without waiting for an answer, Ricky turned on his heel. He walked up the wooden stairs, opened the door, and stepped out of the basement into the main storehouse.

​He passed the workbench, walked through the quiet alley exit, and stepped out into the crisp, midnight air of MacDougall Alley.

​The sky was dark and clear, a cold autumn wind blowing through the narrow brick passage, carrying the faint scent of coal smoke and river salt.

​Ricky stopped near the mouth of the alley, leaning his shoulder against a brick wall. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a silver case, and extracted a single cigarette. He placed it between his lips, struck a friction match against the brickwork, and held the flame to the tip.

​The yellow flame flared, casting sharp shadows across his young, unyielding face.

​Ricky took a long, slow drag, letting the smoke fill his lungs before exhaling a thin grey stream into the midnight air. He stood alone in the dark, his coat collar turned up against the wind, his eyes fixed on the distant lights of Broadway.

​Frank Knox was dead. The debt for Danny was settled. Now, Charles Murphy and Tammany Hall were next.