If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my P-Tang12!!!
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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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"But they are just mercenaries," Caleb continued, his voice rising, thick with manufactured passion and absolute conviction. "They fight for a paycheck! We fight for our home! We fight for the men standing to our left and our right! When we hit that riverboat tonight, you don't just shoot to kill. You shoot to send a message that Saint Denis belongs to us! You make them bleed so terribly that every rich man in this country learns to fear the Italian family! Are you with me?!"
The psychological manipulation worked wonders compared to Bronte's. The courtyard absolutely erupted. The mobsters didn't just cheer, they roared. It was a deafening, bloodthirsty battle cry that shook the glass in the mansion's windows.
They hoisted their weapons high into the air, screaming Caleb's alias, completely captivated by the fiery, fearless Underboss who was promising them glory and vengeance.
Bronte, standing slightly behind Caleb, looked on with a mixture of immense satisfaction and a tiny, buried seed of awe at the sheer control Caleb exerted over the men.
After that was done, Caleb holstered his weapon and gave a sharp nod. "Mount up!"
The courtyard exploded into organized movement. Everyone got on their horses or climbed into the backs of the covered wagons. Caleb walked down the steps and got on Salazar.
The magnificent Black Arabian tossed its head, its pristine white mane flowing, but it held steady under Caleb's masterful grip.
Caleb adjusted his gear, ensuring his heavy Litchfield Repeater and Pump Action Shotgun were securely slung across his body in a cross draw configuration, making him look like an avatar of war.
Before then, he and Bronte exchanged some final words at the base of the steps.
"You have them eating out of the palm of your hand, mio amico," Bronte said quietly, looking up at Caleb on the massive horse. "Make sure Cornwall breathes his last breath looking at my face."
"I will wrap him in a bow for you, Boss," Caleb lied smoothly, tipping the brim of his hat. "Keep the wine breathing. We'll be back before sunrise."
Before then, Caleb turned Salazar toward the gates, raising his hand high. He led out the entire men to leave Bronte's mansion. The heavy iron gates swung open, and the convoy poured out into the gaslit streets of Saint Denis.
They rode hard and fast, a column of death cutting through the city. They bypassed the industrial sector and the wealthy manors, heading north toward the swamps of Bayou Nwa, their ultimate destination Annesburg, to commence the plan that Caleb had painstakingly made over the last two days.
The transition from the cobblestones of the city to the muddy, treacherous tracks of the swamp was jarring, but the men pushed their horses relentlessly. The thick, humid air of the Bayou clung to their skin, the Spanish moss brushing against their hats like ghostly fingers.
Where, during the ride through the dark, twisting paths, Caleb called the five capos who would lead the main assault force to ride up alongside him. He needed to set the hook for his grand betrayal.
"Listen closely," Caleb ordered, his voice barely rising above the rhythmic thud of horse hooves. "When we reach the southern bend of the Kamassa River, just outside the Annesburg limits, you will halt the wagons. You will split the fifty men into the three large smuggling skiffs we have hidden in the reeds. You are the hammer. You will row through the fog and hit the lower cargo holds of the Malcom simultaneously."
The capos nodded grimly, absorbing the tactical details.
"You hit them hard," Caleb instructed. "You breach the lower doors with dynamite. According to our spies, the guard shift changes at midnight. We strike at exactly 11:45 PM. Catch them tired, catch them confused. Your job is to push into the lower engine decks and the casino. You make so much noise and cause so much damage that every single Pinkerton on that boat rushes down to fight you."
"We will draw them all into the meat grinder, Underboss," the lead capo, a scarred veteran named Vincenzo, promised fiercely. "But what about you? Where will you be during the breach?"
Caleb looked at them, his expression hardening into a mask of grim, self sacrificing resolve. He leaned forward in his saddle.
"While you hold the line below," Caleb said, "I will bring Silvio with me to go through another place to kidnap Cornwall in his Riverboat."
Caleb gestured to the massive, hulking enforcer riding silently behind him. "Silvio and I will take a small two man rowboat. We will approach the rear of the ship. We are going to free climb the exterior housing of the paddlewheel to the third deck."
The capos exchanged wide eyed glances. Scaling a slick, moving paddlewheel in the dark over freezing water was incredibly dangerous.
Caleb was intentionally making it look like he is taking the biggest risk. "Cornwall's suite is on the top deck. It is guarded by his elite personal detail. While you keep his army busy, Silvio and I will breach the suite alone, neutralize the elites, and drag Cornwall out of his bed. If we are caught on that climb, we have no cover. We die."
He looked at Vincenzo, his eyes filled with a manufactured, brotherly intensity. "I am putting my life in your hands, Vincenzo. If you don't hold their attention on the lower decks, Silvio and I will be slaughtered up top."
The help of his maxed out Persuasion and Acting skills enforced it so much that the capos were deeply touched. The sheer bravery and willingness of their Underboss to take the most suicidal, unprotected route to ensure the family's victory moved the hardened criminals.
Vincenzo actually reached out, gripping Caleb's forearm tightly. "We will fight until the river runs red, Underboss. They will not take a single step toward the top deck. You have my word on my mother's life."
"I know I can count on you," Caleb said softly, withdrawing his arm. The trap was perfectly set. He had just secured the undying loyalty of the men he was actively sending to their deaths.
They rode in silence after that. After tens of minutes of a hard ride North, the humid air of the swamps began to give way to a sharper, colder chill. The smell of blooming orchids was replaced by the acrid, metallic stench of sulfur, coal dust, and burnt timber.
They finally reached Annesburg, or what was left of it.
Caleb held up a fist, bringing the massive convoy to a silent halt on a high, wooded ridge overlooking the river valley. The mobsters dismounted quietly, tying their horses to the pine trees and creeping forward to the edge of the cliff, keeping themselves hidden as they looked at what was going on currently there.
Down below, the mining town was a testament to Caleb's previous handiwork. The blackened skeletons of the coal sorting facilities and the charred remnants of Cornwall's warehouses stood like jagged teeth against the night sky. The town itself was deathly quiet, the miners having long fled the violence.
But anchored in the deep, churning waters of the Kamassa River, just a hundred yards off the main pier, was the Malcom.
It was a staggering sight. The three story luxury riverboat was ablaze with electric light, a floating palace of white wood, gleaming brass, and polished glass.
Despite the late hour, Caleb could see dozens of armed mercenaries and the remaining Pinkertons agents patrolling the outer wraparound decks, the barrels of their repeating rifles glinting in the harsh light.
A thick, grey river fog was beginning to roll in from the south, crawling across the surface of the water exactly as Caleb's meteorological calculations had predicted. It was nature providing the perfect shroud for a massacre.
Caleb pulled his silver pocket watch from his vest. The hands read 11:38 PM.
He turned to Vincenzo and the other capos. "It's time. Get to the skiffs. Wait for my signal."
The capos nodded, signaling their men. The fifty mobsters moved like shadows down the steep, muddy embankment toward the hidden rowboats, their shotguns held tight against their chests.
Caleb turned to Silvio. The giant enforcer simply cracked his knuckles, a coil of heavy hemp rope and an iron grappling hook already slung over his massive shoulder.
"Let's go, Silvio," Caleb whispered.
They descended a separate, narrower path, finding a small, two man wooden dinghy concealed in a patch of thick reeds. They pushed it silently into the freezing, dark water. Caleb took the oars, his high physical stats allowing him to row with powerful, completely silent strokes, gliding into the thick, concealing blanket of the fog.
He rowed until they were positioned perfectly in the dark water, roughly fifty yards behind the massive, churning paddlewheel of the Malcom.
Caleb checked his watch one last time. 11:44 PM. He pulled a small flare gun from his satchel, aiming it straight up into the fog.
Before Caleb ordered the start of the attack according to his plan, he took a slow, deep breath, centering his mind into absolute, emotionless clarity.
He pulled the trigger. A dull pop sounded, and a streak of red light shot into the sky, barely visible through the thick mist, but bright enough for the waiting capos to see.
Seconds later, all hell broke loose.
BOOM! BOOM!
Two massive, ground-shaking explosions ripped through the quiet night as the mobsters detonated their dynamite against the reinforced cargo doors on the lower port side of the riverboat. The sound of rending wood and shattering glass echoed violently off the canyon walls.
Instantly, the dark river was illuminated by the rapid, staccato flashes of fifty repeating shotguns. The war cries of the Italian mobsters drifted across the water, followed immediately by the panicked shouts of the Pinkerton guards.
Caleb's meat grinder had been activated. The guards on the upper decks, completely caught off guard by the sheer ferocity and size of the assault on the lower hull, abandoned their posts and rushed down the internal stairwells to defend the engine rooms.
"Row," Caleb commanded smoothly.
Silvio grabbed the second set of oars, and together they powered the small dinghy through the churning water, heading directly for the blind spot at the rear of the ship. The deafening roar of the firefight masked the sound of their approach entirely.
They bumped gently against the massive, slick wooden housing of the stationary paddlewheel. Above them, the third deck balcony of Cornwall's private suite was shrouded in shadows, the guards having rushed toward the front of the ship.
Silvio stood up in the rocking boat, spinning the grappling hook. He threw it upward with immense strength. The iron hook sailed through the fog and clamped securely over the brass railing of the third deck with a muffled clink. Silvio tested the weight, pulling hard on the rope. It held firm.
"I'm up," Caleb said, slinging his Pump Action Shotgun securely across his back and grabbing the rope.
With his high stamina and agility, Caleb scaled the rope with terrifying, arachnid like speed. He ignored the freezing spray of the river water, pulling himself hand over hand up the side of the paddlewheel housing. Within seconds, he reached the top, vaulting silently over the brass railing and landing on the plush, outdoor carpeting of the private balcony.
Silvio followed shortly after, the massive man hauling himself over the rail with a heavy grunt.
They stood in the shadows of the third deck. Through the ornate, floor to ceiling glass doors, Caleb could see the interior of Leviticus Cornwall's private office. It was a room of sickening opulence.
Rich mahogany walls, Persian rugs, and a massive desk littered with financial ledgers. In the corner sat the objective: a heavy steel Mosler safe.
Inside the room, two elite Pinkerton bodyguards in tailored suits were pacing nervously. They had their repeating rifles raised, staring intently at the heavy oak doors that led to the ship's internal hallway, listening to the muffled sounds of the slaughter happening two decks below.
They were completely focused on the internal threat, utterly oblivious to the predators standing on the balcony behind them.
Caleb didn't draw his loud Navy Revolvers. This required absolute silence to maintain their ghost-like infiltration. He reached down to his boot and drew a beautifully balanced, razor harp hunting knife.
He tapped Silvio on the shoulder, pointing to the guard on the left, then pointed to himself, indicating the guard on the right. Silvio nodded, drawing a long, wicked combat blade of his own.
Caleb slowly, meticulously turned the brass handle of the balcony doors. They were unlocked. He pushed the door open just a crack, letting the cold river fog spill into the warm, cigar scented office.
Moving with his max level Sneaking Skill, Caleb slipped through the gap like a phantom. His boots made absolutely no sound on the thick Persian rug. Silvio followed, a massive, silent shadow.
The two Pinkertons never stood a chance.
Caleb crossed the room in three long, silent strides. He came up behind the guard on the right. In one fluid, brutal motion, Caleb clamped his left hand over the man's mouth, jerking his head back, while his right hand drove the hunting knife deep into the side of the guard's neck, severing the carotid artery and the vocal cords instantly.
Simultaneously, Silvio wrapped a massive, tree-trunk arm around the throat of the second guard, trapping the man's rifle against his chest. With a sickening, muted crunch, Silvio violently twisted, snapping the elite guard's neck before he could even register the attack.
Caleb lowered his bleeding target gently to the floor, avoiding any loud thuds, while Silvio did the same.
The office was secured without a single gunshot being fired.
Caleb stood up, wiping the blood from his blade onto the dead Pinkerton's suit jacket. He looked toward the heavy, locked wooden door at the far end of the office, the door he knew led directly to Leviticus Cornwall's private sleeping quarters.
The sounds of the mobsters dying on the lower decks filtered up through the floorboards, a symphony of destruction serving its exact purpose. Caleb and Silvio had successfully infiltrated the impenetrable fortress. They stood at the threshold of the rich tycoon's sanctuary, ready to drag the king out of his castle.
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Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 8/10
- Agility: 8/10
- Perception: 9/10
- Stamina: 8/10
- Charm: 8/10
- Luck: 9/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl MAX)
- Rifle (Lvl MAX)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl MAX)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 2)
- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)
- Poker (Lvl MAX)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 2)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 4)
- Bow (Lvl 3)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 4)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 3)
- Crafting (Lvl MAX)
- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl MAX)
- Teaching (Lvl 3)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 50x50x50)
- Acting (Lvl MAX)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Business (Lvl 2)
- Leadership (Lvl 2)
Money: 3,322 dollars and 60 cents
Inventory: 275,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 70 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Braithwaites Land Deed, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, 1 Senator Pendleton Sealed Envelope, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, & 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern
Bank: -