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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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.
But the illusion of a completely silent infiltration shattered in the very next heartbeat.
As Caleb reached for the heavy brass knob of the interior door leading to the ship's main third deck corridor, the handle violently twisted from the other side.
The door swung open, revealing a heavily armed Pinkerton accompanied by three mercenaries. They had been rushing to secure the perimeter around their employer's suite, only to find the two bodies of their comrades bleeding out on the Persian rug, and two massive, armed intruders standing over them.
For a fraction of a second, absolute silence hung in the opulent room. Then, the Pinkerton captain raised his repeating shotgun and roared an alarm that echoed down the mahogany lined hallway.
"Intruders on the top deck! Protect Mr. Cornwall!"
Stealth was officially dead. The ghost operation had violently transitioned into a siege.
Caleb and Silvio began to go through the deck, where they were instantly forced to fight their way through the guards and mercenaries. They were forced to use their guns as they were found out. Caleb didn't hesitate.
He dropped his hunting knife and unslung the Pump Action Shotgun from his back in one fluid, lightning fast motion.
BOOM!
The deafening roar of the 12 gauge shell detonating in the confined space of the office was physically jarring. A spread of heavy buckshot caught the Pinkerton captain square in the chest, lifting him off his boots and throwing him backward into the corridor, his shotgun discharging harmlessly into the ceiling and shattering a crystal chandelier.
"Move!" Caleb shouted, racking the pump of the shotgun with a sharp, metallic clack that ejected the smoking red shell casing onto the carpet.
Silvio roared, drawing his heavy revolvers and stepping into the doorway alongside Caleb. They pushed out of the office and into the wide, luxurious internal hallway of the third deck.
The corridor was a chaotic death trap. They made their way through toward Cornwall's sleeping quarters while having brutal, close quarters shootouts with the guards and mercenaries who still survived and had grouped up near Cornwall's office to protect him.
The Pinkertons and mercenaries who hadn't rushed to the lower decks to fight Bronte's mobsters were forming a heavily armed barricade at the far end of the hall, overturning heavy oak tables and taking cover behind plush velvet sofas.
Bullets tore through the air like angry hornets. The beautiful, expensive mahogany paneling of the walls splintered into thousands of flying wooden shrapnel pieces. Antique vases shattered, and oil paintings were ripped to shreds by the relentless crossfire.
Caleb fired his Pump Action Shotgun until the magazine tube clicked empty, devastating the first line of advancing guards. He put the empty weapon aside and drew his Litchfield Repeater, levering a round into the chamber with fluid, mechanical grace.
"Keep pushing, Silvio! Don't let them pin us down!" Caleb yelled over the deafening cacophony of gunfire.
Silvio absorbed a grazing bullet to his massive bicep but didn't even flinch, returning fire with terrifying accuracy, his booming laughter echoing down the hallway as he embraced the slaughter.
But there were too many of them. At least fifteen elite Pinkertons and hardened mercenaries had formed a solid wall of lead at the end of the corridor, guarding the final, reinforced double doors that led to Cornwall's inner sanctum.
They were laying down a suppressing fire so thick that Caleb and Silvio were forced to press themselves flat against the splintering walls.
Caleb closed his eyes for a microsecond, feeling the adrenaline surging through his veins. The system interface in his mind flared to life.
It was time to end this.
Caleb stepped out from cover into the center of the hallway and utilized his Level 4 Dead Eye Skill.
Instantly, the world washed into a deep, heavy sepia tone. The chaotic roar of the gunfire warped into a low, distorted bass hum. The flying wood splinters and the ejecting brass casings hung suspended in the air, moving at an agonizingly slow crawl.
But this time, something felt different. The energy pooling in Caleb's mind expanded, breaking past its previous limits, fueled by the intense, relentless combat he had endured over the past few weeks.
A sharp, crystalline chime echoed in his consciousness.
[System Notification: Dead Eye Skill Leveled Up to MAX.]
The shift was profound and terrifying. The sepia tone deepened, gaining a razor sharp clarity. At MAX level, Caleb didn't just see his targets, he saw their absolute vulnerabilities.
Glowing, pulsing red marks automatically painted themselves over the vital organs and fatal strike points of every single mercenary crouched behind the barricades. The system calculated bullet drop, material penetration, and target movement in a fraction of a millisecond.
He was no longer just a gunslinger; he was a god of death presiding over a frozen battlefield.
Caleb raised the Litchfield Repeater. His hands moved with impossible, mechanical speed, levering and firing the weapon faster than the human eye could track. He painted fifteen targets.
He deactivated Dead Eye.
Time snapped back with the force of a hurricane.
The Litchfield roared in a continuous, unbroken string of fire.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG!
In the end, they managed to kill everyone, of course. The results of the MAX level Dead Eye were apocalyptic.
Caleb's bullets punched through the overturned oak tables as if they were made of paper, finding their marks with surgical, impossible precision. Pinkertons dropped instantly, their weapons clattering to the floor. Mercenaries behind the sofas slumped forward, neutralized before they could even blink.
Within the span of three seconds, the wall of suppressive fire completely ceased. The corridor was utterly silent, save for the groans of the dying mobsters filtering up from the lower decks and the heavy, ragged breathing of Silvio.
Silvio lowered his smoking revolvers, staring down the hallway at the pile of fifteen dead elite guards, and then looked at Caleb with an expression of sheer, unadulterated terror and religious awe.
"Mother of God," Silvio whispered, crossing himself with a trembling hand. "You... you are a demon, Underboss."
"I am whatever I need to be, Silvio," Caleb replied coldly, putting in new bullets into his Litchfield. "Breach the doors."
They stepped over the bodies, their boots leaving bloody footprints on the ruined carpet. They reached the heavy, reinforced oak double doors at the end of the hall. Silvio didn't bother with the handle.
He stepped back and delivered a massive, bone shattering kick directly to the center seam. The wood splintered, the heavy iron hinges tore free from the frame, and the doors crashed inward.
They then entered into the office, where Cornwall was.
The inner sanctum was massive, featuring a sprawling bed, a roaring fireplace, and a massive mahogany desk. Standing behind the desk was Leviticus Cornwall.
The billionaire tycoon was dressed in expensive silk sleeping trousers and a velvet dressing gown. His face was pale, his eyes wide with absolute, undisguised terror as the reality of his impenetrable fortress falling apart finally sank in.
But he wasn't going down without a fight. Cornwall held a gun to protect himself, a beautiful, custom engraved, gold plated Volcanic pistol, pointing it at the two of them with trembling, manic hands.
"Stay back!" Cornwall screamed, his voice cracking with panic. "I am Leviticus Cornwall! I can buy this entire city! I'll pay you whatever he's paying you, triple! Just put the guns down!"
Caleb didn't even slow his stride. He walked directly toward the trembling billionaire.
"I don't want your money, Cornwall," Caleb lied smoothly, his eyes cold and dead. "I want your soul."
Cornwall panicked and pulled the trigger. The gold plated pistol fired, but Caleb had already anticipated the trajectory. He sidestepped the bullet with ease, closing the final distance in a blur. Caleb swung the heavy brass butt of his Litchfield Repeater, striking Cornwall's wrist with a sickening crack.
Cornwall shrieked in agony, dropping the golden gun to the floor.
Before the tycoon could scramble away, Silvio lunged forward. The massive enforcer grabbed Cornwall by the velvet lapels of his dressing gown, lifting the billionaire completely off his feet and slamming him brutally against the mahogany wall. They managed to neutralize him in seconds.
"Keep him quiet," Caleb ordered, picking up the discarded golden pistol and tossing it onto the bed.
Caleb had Silvio guard Cornwall, pinning the struggling tycoon against the wall, before then Caleb went to search around the sleeping quarters and also Cornwall's office, which the room was adjacent to the right of Cornwall's sleeping quarters.
Caleb pushed through the adjoining door. The private office was a masterclass in extreme wealth. It smelled of aged scotch, expensive Cuban cigars, and old paper. The walls were lined with leather bound books, but Caleb's high perception stats immediately zeroed in on a large landscape painting hanging slightly crooked on the far wall.
He pulled the painting aside, revealing exactly what he was looking for, a massive, state of the art Mosler combination safe embedded directly into the steel bulkhead of the ship.
Caleb knelt before the safe. He didn't have the combination, and blowing it with dynamite would risk destroying the fragile paper documents inside. He pressed his ear against the cold steel, his fingers resting lightly on the brass dial. He activated his max level Lockpicking Skill.
To his heightened senses, the intricate internal tumblers of the Mosler safe sounded as loud as church bells. He slowly turned the dial, listening for the microscopic clicks of the locking pins falling into place.
Click. Turn. Click. Turn. Click.
In less than sixty seconds, the heavy locking mechanism disengaged with a satisfying, heavy thud. Caleb pulled the thick steel door open.
He was met with the motherlode. He began to search for documents he could take. He put the velvet trays of loose diamonds and gold bars, into his inventory, where he got three diamonds and also 4 gold bars, before then he went for the paper trails.
He found neat, tightly banded stacks of crisp, large denomination bills. Secretly stashed moneys intended for bribes, emergency payouts, and off the books mercenary contracts. Caleb rapidly transferred the stacks, putting all of it into his system inventory with a mere thought, the physical cash vanishing into his dimensional space. From the moneys, he got 5,000 dollars in total. A massive, untraceable influx of liquid capital.
But the true prize was the leather accordion folder sitting at the back of the safe.
Caleb pulled it out and rapidly flipped through the heavy, wax sealed parchments. They were the very foundation of Cornwall's empire. Important documents, land deeds, proof of ownership that could be transferred or leveraged.
He found exactly what he had promised Bronte he would look for, the deed of ownership of the New Hanover Oil Rigs. It was fully transferable, bearer style paperwork that, in the right legal hands, granted absolute control over the Kerosene & Tar operation in the Heartlands.
But there was so much more. There were also several land deeds across New Hanover, Lemoyne, New Austin, and West Elizabeth. Some small, some big. Caleb analyzed them quickly. They were highly strategic plots of land.
Cornwall probably bought them to see the values in the future, or to expand his railways in the future, controlling vital choke points in the canyons of New Austin and prime logging real estate in West Elizabeth. Or perhaps to build something on the land, factories, refineries, company towns. Caleb didn't know exactly what the original intent was, but he will take it. Every single deed vanished into his inventory.
And last, he found a bundle of smaller papers. They were a couple of deeds of ownership of small businesses scattered in Blackwater and Saint Denis. Taverns, tailors, general stores.
They were seemingly insignificant compared to the oil fields, but Caleb understood their true purpose immediately. They were more of a listening post for him to gain information, from the looks of it, since the profits shouldn't be much. Cornwall was using these small businesses to spy on local politicians, rival businessmen, and mobsters.
Caleb took those as well. The intelligence network they provided would be invaluable for his own empire. The safe was empty of its most crucial assets. Caleb had just effectively stolen a massive fraction of Leviticus Cornwall's liquid assets and also net worth without leaving a single trace of how it was transported out of the room.
Meanwhile, through the adjoining door, he could hear the captive billionaire struggling against Silvio's iron grip. Cornwall was letting out some words of threats, his arrogant pride trying to mask his overwhelming terror.
"You filthy, mud blooded animals!" Cornwall spat, his face red and sweating. "I know who sent you! Bronte! Tell that greasy Italian bastard that I will rain fire upon his entire filthy family! I will hire the United States Army to wipe Saint Denis off the map!"
But when the threats failed to move the giant enforcer, the tycoon's bravado shattered. The threats rapidly devolved, and he began begging to let him go free.
"Please! Please, just name your price!" Cornwall wept, his voice cracking pitifully. "I have gold! I have accounts in New York! Just let me live!"
But Silvio ignores him entirely, his face a mask of brutal, unyielding stone, waiting for his Underboss.
When Caleb returned to the sleeping quarters, he looked at the weeping billionaire with an expression of cold, clinical disgust. The great Leviticus Cornwall, the man who shaped the modern world with iron and oil, reduced to a blubbering mess in his silk pajamas.
"Time to go, Mr. Cornwall," Caleb said softly. "The Don is waiting."
They together brought Cornwall out. Silvio hauled the struggling tycoon off his feet, dragging him roughly out of the suite and back onto the third deck balcony, where the freezing river fog was thick and suffocating.
Below them, the battle still raged in the lower decks. The deafening roar of shotgun blasts and the screams of dying mobsters and Pinkertons echoed across the Kamassa River. The distraction had held perfectly.
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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: 280,992 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 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, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall
Bank: -