Chapter 195: Preparations Complete

By May, the sound of hammer blows and iron saw blades echoed daily from the eastern edge of the clearing.

?The old timber barn that had once held hay bales and rusted farming equipment was completely gutted and rebuilt into a dedicated workshop. Inside, daylight filtered through high transom windows onto long pine workbenches where half a dozen women and older support workers operated hand-cranked sewing machines and heavy leather punches.

?Ricky walked down the center aisle of the workshop, his hands in his coat pockets. The air smelled rich with beeswax, cut canvas, boot grease, and cold iron.

?On one side of the room, two women were stitching reinforced wool coats with internal pockets designed specifically to conceal shoulder holsters without revealing the outline of a heavy automatic pistol. On another bench lay prototype protective vests—layered sheets of heavy duck canvas and tanned cowhide holding thin, overlapping plates of tempered spring steel. They weren’t light, but when tested against low-velocity revolver rounds at twenty yards, the steel plates deflected the lead without shattering.

?Arthur stood by the heavy double doors, holding a clipboard stacked with material orders. "We kept the armory entirely separate across the yard," Arthur said, pointing toward a padlocked timber building guarded by two armed sentries. "Workshops make dust, grease, and clutter. Armories need dry air, locked crates, and strict counts. Firearms, ammunition, and explosive charges stay under lock and key. The workshop handles gear, uniforms, packs, and repairs."

?Ricky nodded in approval as he watched a young woman carefully oil and assemble a heavy leather utility belt. "Good. Production and armaments should never share the same roof."

?By July, the three-month mark arrived, bringing the full weight of the dual-track system into focus.

?In the morning, while the sun was still low over the Westchester trees, the central classroom cabin hummed with quiet concentration. Evelyn stood before a large blackboard covered in financial diagrams, shipping routes, and organizational charts of Tammany Hall’s ward committees.

?Forty-six women sat at long wooden desks, their fountain pens scratching against lined notebooks. They weren’t just learning to read and write; they were analyzing real business records. Evelyn placed a mock shipping ledger on a desk, giving the recruits thirty seconds to scan the numbers before pulling it away.

?"What was the anomaly on page three?" Evelyn asked calmly.

?"An overpayment of four hundred dollars to a tugboat operator in Hoboken," a young woman named Anna answered immediately, her voice steady. "The tonnage didn’t match the draught depth listed in the harbor log."

?"Correct," Evelyn said. "A kickback disguised as operational expenses."

?In the afternoon, the environment shifted entirely. The men and women moved from the classroom to the physical training field. They ran laps on the dirt track, practiced rapid footwork, and drilled evasive strikes using Kali techniques—learning to use short batons and palm strikes to shatter an attacker’s wrist or collarbone before breaking away.

On the pistol range, under the watchful eye of a senior instructor, they practiced drawing small M1911 Pistols from deep coat pockets, firing two quick, controlled shots into paper targets at seven yards, and immediately seeking cover behind timber barricades.

?Ricky and Evelyn stood on the rise overlooking the range, reviewing the evaluation rosters.

?"They’re ready for the advanced training." Evelyn said, handing Ricky a sheet of paper divided into neat columns.

?The three-month mark allowed them to organize the women into distinct specializations based on their natural aptitudes:

?A core group was designated as Intelligence Specialists, possessing sharp memories and keen social observation, trained to gather information in hotels, offices, and social gatherings.

?Another group formed the Infiltration Operatives, women who could comfortably assume cover identities as household staff, secretaries, or clerks within target businesses.

?A third branch took over Administrative Analysis, staying at Pound Ridge or moving to the White Plains offices to organize ledgers, cross-reference field reports, and manage organizational records.

?A small hand-picked group showed physical talent and cool nerves under pressure, qualifying as Hybrid Operatives—capable of accompanying male field teams on dangerous urban missions where a female presence allowed the team to blend into public crowds without drawing suspicion.

?The remaining women, who preferred to avoid field risks, took over full support operations: running the camp kitchen, managing medical supplies, overseeing workshop production, and handling logistics. Not a single person was forced into a role they hadn’t chosen.

?By late November, seven months after the reorganization began, a heavy frost coated the woven-wire fence surrounding Pound Ridge. The oak trees had shed their autumn leaves, leaving stark, grey branches reaching up into a cold Westchester sky. Woodsmoke billowed steadily from every chimney in the compound, carrying the warm scent of burning hickory across the clearing.

?The transformation of Pound Ridge was complete. The camp was no longer a makeshift hideout or a rough training ground for street brawlers. It had matured into the silent, living heart of the Founders Syndicate.

?Ricky stood on the porch of the main cabin, wearing his heavy dark wool overcoat with the collar turned up against the biting autumn wind. He held a hot tin mug of coffee, watching the compound move like a well-oiled machine.

?To the south, the Combat Branch was in the middle of a tactical drill. Sixty-three men in matching dark wool uniforms and reinforced leather boots moved in tight four-man squads across the obstacle field, carrying Springfield rifles and Colt automatics. They signaled with silent hand gestures, clearing timber structures with practiced, rhythmic precision.

?Near the central compound, three women from the Intelligence Branch walked toward the administrative cabin carrying leather satchels filled with coded reports brought up from Manhattan by the morning supply truck. They moved with confidence and discipline, their eyes sharp and alert.

?Near the eastern gate, a heavy Mack truck idled softly, its bed loaded with fresh crates of boots and winter jackets produced directly from the camp workshop. Caleb Morgan stood by the tailgate, effortlessly hoisting wooden crates while Eli joked with the drivers, keeping spirits high despite the freezing air.

?Arthur walked up the porch steps, stamping the frost from his boots. He leaned against the railing beside Ricky, blowing on his hands to warm them.

?"Supply lines are secure for the winter," Arthur said, nodding toward the trucks. "We’ve got three months of grain, salted meat, fuel, and coal stored in the lower bunkers. If a blizzard hits Westchester tomorrow, we can hold out without missing a single day of training."

?"How are the new watches?" Ricky asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

?"Tight," Arthur replied. "The night watch rotates every four hours. The perimeter wire is fully lit with carbide lanterns, and the barracks bells haven’t rung once by mistake in three weeks. The men and women know the boundaries, and they respect the rules."

?Evelyn joined them on the porch, wearing a dark fur-collared coat and holding a leather-bound summary ledger. She looked out over the yard, where the combat squads were quietly forming up for evening mess.

?"The intelligence reports from Manhattan came in an hour ago," Evelyn said quietly. "Charles Murphy and his ward captains still believe we are nothing more than a scattered remnant operating out of small Greenwich alleys. While their investigation on the death of Frank Knox have proved to be inconclusive, Tammany knows to a certain degree that we exist but they’re more likely to be urban legends. The only thing they know about us is the death of Frank Knox and the encounter when we retrieved John De George’s secret files."

?Ricky looked out across the bustling, orderly clearing and said. "It’s nothing more than an old man’s conspiracy. Even the other district leaders don’t believe such a force exist. If anything else, they’ll think we’re federal agents sent from Washington."

He then saw the armed sentries patrolling the wire fence, the smoke rising from the busy kitchen, the disciplined squads returning from the ranges, and the administrative staff managing the nerve center of his growing empire.

?A rifleman could win a gunfight in a dark alley. An intelligence operative could prevent the gunfight from ever happening. And a sound business operation could render the fight entirely unnecessary.

?Standing in his office, Ricky knew his organization finally possessed all three. Pound Ridge was no longer just a place in the woods. It was an institution—ready, structured, and silent—waiting for the right moment to strike at the heart of New York.