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...
Inside, a single sheet in coded shorthand. But Caleb's eyes, sharpened by his high stats in perception, picked out decipherable fragments. "G.S.W. upper thorax, superficial," "lodged fragment removed," "patient 'M,' requires continued monitoring, daily visits."
Scraps and bullet fragment wound. Patient 'M.' Daily visits.
He didn't need the address. If the doctor was making daily visits to a patient too injured to move, he would have to go to him. Tonight's visit had likely been canceled due to the chaos at the mill. He would go tomorrow.
Caleb replaced the file exactly as he found it. He was about to leave when the study door creaked open. The doctor, a bespectacled man in a dressing gown, stood frozen, a poker from the fireplace in his hand.
"Who are you? What are you—?"
Caleb was on him in two silent strides. He didn't draw a weapon. His hand shot out, a precise, brutal chop to the side of the man's neck, targeting the vagus nerve.
The doctor's eyes rolled back, and he crumpled without a sound. Caleb caught him, lowered him gently to the floor. He wouldn't be dead, but he'd be unconscious for hours, with no memory of the attack.
He exited the way he came, vanishing back into the alley as the glow from the mill district continued to stain the sky. He had his confirmation.
Milton was wounded, stationary, and receiving medical care. The Granville place was almost certainly the location. And the doctor's schedule was the key.
Back in his room at the Bastille, the sounds of the distant fire replaced by the normal hum of the city, Caleb cleaned his hands and changed. He looked at his reflection in the dark window.
The straightforward reconnaissance was over. He was now an active player in Bronte's war, a hunter stalking his prey, and a spy gathering intelligence for a future coup. The risks had multiplied exponentially.
But so had the potential rewards. Fifteen thousand dollars for Milton's corpse. And the secrets of Bronte's empire for the taking, since Milton surely would have bastions of it. He would follow the doctor tomorrow. He would find Milton.
And he would do more than kill him. He would turn the agent's final moments into a harvest of information, and his death into the first stone in the foundation of Bronte's downfall.
Caleb did not rush what came next.
That alone was proof of how far he'd come.
So he did not pore over the plan in his mind until dawn, nor did he obsessively replay contingencies until his nerves frayed. The plan was sound. The variables were accounted for. Further strain would not improve execution, only dull it.
So he rested.
He stripped down to shirt and trousers, cleaned himself thoroughly, and lay back on the bed with the window cracked open just enough to let the humid Saint Denis night air drift through.
The city's distant noises, carriages, laughter, a late piano, blurred into a steady hum. His breathing slowed. His mind, disciplined by long practice and reinforced by the quiet authority of his system enhanced focus, eased itself into stillness.
When sleep came, it was deep and dreamless.
Caleb woke before dawn.
The habit was ingrained now, as automatic as breathing. His eyes opened, already alert, his mind clear and sharp. For a moment, he lay still, listening to the city beginning to stir below, the rattle of carts, the murmur of voices, the metallic clang of early trolley bells.
Then he rose.
He moved through his usual routine with deliberate calm. Boots off. Shirt removed. He stretched first, long, controlled movements, loosening shoulders, spine, hips. Then came the calisthenics. Push ups, slow and precise. Sit ups. Squats. Balance drills. The motions were almost ceremonial.
He didn't need them.
His body, reinforced by high Strength, Agility, and Stamina stats, maintained peak condition with or without effort. His reflexes were sharp. His endurance unnatural. His recovery accelerated.
But routine mattered.
Routine centered him. And the system rewarded consistency.
By the time he finished, a light sheen of sweat covered his skin, his pulse steady and controlled. He washed, dried, and dressed.
He dressed with deliberate care, choosing the sturdy, unassuming "Bretagne" outfit, dark pants, a durable coat, clothes built for movement and concealment.
He slung the Litchfield Repeater across his back and the pump action shotgun across his chest on a separate strap. His gun belt, with the twin Navies, sat comfortably on his hips. Finally, he placed his hat low on his brow. He was no longer just McLaughlin the bounty hunter, he was a predator going to ground.
Downstairs, the Bastille had transitioned from nocturnal excess to early morning refinement. The bartender on duty today wasn't Ezraz a broader man with tired eyes, but he greeted Caleb with professional politeness all the same.
"Breakfast," Caleb said simply.
The order was expensive, intentionally so. Lobster bisque, hot and rich. A bottle of beer. Twelve dollars slid across the counter without hesitation.
He ate slowly, methodically. The bisque warmed his stomach, grounding him. He drank only half the beer. The rest he left untouched.
Fuel, not indulgence.
Outside, Morgan waited.
He mounted and rode out not with purpose, but with the aimless curiosity of a visitor. He needed to feel the city's pulse after last night's violence.
The news was on every corner. In the market, well dressed women clutched their bags tighter, speaking in hushed, scandalized tones about "gang wars" and "the sound of cannons."
In the slums near the docks, men spoke more openly, with a grudging respect for the "fancy suits with hidden badges" who had fought like devils before being cut down by Bronte's "new army."
The official story, whispered by a policeman to a concerned merchant within Caleb's earshot, was an "industrial accident at the mill, exacerbated by roving bands of thieves." It was a thin lie, but it was the lie the city would tell itself to keep functioning.
As he rode, Caleb pieced together the aftermath. Rourke's sledgehammer had struck hard. The Pinkerton cell at the mill was likely obliterated. This would have two effects, it would make Milton feel both vulnerable and vengeful.
The doctor's appointment today wasn't just for medical care, it would be a crisis council, a desperate attempt to regroup. The attack had upended Milton's plans, pushing him into the open.
And the doctor, with a likely concussion from last night's encounter, would be disoriented, less cautious. He might not even clearly remember the intruder, attributing the fuzzy memory and sore neck to a fall in the night's chaos.
Caleb spent the bulk of the day in a wide, patient circuit around the two focal points, the Granville place and the doctor's residence. He was a loitering laborer here, a man reading a newspaper there, a customer lingering over a coffee elsewhere.
His heightened Perception scanned every window, every alley mouth, every parked carriage. He saw no unusual activity at the Granville mansion, its high walls remained impassive. At the doctor's house, a maid arrived in the morning, left in the afternoon. No black carriage. No men who looked like elite guards.
The lack of daytime movement confirmed his hypothesis. Milton was too cautious to move in daylight now, especially after last night's blow. He would come under the cover of evening, when the city's shadows grew long and the gaslights created pockets of deep darkness.
As dusk settled, turning the sky to bruised purple and orange, Caleb made his final preparations. He hitched Morgan in a mews alley several blocks from the doctor's residence, a quiet spot with a water trough and a clear line of sight down the approach. He gave her a calming pat. "Won't be long, girl."
He then found his perch. A narrow, disused balcony on a building directly across from the doctor's home, accessible via a drainpipe. He settled in, becoming part of the architecture, his dark clothes blending into the deepening gloom. The wait began, a test of patience as much as skill.
Two hours passed. The city's evening sounds ebbed and flowed. Then, right on the cusp of full night, he heard it, the distinct, slightly uneven click clack of a carriage wheel with a cracked rim. His pulse, which had been slow and steady, remained controlled, but his focus sharpened to a razor's edge.
The black carriage rolled into view, exactly as described. It pulled to a stop directly in front of the residence. The driver, a burly man with the watchful eyes of a fighter, remained in his seat, his hand resting near his coat.
The carriage door opened. Two men emerged first, scanning the street with professional efficiency. They were not Pinkertons, they wore expensive but practical wool coats, and their movements were economical, military.
Private mercenaries. Elite. Two more followed, creating a perimeter. Then, supported slightly by a fifth man, Andrew Milton stepped down.
Even in the poor light, Caleb could see the agent was diminished. He moved stiffly, one arm held close to his body, his face pale and drawn beneath his hat. The wound was taking its toll. The sixth and final guard exited, and the party of seven moved swiftly up the steps and into the house, the door closing behind them.
Caleb's smile was a cold slit in the darkness beneath his sack cloth mask, which he now pulled up over his face. The plan was set. Noise was the enemy. Alerting Milton would give him a chance to destroy documents, flee through a back exit, or order a suicidal last stand. He had to peel the guards away, one silent layer at a time.
He descended from the balcony like a spider, dropping silently into the alley. The driver was the first priority, the getaway, the potential alarm. Caleb approached from the blind side, the rear of the carriage.
His Sneak skill, bolstered by his high Agility, made him a phantom. He was behind the man before the driver's instincts could twitch. One hand clamped over the man's mouth, yanking his head back.
The other drove his Civil War knife, sharpened to a monomolecular edge by his crafting skill, deep into the base of the skull, severing the brainstem. Death was instantaneous and silent. Caleb lowered the body into the footwell of the carriage, covering it with a blanket.
Two guards were posted outside the front door. They stood apart, watching different angles of the street. Caleb used the carriage as a screen, then a low hedge.
A thrown pebble, a soft tink against iron railings three houses down. One guard's head turned, just for a second. It was enough. Caleb closed the distance in a blur, his knife finding the second guard's kidney from behind while his other arm locked around the man's throat, stifling any cry.
He lowered him down. The first guard turned back, frowned at his partner's slumped form. "Jenkins?" He took a step.
Caleb throw his knife, drawn and released in one fluid motion, took him in the throat. He stumbled back, gurgling, and Caleb was on him, finishing the job and dragging both bodies into the deep shadows of the house's portico.
Four outside. Two at the door, one driver. One remained unaccounted for, likely inside the foyer.
Caleb tried the front door. Unlocked. He slipped inside, into a dimly lit hallway. The scent of antiseptic and old books hung in the air. The sixth guard stood with his back to the door, watching the corridor leading to the doctor's study.
Caleb's approach was utterly silent. He didn't use the knife this time. A hardened sap, weighted with lead, appeared in his hand from his inventory. A short, powerful swing connected with the guard's temple. The man crumpled like a sack of flour.
...
Name: Caleb Thorne
Age: 23
Body Attributes:
- Strength: 7/10
- Agility: 7/10
- Perception: 8/10
- Stamina: 7/10
- Charm: 7/10
- Luck: 8/10
Skills:
- Handgun (Lvl 4)
- Rifle (Lvl 4)
- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl 4)
- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)
- Knife (Lvl 4)
- Blunt Weapon (Lvl 1)
- Sneaking (Lvl 4)
- Horse Mastery (Lvl 4)
- Poker (Lvl 4)
- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl 4)
- Eagle Eye (Lvl 1)
- Dead Eye (Lvl 3)
- Bow (Lvl 2)
- Pain Nullifier (Lvl 3)
- Physical Regeneration (Lvl 2)
- Crafting ((Lvl 4)
- Persuasion (Lvl 4)
- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)
- Cooking (Lvl 4)
- Teaching (Lvl 2)
- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)
- Inventory System (Permanent - 10x10x10)
- Acting (Lvl 4)
- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)
- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)
- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)
Money: 3,471 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 77,892 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 65 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 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
Bank: -