Henry waited a few more minutes. Ten minutes had now passed since he had lit the first fire. Fueled by three hundred liters of kerosene, the inferno was now raging, thick black smoke pouring from every window. Three more guards in uniform burst out of the main entrance, choking and gasping for air.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Three more shots, and they fell.
Henry began the grim work of collecting the wallets and weapons from the fifty-six bodies at the entrance, and then the two hundred more inside the courtyard.
It took him over ten minutes. By the time he was finished, thick, rolling clouds of smoke were billowing out of the main entrance. He turned and left. In a fire that intense, anyone trapped in the basement levels would have no chance of survival.
He had lost the contents of the basement warehouse, but it couldn't be helped. The alarm had forced his hand.
From the first shot to the final body, the entire operation had taken about twenty-five minutes. He had just wiped out a major hub of violence and corruption. The city's murder rate would probably drop by half for the next month.
The other three buildings were all operating as hotels. He couldn't just slaughter all the innocent guests inside. This was enough. The New York black market's military strength had been crippled, its leadership decapitated. The snake was headless. They would not be a threat to him for some time.
It was now 8:11 PM. Most of the shops on 24th Street had already closed their doors. You had to be sharp to survive in a neighborhood like this.
Henry walked a hundred meters down the street, slipped into an empty alley, and changed his disguise. He pulled on a light gray overcoat, swapped his cap for a fedora, and took off his gloves. He then summoned the gray-white Appaloosa, mounted up, and rode west, toward Midtown.
He soon blended in with the flow of carriages and riders.
He found another deserted spot behind a small hill, removed his beard and mustache, changed into a white shirt and trousers, and swapped his hat for a bowler. He then summoned his brown quarter horse and continued west.
A dozen minutes later, he reached the southern end of Broadway and began to ride north. After two kilometers, he found a carriage stand, ducked into another alley, stored his horse, changed into a pair of black leather shoes, and then hailed a cab.
A few minutes after that, he arrived at the Astor House.
The six-story hotel was a marvel of modern engineering, with its own steam engine and generator in the basement providing hot water and electric lighting. It offered a pickup service from the train station, and its restaurant menu changed almost daily. To maintain its high-class reputation, it did not allow unaccompanied women to enter.
Henry gave his name at the front desk and was given his room number: a luxury suite on the third floor. He was escorted to his room by a bellboy, where his luggage was already waiting. After tipping the boy a nickel, he locked the door and took a long, hot shower to wash away the last, lingering scent of gunpowder.
Ten minutes after he had left, two fire engines arrived at the black market headquarters. But one look at the raging inferno told them there was nothing to be saved. The building was a total loss. As long as the fire didn't spread to the neighboring buildings, their job was done.
A short while later, the local precinct captain, a man named Alva, arrived on the scene. He and his men stared at the dozens of bodies piled at the entrance and in the courtyard, their hearts sinking. They knew what this place was. Someone powerful had just wiped the black market off the map.
But who? The police knew how strong the black market was. Honestly, short of a full-scale military assault, Alva couldn't imagine any force in New York capable of this.
He had no choice but to begin his investigation, starting with the neighboring buildings.
The fire raged for another half hour before it finally began to die down. The Raven Brotherhood clubhouse was a smoking, collapsed ruin.
By 10 AM the next morning, the surviving black market members in the three surrounding buildings finally managed to send a telegram to their headquarters in Chicago.
When the big boss, Morrison, received the news—that over ninety percent of his New York military force had been wiped out—he was filled with a mixture of shock, rage, and a deep, chilling fear.
It wasn't the seven or eight tenths that Henry had estimated. It was over ninety percent. Dozens of guards from the surrounding buildings had rushed into the clubhouse during the battle and had been slaughtered along with the rest.
Morrison's scalp prickled. He had no proof, but his gut screamed the truth: it was Henry. He had no idea how one man could have done it. Had the Sinclairs mobilized their entire force in New York? Impossible. They didn't have that kind of power in the city, and they wouldn't risk an all-out war with the entire black market organization.
He was terrified, not just of Henry's personal power, but of the speed and utter ruthlessness of his actions. He had arrived in the city and, in less than a day, had struck a decisive, crippling blow.
After an hour of frantic, desperate thought, Morrison began to send out telegrams of his own.