Chapter 199: Deployments

The damp chill of late autumn hung heavy over MacDougal Alley. Outside the second-floor office, the morning was filled with the usual waking sounds of Greenwich Village—dray horses clattering over wet cobblestones, milk delivery wagons rattling past, and coal shovels scraping against iron sidewalk grates.

?From two blocks away, near Washington Square, the sharp, frantic cries of newsboys echoed through the fog.

?"Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Big Tim Sullivan found dead in Albany! Tammany boss murdered!"

?John Caldwell pushed the office door open, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of black coffee and a fresh stack of morning papers. He set the mugs down on the oak desk and dropped three separate newspapers onto the green blotter—the New York Tribune, the World, and the Sun.

?The front-page headlines were printed in massive, black-letter type that took up half the page:

?TIMOTHY SULLIVAN DEAD — BROTHER ALSO FOUND DEAD AT ALBANY ESTATE

?Ricky pulled the top paper closer, his dark eyes scanning the columns.

?The initial reports were chaotic and filled with dramatic speculation. Timothy Sullivan had been suffocated in his bed late last night. His younger brother, Patrick "Paddy" Sullivan, had been found dead nearby shortly after dawn, with authorities listing the preliminary cause as a sudden, violent heart failure brought on by shock.

?The principal suspect was John Morston—Sullivan’s recently hired personal bodyguard.

?The newspapers carried a detailed physical description of Morston, along with an announcement from the Governor’s office offering a ten-thousand-dollar reward for his capture, dead or alive. Police across three states were treating Morston as a armed, high-value fugitive. Editorials were already speculating that Sullivan’s recent political troubles—specifically the bitter public backlash against the controversial Sullivan Act—had pushed a disgruntled employee or political rival to violence.

?Ricky leaned back in his leather chair, setting the paper flat on the blotter. His face was entirely devoid of emotion, but his mind was moving quickly.

?"Something happened that wasn’t in the plan," Ricky said quietly.

?"How do you mean?" John Caldwell asked, pulling up a wooden chair and sitting down across from the desk. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

?"If Cameron had simply poisoned Tim as instructed, Tim’s heart would have failed silently in his sleep," Ricky said, gesturing toward the newsprint. "There would be no bruises on Tim’s neck, no suffocations, no sudden heart attacks for Paddy, and certainly no ten-thousand-dollar reward for a runaway bodyguard. Paddy wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near that bedroom."

?"Cameron reported in two hours ago," Caldwell said, reaching into his vest pocket and pulling out a small slip of paper covered in tiny, neat shorthand. "Message came straight through Gary’s network from the Albany relay."

?"What happened up there?" Ricky asked.

?Caldwell cleared his throat, reading from the slip. "Cameron received the floral signal yesterday afternoon and prepared the foxglove extract. He took the tea up to Sullivan’s bedchamber late last night. Before he could wake Sullivan or administer the draft, Paddy barged into the room with an enforcer."

?Ricky leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Go on."

?"Paddy came in with a gun," Caldwell explained. "He had the enforcer suffocate Tim with a pillow right in front of Cameron. Paddy had been keeping tabs on Sullivan’s paperwork and realized Tim was planning to pass his field network directly to Morston instead of his own family."

?Caldwell paused, looking up from the paper. "Paddy confronted Cameron. He didn’t think Cameron was just a country boy. He suspected Morston was an infiltrator linked to Frank Knox’s death and De George’s disappearance. While Paddy was interrogating him, Paddy picked up the teacup from the tray and drank half of it."

?Ricky raised an eyebrow. "He drank the poisoned tea?"

?"He did," Caldwell nodded. "While Paddy was gloating about locking Cameron in an ice house to draw out whoever sent him, Cameron disarmed the enforcer, forced his way out, and jumped out a second-story window. Paddy raised the alarm, but the foxglove was already in his system. By the time the estate guards reached the road, Paddy collapsed."

?Silence settled over the office for a long moment, punctuated only by the distant hum of morning traffic on Eighth Street.

?"Paddy killed his own brother?" Ricky asked softly.

?"Apparently," Caldwell replied.

?"Over succession?"

?"Over succession," Caldwell confirmed. "Tim had told Paddy to his face that Morston was taking over the network. Paddy wasn’t about to let an outsider walk away with fifteen years of Tammany influence."

?Ricky shook his head slowly, taking a sip of his coffee. He had known Big Tim Sullivan was slipping into neurosyphilitic dementia, but he hadn’t fully appreciated how dangerous that breakdown had become. In his final, paranoid months, Sullivan had become so fixated on Cameron’s quiet obedience that he had practically signed his own death warrant by trying to make his bodyguard his sole heir.

?"Tim’s mind was completely gone," Ricky remarked, gazing out the window at the brick alley. "He thought he was creating a ruthless legacy. Instead, he handed Cameron a wedge and drove his own family into a bloodbath."

?He set his mug down, his tone turning crisp and practical. "Where is Cameron now?"

?"Hiding in the woods five miles south of Albany," Caldwell said. "He’s cut off from his primary extraction route because of the state police roadblocks."

?"Tell him to disappear," Ricky ordered immediately. "He drops the John Morston identity today. He burns the clothes, buries his papers, and travels on foot toward Westchester. He goes straight to Pound Ridge and stays inside the wire. No unnecessary contact, no trips into Manhattan, and absolutely no using the Morston name ever again. John Morston is dead."

?Caldwell nodded, writing down the instructions. He didn’t need to ask how the message would reach the forest outside Albany.

?Over the past eight months, Gary’s communications department had quietly matured into a highly efficient, compartmentalized network. Using a combination of private couriers, trusted railway porters, safehouses in White Plains, and encrypted telegraph codes routed through sympathetic hotel clerks, a message could travel from MacDougal Alley to Pound Ridge or Albany in a matter of hours. Caldwell was the one of the few person who personally know the name of the runner who would carry the slip north from Manhattan, nor did he need to. The system operated on absolute isolation—each link in the chain only knew the person immediately before and after them.

?Caldwell finished his notes and looked back up. "What about the rest of the Sullivan machine? Tim and Paddy are both gone, but the Tammany district leaders in the Second and Third Wards aren’t just going to pack up and go home."

?Ricky picked up a second folder from his desk, opening a handwritten dossier compiled by De George’s informants.

?"They won’t have to," Ricky said, pointing to a photograph pinned to the inside cover. "Lawrence ’Larry’ Mulligan. Tim’s half-brother. He’s a prominent tammany district leader, he owns three major saloons in the Bowery, and he’s deeply connected to the waterfront ward heelers. With Tim and Paddy in the dirt, Larry is the last Sullivan standing who has the stature to hold their underworld structure together."

?"Do we eliminate him too?" Caldwell asked casually.

?"No," Ricky said flatly, looking Caldwell dead in the eye. "I don’t want him touched. Not a hair on his head. Not yet anyway."

?Caldwell blinked, slightly surprised. "Why not?"

?"Because eliminating leaders without knowing the terrain just creates chaotic street brawls, like the one burning through Brooklyn right now," Ricky explained. "Before we make a move on Mulligan, I want a complete operational map of his life. I want to know where he sleeps, who his household staff are, what route his carriage takes to City Hall, which saloon backrooms he uses for payouts, which precinct captains answer to him, and who provides his private security."

?"That’s a massive surveillance job," Caldwell noted. "Tailing a district boss in his own ward is dangerous. His men know every spotter on the Bowery."

?A faint, knowing smile touched the corners of Ricky’s mouth. "That’s why we aren’t sending men."

?Caldwell paused, his pen hovering over his notepad as the realization struck him. "You want to use the women from Pound Ridge?"

?"They’ve spent seven months in training, John," Ricky said, leaning back in his chair. "Evelyn’s final evaluation reports is sufficient enough to know they’re perfect. They’ve completed their coursework in bookkeeping, observation, tradecraft, and physical defense. A male spotter standing on a Bowery corner standing around doing nothing sticks out like a sore thumb to Mulligan’s thugs. But a seamstress carrying a dress box into a boarding house, a housemaid scrubbing steps across the street, or a clerk working in an office across from his saloon? They blend into the wallpaper."

?Caldwell scratched his chin, a slight look of hesitation on his weathered face. "Some of those women came out of De George’s old houses in the Bronx, Ricky. Putting them back into the city..."

?"They aren’t helpless women anymore, John," Ricky corrected smoothly, his voice firm but calm. "They know how men like Mulligan behave when they think nobody is paying attention, and they know how to spot a lie before a man finishes speaking it. That’s invaluable intelligence. Beyond that, they’re trained now. They know how to gather data, how to use cover identities, and how to protect themselves if a situation turns sour. We aren’t throwing them into street fights. We’re using them for what they do best: gathering intelligence without drawing blood."

?Caldwell let out a slow breath, nodding in concession. "Fair enough. When do they arrive?"

?"A two-woman team is coming down from Westchester tomorrow morning," Ricky said. "They’ll be setting up an administrative relay in a rented apartment near Washington Square."

?Caldwell rubbed the back of his neck, a dry chuckling sound escaping his throat. "Should I warn the men here at the hideout?"

?Ricky looked up, amused. "Why?"

?"Because if two trained female operatives end up staying in the Alley, I’d rather everyone know what the rules are beforehand," Caldwell said with a smirk.

?"As long as everybody involved is willing and professional, nobody has anything to worry about," Ricky replied.

?"That’s not the part I’m worried about," Caldwell said.

?Ricky raised an eyebrow. "Then what?"

?"Evelyn," Caldwell said flatly.

?Ricky broke into a genuine, quiet laugh. Evelyn Vance’s cold, razor-sharp discipline had become legendary among the recruits at Pound Ridge over the past half-year. She had run the intelligence curriculum with the precision of a drill sergeant and the icy demeanor of a high-court judge.

?"Yeah," Ricky conceded, grinning. "That part might actually be worth warning them about."

?"Is she staying in Westchester?" Caldwell asked.

?"No," Ricky said, setting his mug down. "Evelyn’s coming here to MacDougal Alley tomorrow. She’s taking personal command of the female intelligence field unit."

?Caldwell looked genuinely caught off guard. "I thought she was your secretary in White Plains."

?"She is," Ricky said.

?"Then why is she leading trained field operatives here?"

?"Because she’s good at it," Ricky stated simply. "She designed the curriculum with me, she knows every operative’s strengths and weaknesses, and she doesn’t make emotional mistakes."

?Caldwell sat back, pulling at his collar as he digested the news. "So... if she’s running the intelligence team out of the Alley, and I’m running the field security..." He paused, frowning slightly. "Am I working for her now?"

?Ricky froze for a fraction of a second, looking at Caldwell. "Ah..."

?Caldwell squinted at him. "You didn’t think of that, did you?"

?Ricky shifted slightly in his chair, coughing into his fist. "...Not exactly."

?Caldwell shook his head with a dry laugh. "I knew it. A twenty-year-old mastermind running a multi-county syndicate, and you forgot to draw the chain of command for your own office."

?"It’s not a conflict, John," Ricky said quickly, recovering his composure with a sharp smile. "You handle the combat teams, physical security, and heavy logistics. Evelyn handles intelligence gathering, analysis, and infiltration. You operate side-by-side."

?"And what if we disagree on an operation?" Caldwell pressed, a amused glint in his eye.

?"Then don’t just agree with her," Ricky instructed, his tone turning grounded and earnest. "If you think an intelligence plan puts our field men at unnecessary risk, say it. If you have a better tactical approach, speak up. If you think one of her new agents isn’t ready for a high-risk assignment, tell her directly. Evelyn values competence above everything else. If she sees that your judgment is solid, she’ll give you all the room you need."

?Caldwell stood up from his chair, picking up the empty coffee mugs. "Fair enough. I’ll make sure the rooms upstairs are cleaned out before she gets here tomorrow."

?"And get that message to Gary," Ricky added, turning back toward his papers. "I want Cameron off those roads and inside Pound Ridge before the state police set up any more search grids."

?"Consider it done," Caldwell said, turning toward the door.

?As Caldwell left the office, closing the heavy oak door behind him, Ricky leaned back in his chair and stared at the map of New York pinned to his wall.

?The landscape had shifted violently in twenty-four hours. Big Tim Sullivan and Paddy were dead. The Tammany machine in Lower Manhattan was reeling, utterly blind to who had struck them. Meanwhile, deep in Midtown, Charles Murphy was sitting in his office, growing more paranoid by the hour as he searched for a phantom organization he couldn’t see.

?Ricky reached out, picking up his fountain pen. The Sullivan era was over. The era of the Founders Syndicate had begun.