Chapter 198: Guns and Foxgloves

The heavy oak door of the estate’s guardroom swung open, letting in a swirl of damp autumn wind and the smell of wet gravel.

?Callahan, one of the senior shift guards, stepped inside carrying a small wooden crate containing a potted plant with tall, bell-shaped purple flowers. He set it down on the mess table with a heavy thud, wiping rain from his mustache with his sleeve.

?A couple of off-duty guards sitting near the potbellied stove looked up from their card game. Callahan grinned, pointing a thick thumb at the pot.

?"Look at this, boys," Callahan laughed. "Deliverer from the train depot brought it straight to the main gate. Addressed to John Morston."

?Another guard leaned back in his chair, snorting with amusement. "Flowers? Hell, I didn’t think the country boy even knew how to smile, let alone keep a girl."

?Cameron stood near the window, quietly cleaning the mechanism of his service revolver with an oiled rag. He didn’t smile, nor did he offer a snappy reply. He simply set his oil cloth down, walked over to the table, and looked at the potted purple foxgloves.

?"She must be missing you real bad, Morston," Callahan teased, slapping Cameron on the shoulder. "Didn’t leave a name on the box, though."

?Cameron picked up the small pot and walked back toward his quarter-room without a word. Behind him, the guards broke into low laughter, returning to their card game.

?Inside his small, sparse bedroom, Cameron closed the door and turned the iron latch. He set the pot on his wooden desk. Brushing aside the damp black soil near the base of the stems, his fingers caught the edge of a tiny, folded piece of oiled paper.

?He unfolded it. Inside was a single word written in neat, precise ink:

?Tonight.

?Cameron held the paper over the glass chimney of his desk oil lamp until the corner caught fire, watching it burn down to black ash before dropping it into the stove’s iron grate. He wiped his hands on his trousers, his face remaining entirely unreadable.

?The assignment had arrived.

?By one o’clock in the evening, the mansion had fallen silent. The rain had picked up, drumming a heavy, monotonous rhythm against the slate roof and high glass windows.

?Cameron moved through the dark second-floor hallway, his boots making no sound against the thick wool carpet. He stopped outside Big Tim Sullivan’s bedchamber, pushing the heavy oak door open just an inch.

?Inside, the room smelled of camphor, stale wool, and sickbed sweat. By the dim light of the dying fireplace, Cameron could see Sullivan sleeping beneath a heap of heavy quilts. The once-mighty Tammany boss looked small, his chest rising and falling with a shallow, rattling gasp.

?For a brief second, Cameron stood in the doorway, observing the old man. Tim Sullivan had been a ruthless, corrupt political tyrant who bought votes and ordered street beatings without a second thought. Yet, in his final, disease-ridden months, he had genuinely trusted Cameron. He had looked at a quiet stranger and seen the only person in his empire who didn’t want to carve off a piece of his flesh.

?Cameron felt no anger toward him, nor any satisfaction. It was simply the work.

?He closed the door softly and walked down the back service stairs toward the kitchen.

?In the dim scullery, Mathilda, Tim’s personal maid, was standing over the iron stove, pouring steaming water into a porcelain teapot filled with chamomile and willow bark.

?"I’ll take it up to him, Mathilda," Cameron said softly from the doorway.

?Mathilda startled slightly, turning around with a tired smile. She was exhausted, her eyes rimmed with red. "Oh. Thank you, John. He’s been tossing and turning all evening."

?"Go get some sleep," Cameron said, stepping into the room.

?The maid set the teapot on a silver tray alongside a small china cup and a dish of honey, gave him a grateful nod, and slipped out toward the servants’ quarters.

?Once the scullery door clicked shut, Cameron reached into the secret lining of his left boot. He pulled out a tiny glass vial filled with a concentrated, odorless liquid extracted from foxglove leaves. He uncorked it, poured the contents into the teapot, and stirred it gently with a silver spoon until the liquid cleared completely.

?He set the spoon down, walked over to the stone sink, and washed his hands thoroughly with harsh lye soap, scrubbing beneath his fingernails before drying them on a clean linen towel.

?He picked up the silver tray and headed back upstairs.

?The corridor outside Sullivan’s bedroom was pitch black. Cameron pushed the door open with his elbow, stepping into the dim, firelit room. He carried the tray over to the nightstand, setting it down with a faint metallic clink.

?He turned toward the bed, reaching out to shake Sullivan’s shoulder—

?Click.

?The sharp, unmistakable sound of a hammer being pulled back on a heavy revolver echoed from the dark corner near the wardrobe.

?Cameron froze.

?"Don’t move a muscle, country boy," a voice whispered from the shadows.

?Paddy Sullivan stepped into the amber firelight, holding a blued .38 revolver pointed directly at Cameron’s chest. Behind him stood Doyle, a heavy-set enforcer with a thick jaw and a pair of brass knuckles glinting on his right hand.

?Paddy raised a single finger to his lips, smirking. "Silence."

?Cameron slowly raised his hands to chest height, his mind calculating distances, angles, and cover in a fraction of a second. Something had gone wrong, but Paddy’s posture wasn’t that of an assassin who had caught an intruder—it was the posture of a man enjoying a triumph he thought he had engineered.

?"Paddy," Cameron said, keeping his voice low and calm. "What is this?"

?"Shut up," Paddy hissed, his eyes wide and bloodshot with nervous adrenaline. He gestured with his chin toward Doyle. "Do it."

?Doyle stepped past Cameron, approaching the bed. He picked up a heavy down pillow from the armchair, stepped over to the sleeping politician, and slammed the pillow down over Big Tim Sullivan’s face, leaning his full weight onto the mattress.

?Sullivan instantly woke up, his limbs thrashing wildly beneath the covers. His heels kicked against the footboard, his hands clawing uselessly at Doyle’s thick forearms. In the struggle, the pillow slipped for a brief second. Tim’s bloodshot, terrified eyes locked onto Cameron standing at the foot of the bed.

?There was no anger in Tim’s dying gaze—only a terrible, heartbroken confusion. He believed his trusted bodyguard was standing by, watching him be murdered.

?A moment later, Tim’s movements slowed, his thrashing faded into weak tremors, and his body went entirely limp. Doyle held the pillow down for another thirty seconds before lifting it, breathing heavily.

?Cameron watched the corpse, his face an immovable mask. The original plan—a quiet, untraceable death by heart failure—was completely ruined.

?Paddy let out a long, shaky breath, a dark, bitter smile spreading across his face as he stepped closer to Cameron, keeping the revolver trained on his ribs.

?"Look at you," Paddy whispered, his voice trembling with years of suppressed rage. "Not even a twitch. I spent fifteen years running Tim’s errands, swallowing his insults, building his ward networks, and keeping his secrets. I earned this empire. And then he hands the keys to a quiet nobody who walked out of the woods four months ago."

?Paddy leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. "You expect me to believe you’re just some country boy, Morston?"

?"I’m a bodyguard, Paddy," Cameron said quietly.

?"Bullshit," Paddy spat softly. "You don’t talk. You don’t drink. You broke men’s bones without breaking a sweat. You don’t care about money, you don’t care about women, and you look at my brother like he’s a math problem. Country boys don’t move like you."

?Paddy took a step back, tapping the side of his revolver against his leg. "Charles Murphy sent a letter two weeks ago. He’s paranoid out of his mind down in Midtown. He thinks someone is hunting Tammany. He thinks Frank Knox’s death wasn’t an accident, and De George didn’t just run away. People don’t just vanish, Morston. And strangers don’t just appear out of nowhere to take over Tim’s business."

?Paddy’s eyes gleamed with smug satisfaction. "Maybe Charles is grieving. Maybe he’s crazy. But I don’t think he is. So tell me who you work for."

?"I have no idea what you’re talking about," Cameron replied, his tone entirely flat.

?Paddy laughed softly under his breath. "Keep lying. It doesn’t matter. You’re worth more alive anyway." He stepped over toward the nightstand, his throat dry from tension and excitement. "If you were just some greedy gunman, I’d shoot you now. But if you belong to this organization Charles is so scared of... keeping you locked in a basement is going to bring your friends right to my door."

?Absentmindedly, Paddy reached down to the tray, picked up the porcelain cup of tea Cameron had prepared for Tim, and took a long, deep gulp to wet his dry throat. He swallowed half the cup before setting it back down on the silver saucer.

?Cameron’s eyes rested on the cup for less than a second, his face completely devoid of expression. He said nothing. He didn’t smile. He just watched.

?Paddy wiped his mouth with his sleeve, turning back to Doyle. "Bind his hands behind his back. We’re taking him down to the ice house before the night shift rotates."

?Doyle pulled a length of thick hemp cord from his coat pocket and stepped toward Cameron. "Hands behind your back, country boy."

?Doyle reached out to grab Cameron’s shoulder.

?In an instant, Cameron moved.

?He caught Doyle’s wrist, twisting it violently outward with a sickening CRACK that shattered the joint. In the same motion, Cameron stepped inside Doyle’s guard, pulling the heavy enforcer directly between himself and Paddy.

?Paddy panicked, pulling the trigger—BANG!

?The muzzle flash lit up the bedroom. The heavy bullet slammed into Doyle’s side. Doyle shrieked, collapsing forward. Cameron grabbed Doyle’s collar, driving a palm strike straight up into Doyle’s chin, stripping Paddy’s revolver from his hand with a sharp wrist-lock before hurling Doyle’s weight directly into Paddy.

?Paddy crashed backward against the bedside table, sending the silver tray, the teapot, and the china crashing to the floor in a shower of shattered porcelain and hot liquid.

?BANG! BANG!

?Cameron fired two rapid shots into the doorframe above Paddy’s head, driving him to the floor, before turning and sprinting down the hallway.

?Shouts erupted from the lower floor. Bootsteps pounded up the grand staircase as the estate guards, awakened by the gunfire, came running.

?"IN HERE! HE’S IN HERE!" Paddy screamed from the bedroom, his voice hoarse and frantic. "MORSTON! HE KILLED TIM! GET MORSTON!"

?Cameron reached the end of the second-floor corridor. The stairs were blocked by three guards coming up with drawn lanterns and revolvers. Without slowing down, Cameron kicked open the heavy oak door to the corner study, sprinted across the room, and threw his entire shoulder into the tall, stained-glass window overlooking the side terrace.

?The glass shattered into a thousand glittering shards.

?Cameron plummeted twelve feet through the cold rain, hitting the wet slate of the terrace floor hard. He rolled instantly to absorb the impact, gasping as his shoulder slammed against a stone planter, but scrambled to his feet without pausing.

?Above him, Paddy leaned out the broken window, firing wildly into the dark garden below. "SHOOT HIM! DON’T LET HIM LEAVE THE GROUNDS!"

?Lantern lights began flickering across the sweeping estate lawn. Guards were shouting, whistles blowing in the dark rain.

?Cameron sprinted across the lawn, dodging through the shadows of the pine trees. A guard materialized from around the greenhouse, raising a lantern. Cameron didn’t stop—he fired one shot into the dirt at the guard’s feet, sending the man diving for cover, and threw himself over the six-foot stone perimeter wall, crashing down into the thick brush of the surrounding woods.

?Behind him, the mansion was in utter chaos. Lanterns crisscrossed the estate grounds, and Paddy’s frantic screams echoed through the night, but Cameron was already vanished into the dark, wet forest.

?Two hours later, five miles south of the estate, the rain began to taper off into a fine, freezing mist.

?Deep inside a dense stand of white pine, Cameron leaned his back against the rough bark of a massive oak tree, breathing slowly through his nose to quiet his racing heart. His wool coat was torn at the shoulder, soaked through with rain and mud, and covered in tiny cuts from the shattered window glass.

?In the distance, down along the main Albany turnpike, yellow lantern lights flickered through the trees. Search parties were shouting back and forth, their voices faint in the damp air.

?"Check the ditches!" a voice called out. "He couldn’t have gone far on foot!"

?Cameron looked down at his hands. He was compromised. John Morston was dead—replaced by a wanted killer whose face would be printed in every newspaper across the state by tomorrow morning.

?He didn’t know if Paddy would survive the foxglove poison he had swallowed, nor did he know how many hours it would take for the potion to stop Paddy’s heart. He only knew that the clean, quiet execution Ricky had ordered had turned into a bloody, chaotic mess.

?Cameron reached up, grabbed a low-hanging branch, and pulled himself silently up into the thick canopy of the oak tree. He climbed twenty feet above the forest floor, wedging himself securely into a V-shaped branch where the dense pine needles blocked him from the ground below.

?Below, the lantern lights drifted past along the road, completely oblivious to his presence.

?Cameron pulled his wet coat tight around his chest, leaned his head back against the trunk, and closed his eyes.

?The mission had gone sideways. He was burned, stranded, and wanted for murder. But he was alive. And for tonight, that was enough.