Alice put down the New York Sun. "He was my best friend, growing up," she said proudly. "He wasn't this powerful four years ago. What he did today… it was a shock to me, too. But it's the only thing that makes sense. How else could he win, time and time again, against such impossible odds?"
"I just hope he can save my father," Rachel said, her voice a near-whisper.
"If Henry said he would, then he will," Alice said with a comforting smile. "He was always a man of his word."
"Thank you, Alice," Rachel said, her eyes welling with tears. "It's because of you that my father even has a chance."
"We're best friends," Alice replied. "Of course."
Rachel just nodded and bowed her head, resuming her silent, desperate prayer.
Just then, the doorbell rang.
The two women looked at each other. Rachel jumped to her feet and ran to the door. "Who is it?" she called out, her voice trembling.
"It's me, Rachel!" a familiar voice cried from the other side.
She threw the door open. Her father, Robert, stood there, accompanied by a hotel bellboy.
"Papa!" she cried, and threw herself into his arms.
The two embraced, tears streaming down Rachel's face. The bellboy, seeing the scene, gave a slight bow and quietly departed.
After a long moment, the two of them finally composed themselves and walked into the room.
"Papa," Rachel said, "this is my best friend, Alice Sinclair. She's the one who asked Henry to help."
"Miss Sinclair," Robert said, his voice thick with emotion, "I am forever in your debt."
"It was my pleasure to help, Mr. Robert," Alice said with a kind smile. "Where is Henry?"
"Mr. Henry escorted me to the edge of Uptown and then rode off alone," Robert explained. "He said my kidnapping was ordered by the leader of the Whyos Gang, a man named Mike. He said he was going to have a talk with him."
Alice and Rachel stared at each other, their faces pale with a new kind of fear.
Henry arrived at the Five Points. It was a crossroads, a nexus of four major streets, which had made it a favored haunt of outlaws for a century. It was the black heart of New York's underworld. And for the last twelve years, it had been the undisputed territory of the Whyos Gang.
He knew that rescuing Robert had exposed his hand. A feud was now inevitable. He had to cut off the head of the snake. For a gang like the Whyos to dominate the city for so long, their leader, Mike, had to be a man of exceptional skill and resources. Without him, the gang would likely fracture and collapse.
He also knew, from his brief, violent encounter, that these gang members were a far cry from the professional guards of the black market. They were undisciplined, careless.
He left his horse in an alley a hundred meters from the four-story Phoenix Brothers Hotel and walked the rest of the way. He knew the Whyos' customs. Their unique, bird-like call—"Why-os!"—was a way of identifying themselves on the street. Core members had a tattoo of a bleeding axe and dagger on their wrist, shoulder, or neck.
He walked into the hotel. It was a rough establishment with no doorman. He went straight for the back entrance.
"Halt! Who are you?" one of the six guards at the back door demanded.
"I have a message for the big boss, Mike, from Capo Solow," Henry said, his voice a low growl.
"Hands up. Search him," the guard ordered.
After a quick pat-down, one of the guards led him out the back door and into a fifty-meter-long, ten-meter-wide alleyway. The walls on either side were three meters high, with firing slits cut into the stone every five meters. At the far end, a fortified bunker housed the ugly, multi-barreled muzzles of two Gatling guns. There were at least thirty gunmen in this alley alone.
To have such heavy weaponry in the middle of New York City was a testament to the Whyos' staggering arrogance and power.
"Go on," the guard said, and then returned to the hotel.
Henry walked the gauntlet, past the bunker, to a three-story apartment building twenty meters ahead. He was searched again at the entrance, then led inside. The building's interior was a confusing, winding labyrinth, designed for urban warfare. It was clear now that the gang's core members were all ex-soldiers.
He was led to the third floor, searched one final time, and then brought to a large, heavy door. The guard opened the outer iron gate. "In you go," he said.
Henry opened the inner wooden door and stepped inside. He was in a massive, two-hundred-square-meter hall. The room was alive with activity. Twenty-five men were scattered around, playing cards, throwing darts, and arm-wrestling. It felt more like a saloon than a gangster's antechamber.
"Hey, you," one of the men called out. "Who are you looking for?"
Henry smiled and walked to the center of the room. "I have a message for the big boss, Mike, from Capo Carter."
"Straight ahead," the man said, pointing. "The boss is in the big office on the right."
"Thank you."
Henry activated his Super Reflexes.
His hands became a phantom blur. In the space of a single second, twenty-four 12-inch throwing knives flew through the air, each one finding a home in the throat or the back of the neck of the twenty-four unsuspecting outlaws.