The scene was utter chaos. With their vision blocked by the tall white hoods, those charging in the front couldn't even see how the man ahead of them had fallen.
That gave Joseph, lying prone on the second floor with his sniper rifle, the perfect opportunity.
One shot after another rang out—four veterans dropped dead instantly.
Only then did the others realize a sniper was covering their backs. But as true battlefield veterans, they didn't retreat in fear of death. Instead, they rushed even faster toward Leo's position.
It wasn't courage that drove them, but desperation—outside the café was the wide-open square, no cover in sight. If they were to die, better to gamble on killing the target. Perhaps the sniper would relent if he saw the man he was protecting fall.
But then came their worst despair—gunfire erupted from the second floors of several shops around the square.
Watching his carefully organized men collapse, Chucks' eyes reddened with grief. He knew exactly why they had followed him—it was his gift for goading them, for exploiting their desperation. That was the only reason he had become the Klan's leader in South Carolina.
Now, he still had one last reserve force to protect himself.
"Go to those upstairs windows where the gunfire came from—kill the snipers! Leave three men with me to take care of the target!"
But before long, as Leo calmly walked to his Lincoln, none of those men returned. Ordinary soldiers—even veterans—stood no chance against Joseph's elite, not ten to one, let alone three to one.
Driven to madness like a gambler losing everything, Chucks shouted for his men to bring him the bazooka he'd smuggled in from the Soviets.
He would finish his mission, no matter the cost.
"Chucks, calm down!"
The voice came from behind him—Bo Reed.
"When did you get here?" Chucks asked, startled.
I've been here all along, Bo thought grimly. If I hadn't seen you, you idiot, about to blow the whole game, I wouldn't have revealed myself.
Bo had handled bazookas before. He knew their lack of precision. If Leo got hit, fine—but if the rocket strayed and struck the Baptist church, neither he nor James could ever hope to calm the fury of southern believers.
The thought of Father Cade inside that church sent an involuntary chill down his spine.
Feigning a smile at the wary Chucks, Bo said lightly, "I just came to check on progress. Don't worry, Chucks—if not today, then another time."
But as he spoke soothingly, his hand behind his back kept signaling Chucks' bodyguard—already bought with heavy cash—to act.
The bodyguard understood. Under the lure of riches, he didn't hesitate. As Chucks turned, fumbling for words to argue with Bo, the guard pulled a knife and thrust it straight into his heart.
Writhing, Chucks glared at Bo with venom. He wasn't clever, but as death closed in, he finally understood why he was dying.
"You're just another dog," he cursed. "A dog with the same fate as mine."
He collapsed. His bodyguard dragged him like a carcass into the café's kitchen.
Bo ignored the insult. He was no mere dog—he had been groomed by the Roosevelt family since youth.
Watching Leo's Lincoln drive away, Bo dialed the police chief.
"There's been a Klan riot at the Southside Cathedral," he said icily. "I am very displeased. Handle it. Remember—it's a riot. Only trampled innocents, no gunfights."
The chief, long accustomed to Bo's coded orders, replied at once: "Understood, Director."
Hanging up, Bo sank into his seat, his face darkening. James' intelligence had been wrong—an error that left him snapping irritably at his master.
But James wasn't offended. He knew Leo well—knew the man's vindictive streak. Leo would never let Bo live. Bo's death was inevitable. Why argue with a walking corpse?
Leo had survived multiple assassination attempts. James had thought it was luck, or Leo's own skill. But now it was clear—Leo had a private army protecting him.
Ignoring Bo's whining, James strode into his study and called MacArthur in the Far East.
"Do you have the list of men Leo used to form his special forces?" James asked bluntly.
In Tokyo, MacArthur's office, the general glanced down at Setsuko Hara, the Showa beauty kneeling between his legs. "Of course," he said casually. "Why?"
"You once suspected Hoover of sabotaging one of your special teams. Now it seems Leo has his own elite guard," James replied, recounting the bloody fiasco in Columbia.
MacArthur frowned, military instincts confirming James was right. He patted Setsuko's head, sending the obedient Japanese woman scurrying to the inner chambers.
Soon, an aide brought him a sealed file. MacArthur leafed through it—page after page of names and battle honors.
"Damn you, Leo," he muttered. So many good men, discharged just to punish Leo—and now they served him.
He picked up the phone. "You're right," he told James. "I'll send their files by cable. With addresses."
"Good," James said.
"But be careful," MacArthur warned. "These men are no easy prey. I'll dispatch an elite squad to support your action."
When the call ended, James leaned back, smiling. The attack had failed, but the revelation was priceless. He had finally found Leo's shield. With the CIA and MacArthur's strike team, James was confident.
"Let's see how you escape death next time, Leo," he murmured.
The next morning, a brand-new armored Lincoln stopped before the Hilton.
"Boss," Walter asked, guilt and worry in his tone, "are we really going back today?"
"Of course," Leo said coolly. "If they couldn't kill me yesterday, then today I'll reap the fruits of victory."
Back in Father Cade's office, the priest wore his same mask of sorrowful compassion, though sweat glistened on his brow. The church was crowded—black families mourning, praying, seeking solace. Cade was busy.
"You have fine bodyguards, Mr. Valentino," Cade said.
"Father, yesterday you made me a promise," Leo replied. "So let's drop the talk of civil rights. Tell me—what will it take for you to support President Truman?"
Cade smiled thinly. "You should ask instead: what must Truman do to earn my flock's support? I've heard he wishes to rally Western faiths into a diplomatic front to bolster America's global influence. The Evangelicals, as America's foremost Protestant force, should play their part for the world's souls."
So that was it. Leo finally understood why their earlier talks had gone nowhere. For a man like Cade, what could be more enticing than spreading faith, gaining more believers? And with believers came wealth.
Remembering Father Reed's words about a "religious front," Leo seized his chance. He called Secretary of State Marshall, who quickly grasped Leo's intent. When Leo named Reed as the first member of this "religious committee," Marshall agreed at once, entrusting Leo with full authority.
Returning to Cade, Leo asked, "Which peoples do you wish to save from ignorance, Father?"
"Britain, Germany, Sweden, the Netherlands, Denmark," Cade said. "And if you can arrange an audience with the Pope, I'd be deeply grateful."
Leo was startled. Evangelicals and Catholics were not on friendly terms. But Cade explained smoothly:
"The Cotton family's gone to Brazil. Mexico and Central America lie much closer. I think the Pope will not mind a brother faith assisting his flock. And times have changed, Mr. Valentino—our rivalry is not what you imagine. The Cottons give the Pope money, but so can we."
Leo's mind raced. Cade's ambitions went far beyond America—Central America was his true prize. And for Leo, it was an opportunity. Those small nations, unguarded by blue-blood elites, could be his testing ground for food and sugar empires—the real levers of power.
Still, one doubt lingered. "Father," Leo said sternly, "before we speak of cooperation—yesterday's assassins were Klansmen. Everyone knows I never forgive. Tell me who leads them. Surely you, the South's greatest shepherd, must know."
"Chucks is already dead," Cade replied calmly. "Stabbed in the café kitchen. Someone else avenged you."
"And who was kind enough to do me this favor?" Leo pressed.
"Few in South Carolina could, and fewer still hate you. It won't be hard to find out," Cade said, slipping from his grasp.
Frustrated, Leo decided to play hardball. "Fine. Perhaps I lack local power. But in Washington, many are eager to help me. The Klan is a cancer festering in the South. As a responsible American, I'll petition for the FBI to eradicate it nationwide."
Cade, for once, took him seriously. This young man truly could make such things happen.
So Cade told him a story. "Once, there was a village with a single communal latrine. Everyone used it—locals and travelers alike. In time, people complained of the stench. So the latrine was divided into many stalls. One day, a traveler used a stall, and another came after, disgusted by the smell, demanding all the stalls be torn down. But the villagers protested—why should they lose all their toilets? Shouldn't he take revenge on the one who dirtied it, instead of destroying the whole?"
Leo understood instantly. The Klan was no mighty beast—just a filthy public latrine, carved into many parts, tolerated for necessity. And Cade, like the villagers, preferred to keep it around.
Manipulating faith to control blacks, then unleashing devils like the Klan to harden their dependence—that was Cade's cruel genius.
So Leo cut to the point. "Tomorrow you'll come with me to Washington. By next week, you'll head a Religious Front Committee, leading a month-long European mission. After meeting the Pope, your priests can continue to Central America—as recognized diplomats, with every advantage."
Cade's eyes gleamed. "Then on the day my priests depart for Central America," he said, gripping Leo's hand, "I'll invite President Truman south for a grand speech."
Deal struck, Leo prepared to leave. Assured Cade had no part in yesterday's attempt, he was eager to return to Virginia and unmask the mayor behind it.
But Cade stopped him, an embarrassed look crossing his face for the first time.
"Mr. Valentino—aren't you interested in the Evangelical lands? Yesterday's deal, forget it. We'll split fifty-fifty."
Leo chuckled. The priest was wealthy, yes—but not wealthy enough to meet the Pope's appetite.
Good, Leo thought. A weakness. A hunger for money. Now we play by my rules.