Chapter 197: Autumn Spring Trap

Ricky opened the leather-bound journal. The pages were filled with Cameron’s tight, disciplined handwriting, formatted deliberately as a personal diary so that if anyone at the Albany estate happened to glance through it, it would read as nothing more than the dull daily musings of a hired hand named John Morston.

?Underneath the mundane entries about weather and stable duties, however, lay a precise, step-by-step account of how Cameron had systematically embedded himself into Big Tim Sullivan’s inner circle.

?Cameron had arrived in Albany seven months ago under the guise of an ordinary country boy seeking work as a farm hand or private guard. He kept his head down, spoke only when spoken to, and never expressed an opinion on politics, money, or Tammany Hall. To the rest of the estate staff, he seemed simple, quiet, and completely unambitious.

?That quiet demeanor, however, had invited trouble from Sullivan’s veteran bodyguards. They viewed the taciturn new recruit as weak. Three weeks into his stay, five of Sullivan’s regular heavy-shooters cornered Cameron behind the carriage house, intending to rough him up and put him in his place.

?Cameron didn’t draw a gun. He laid three of them out with broken ribs and left the other two with shattered jaws before any of them could clear their holsters.

?When Sullivan’s security chief reported the incident, Big Tim had listened in stunned silence.

?"Five of them?" Tim had asked, leaning back in his leather chair.

?"Yes, sir," the chief replied. "And the country boy didn’t even lose his breath."

?Tim immediately ordered John Morston brought up to the main house. Within two months, Cameron was promoted to Sullivan’s personal security detail.

?It was the exact break Cameron needed. Instead of having to maneuver for access, Sullivan began bringing Morston everywhere—from private political dinners in Albany to late-night meetings with ward captains in Manhattan. Cameron observed everything: Sullivan’s health, his financial ledgers, his communication routes, and his growing list of enemies.

?More importantly, Cameron proved himself useful. When an independent dock boss in Albany attempted to hold out on Tammany’s protection fees, Sullivan gave Morston a simple command to resolve it. Cameron left the estate, handled the problem cleanly without bloodshed or commotion, and returned two hours later.

?He didn’t boast. He didn’t ask for a raise. He simply reported that the matter was settled and stood back by the door.

?To a man like Big Tim Sullivan, who had spent thirty years surrounded by greedy, scheming politicians constantly asking for favors, Morston was a revelation. Here was a man who obeyed orders without hesitation, wanted no glory, and asked for nothing in return.

?That favoritism, however, created immediate tension with Sullivan’s brother, Paddy.

?Paddy had spent his entire life operating under the assumption that he would eventually inherit Tim’s political machine. Watching his dying brother give an unknown country boy unrestricted access to private rooms and confidential letters made Paddy deeply nervous.

?Cameron noted in his journal that Paddy had begun trailing him with suspicion, even confronting Tim in private.

?"You’re seriously putting this stranger above your own family?" Paddy had snapped during an argument in the library, unaware that Cameron was listening from the hallway outside.

?"Family didn’t stand beside me when the reformers started pushing!" Tim yelled back, his voice hoarse and rattling with phlegm. "What have you done for me lately, Paddy? Nothing but complain! Morston does everything I ask without a word!"

?As the months turned to autumn, Cameron’s entries grew darker, detailing Tim’s rapid mental decline.

?The advanced neurosyphilis was ravaging Sullivan’s mind. One evening, Tim would be perfectly sharp, discussing legislative strategy; the next morning, he would be wandering the halls in his nightshirt, wildly brandishing a loaded revolver at imaginary assassins lurking in the curtains.

?During one of these paranoid fits, Cameron had quietly stepped in, disarming the hysterical politician without harming him, putting him back to bed, and discreetly removing razors, heavy candlesticks, and loaded firearms from the bedchamber. When Tim woke up the next morning, lucid and calm, he remembered nothing of the episode—only that Morston was at his bedside, vigilant and quiet.

?Then came the entry from early November detailing the succession conversation.

?Tim had called Morston into his study late at night. The powerful boss of Tammany Hall was reduced to a hollow, sweating shell of a man, shivering beside a roaring fireplace despite the thick blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

?"You know what I like about you, Morston?" Tim had rasped, his sunken eyes fixed on Cameron. "You don’t question me. You don’t ask for a piece of the cake. You just do what needs to be done."

?Tim leaned forward, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "My brothers think they’re going to take over when I’m gone. They think the empire belongs to them. But they don’t have the stomach for it. I want you to run the field network, Morston. I want you to step into my boots."

?"If that’s what you want, sir," Cameron had replied, his expression completely blank.

?Tim had laughed—a wet, rattling sound—delighted by the response. He interpreted Cameron’s lack of hesitation as total, unyielding devotion.

?"They’ll resist you," Tim warned, his dark eyes gleam with a final burst of malice. "Paddy especially. You’ll have to line them up, Morston. The ones who understand will fall in line. The stubborn ones... you get rid of them."

?Ricky closed the journal with a soft, leathery snap, setting it flat on his desk.

?He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the rain falling over MacDougal Alley. The irony was almost poetic. Tim Sullivan believed he had groomed a ruthless, loyal heir to defend his legacy against his own family. In reality, he had handed the keys to his entire operation to the man sent to execute him.

?Leaving Sullivan alive any longer had become a major risk. Tim was completely unhinged, unpredictable, and politically ruined by the fallout of the Sullivan Act. His erratic fits in Albany were getting harder for his family to hide, and if he lost his mind completely before Cameron could take control of the network, the resulting chaos would scatter Sullivan’s assets before Ricky could absorb them.

?It was time to spring the trap.

?Ricky stood up from his desk, walked across the office, and pulled open the heavy oak door.

?"John," Ricky called down the stairwell.

?A moment later, John Caldwell came up the wooden steps, holding a fresh mug of black coffee. "What is it, Boss?"

?Ricky reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small piece of cardstock, and wrote a brief address in Albany alongside two words: Foxglove, purple.

?He handed the card to John.

?"I just finished Cameron’s report," Ricky said, his voice flat and practical. "Big Tim is completely out of his head, and Cameron has total control over the estate. It’s time to end Sullivan’s misery."

?John looked at the card, recognizing the code instantly. "So it’s finally that time huh?"

?"Yeah. Have one of our couriers buy a potted plant from a florist near the Albany train station and drop it on the front porch tomorrow morning," Ricky instructed. "When Cameron sees the flowers on the entry table, he’ll know it’s time to make his move."

?De George nodded slowly, slipping the card into his vest pocket. "And what of Sullivan’s brothers?"

?"Once Tim is gone, Paddy and the rest of them will start tearing each other apart for the remains," Ricky said, turning back toward his map of Manhattan. "And Cameron will be standing right in the middle of them, holding the knife."