Late at night.
Charleston, South Carolina.
This once-prosperous port city now resembled a down-and-out aristocrat, huddled in the cold sea breeze. Only half of the gas lamps on the streets were lit; the rest had gone out due to a lack of maintenance funds.
But in the upscale residential area of The Battery, a sense of decency was still maintained.
Inside a white Georgian-style mansion, the lights were ablaze.
This was the home of Judge James Reed.
He was once one of the most powerful men in Charleston and the behind-the-scenes Boss of the Democratic Party in South Carolina.
On the surface, he had sworn allegiance to the Union, but in secret, he was one of the largest financial backers of the KKK.
In the study.
Judge Reed was talking to a middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses.
"The Argyle estate is a fortress," Reed murmured, the firelight dancing in his eyes. "And Silas? He's just a rabid dog on a short leash. If he bites in my city, the law will put him down."
He tapped a stack of checks on his desk. "Kerosene is cheap, but fear is priceless. This winter, we burn the dissenters out.
Reed took a sip of brandy, his expression relaxed.
"Let Silas roam," the man in gold-rimmed glasses said contemptuously.
"As long as he doesn't bring men into the city and stays in that mud pit, we can't touch him. But if he dares to reach into Charleston..."
"We have the law."
Reed pointed to the law books on the shelf.
"The Charleston Police Chief is my man. If that Silas dares to fire a shot in the city, I can hang him for murder."
"As for the money..."
Reed opened a drawer and took out a stack of checks.
"This is for the boys below. Remember to tell them to buy more kerosene. This winter, we're going to make sure those traitors who sided with the Yankees don't dare to sleep."
Just then.
A crash!
A loud bang. The floor-to-ceiling window of the study was violently shattered.
The cold wind, mixed with glass shards, poured in.
Before Reed could react, three dark figures had already jumped in through the window.
They wore dark black trench coats and black masks that only revealed their eyes. Their movements were incredibly fast, and they wasted no words.
"Who's there?!" Reed reached for the gun in the drawer.
Bang!
A muffled gunshot.
Reed's palm was pierced by a bullet, pinning it to the mahogany desktop.
"Ahhh—!"
The scream had barely left his throat when it was muffled by a leather-gloved hand.
The man in gold-rimmed glasses collapsed onto the sofa in terror. Just as he was about to cry for help, a cold dagger was pressed against his throat.
"Good evening, Your Honor."
A low voice spoke.
Silas Flynn walked in. He wasn't wearing a mask, but his hat brim was pulled low. In his hand was a list of names from a telegram that Felix had brought back from Washington.
"You're... Silas?"
Reed was sweating profusely from the pain, his eyes filled with terror.
"What do you want? This is a private residence! I am a judge! I'll..."
"Shh," Silas raised a finger. "Save your strength."
He walked to the table and picked up the stack of checks that hadn't been sent out yet.
"Buying kerosene? What would a man of your stature need it for? Hmm?" Silas glanced at them.
"It looks like you're planning a big bonfire party."
"That's my money!" Reed gritted his teeth. "I'll spend it however I want!"
"No, it's not your money."
Silas pulled a crumpled commission from his coat and slapped it on the table.
"This is a 'Special Asset Preservation Order' issued by the Department of the Interior. We suspect these funds are involved in financing terrorist activities and damaging federal assets."
"Now, we are confiscating the tools of the crime."
"You don't have the authority..."
Bang!
Without warning, Silas raised his hand and shot the man in gold-rimmed glasses in the thigh.
"Ahhh—!"
"Do I have the authority now? Or should I shoot again?" Silas blew the smoke from the barrel of his gun.
"Judge Reed, I don't have time to discuss legal clauses with you. I'm only here for two things."
"First, to take this money." Silas stuffed the checks into his pocket.
"Second, to send you to meet God."
Reed's pupils dilated suddenly.
"No! You can't kill me! I'm with the Democratic Party..."
"That's the cause of death," Silas said coldly.
He waved a hand to his subordinates.
Two operatives stepped forward and skillfully looped a thin cord around Reed's neck.
"Make it look like a home invasion robbery," Silas instructed.
"Remember to hang him from the chandelier. Make it look like... suicide? No, too fake. Say he was strangled by wandering black bandits. You people frame black people all the time anyway."
"Mmph, mmph..."
Reed struggled desperately, but the cord tightened. His face turned purple, and his feet kicked wildly in the air.
A minute later.
The behind-the-scenes Boss of Charleston hung like a dead fish under his own expensive crystal chandelier.
Silas glanced at the still-shivering man in gold-rimmed glasses.
"As for you," Silas walked over. "Go back and tell the others that this is only the beginning."
"Tell them everything you saw tonight. Tell them the Militia Defense Corps has entered the city."
"Every coin they stole from those families just bought them a bullet. Tell them that in your prayers."
"If they don't stop, this will be their end."
"Get out."
The man in gold-rimmed glasses scrambled out of the room.
Silas surveyed the scene, took a bottle of expensive whiskey from the liquor cabinet, poured it on the carpet, and then struck a match.
"Let's go."
Several dark figures vanished into the night.
A moment later, flames rose from the judge's mansion...
New York, the telegram room of the Argyle Bank Building.
The telegraph machine began to clatter.
Anna sat in a chair, watching the translator turn codes into words.
"Urgent telegram from Charleston: Target A eliminated. Disguised as robbery. Recovered $5,000 in funds, no casualties. Over."
Anna looked at those words, her hands and feet turning cold.
She turned her head to look at Felix, who was standing by the window.
Felix held a cup of coffee, his expression as calm as if he were listening to a weather forecast.
"Is this what that five thousand dollars was for?" Anna asked, her voice trembling slightly.
"No," Felix turned to look at her.
"That five thousand dollars is for the living; this is just a side benefit of taking out the trash."
"He was a judge, Felix." Anna stood up. "Even if he was a bad man, he should have been judged by the law."
"The law cannot judge those who make the law, Anna."
Felix walked up to her, his gaze deep.
"In the South, he was a judge, but he was also a murderer. He was a judge who sentenced people to die for the color of their skin. I just executed the verdict he should have received.
If I didn't deal with him, ten black families would be burned to death tomorrow night. Besides... this action was approved by the party, including President Lincoln."
"Justice is for peacetime, Anna. Right now, we're performing surgery. Sometimes the patient bleeds."
Felix reached out and gently patted Anna's shoulder.
"Welcome to the real world, Miss Vice President."
"If you feel disgusted, you don't have to come to work tomorrow. But I hope you understand that only through such means can we ensure the milk for those orphanages is delivered on time tomorrow morning."
Anna looked at Felix.
For the first time, she smelled a strong scent of blood on this man.
But strangely, she didn't run away.
She felt an unprecedented shudder. It was a fear of power, but also a longing for it.
"I'm not taking the day off."
Anna bit her lip, her eyes gradually becoming firm.
"I will be there on time at eight tomorrow morning."
Felix smiled.
"That's good. As expected of someone from the Clark family."
Less than two days after Judge Reed's death, almost no pedestrians could be seen on the streets of Charleston—only patrols of armed men from Vanguard United Company.
Of course, you could also call them the militia constabulary.
But now two extra signs had been added: "Federal Special Investigation Unit" and "Department of the Interior Asset Preservation Team."
In the sheriff's office downtown.
The desk that once belonged to Charleston Sheriff Tom Hardy was currently occupied by a pair of mud-spattered leather army boots.
Silas sat in the wide oak chair, toying with a rust-covered badge. His deputy, Borg, leaned against the window, using the barrel of a Vanguard Rifle to twitch the curtain aside while he watched the street.
In the corner of the room, Sheriff Tom Hardy huddled on a wooden stool, clutching a cup of cold coffee, sweat pouring off him.
"Sheriff Hardy."
Silas tossed the badge onto the desk; it landed with a crisp clang.
"According to the list provided by the Department of the Interior, a cotton merchant in your county named William Thorne is suspected of financing terrorist activities against the federal railroads. We want him."
Sheriff Hardy wiped the sweat from his forehead, his voice trembling.
"Mr. Flynn… Mr. Thorne is the president of the local chamber of commerce and highly respected in Charleston. If you barge into his house and arrest him, the townspeople will riot."
"Riot?
Riots are just noise from people who still think they have power. Let them make their music."
Silas smiled—a smile devoid of any warmth.
"When Judge Reed died last week, I also heard the townspeople were going to riot. What happened? Only a few mongrels barked."
"That was Judge Reed—that was an accident," the sheriff protested. "Everyone says it was bandits."
"Right, bandits."
Silas stood and walked over to Hardy, looking down at him.
"Now we suspect that cotton merchant Thorne is the paymaster for those bandits. Or to put it another way, he's the one who bought their torches."
Silas pulled a folded sheet of parchment from his coat—Felix's purge list.
"Hardy, I'm a reasonable man. I'll give you two choices."
He raised two fingers.
"Either you and your men cooperate and invite Thorne here for a cup of tea while we chat about his ledgers."
"Second…" Silas flexed a finger.
"My men go themselves. But in that case, things might get noisy. Perhaps Mr. Thorne will meet with an 'accident' like Judge Reed, and you, as an accessory, could lose that badge—or worse…"
Sheriff Hardy glanced at the Vanguard pistol on Silas's hip, then at the fully armed Vanguard men outside.
He was a smart man.
In the South, smart men tended to live longer.
"I'll go." Hardy stood and put on his hat.
"But I'll only show the way. If… if shooting starts, it's not my affair."
"Good." Silas clapped his shoulder.
"That's the spirit of cooperation. Borg, take First Squad and accompany the sheriff to 'visit' Mr. Thorne."
"Remember," Silas added, "Mr. Thorne's home is in the Battery district—lots of valuables there. Be careful not to smash the porcelain shipped in from the East. The Boss hates waste."
…Half an hour later, the Battery district.
This was Charleston's wealthy quarter, still retaining pre-war opulence.
William Thorne sat in his parlor with several equally panicked local notables, plotting countermeasures.
"These Yankees have gone mad."
Thorne, a fat man, was waving his fists in fury.
"They killed Reed! Right in his own study. Now that lunatic named Flynn runs all of Charleston."
"We must appeal to Washington," said a gaunt lawyer.
"Write to Mr. Seymour, the Democratic Party Boss. Tell him we're suffering political persecution—it's unconstitutional!"
"I already wrote," Thorne gritted out.
"But before the letter left the post office, those blue-coats seized it. They control the post and the telegraph—we're deaf and blind."
Bang!
The front door burst open.
Before anyone could react, a squad of riflemen stormed in, black muzzles pointed at every head.
Sheriff Hardy stood in the doorway, embarrassed.
"Sorry, Mr. Thorne. These men… they have a Department of the Interior search warrant."
"Hardy, you traitor!" Thorne roared. "This is breaking and entering—I'll—"
Borg stepped up and rammed his rifle butt into Thorne's gut.
"Ugh…"
Thorne doubled over like a boiled shrimp.
"William Thorne." Borg produced an arrest warrant.
"You're suspected of providing two thousand dollars in November 1865 to an illegal group called the Knights of Southern Justice for gunpowder and guns. Come with us."
"That's slander!" the lawyer shouted, jumping up. "We want to see the evidence!"
"Evidence?" Borg sneered and gestured around.
"Search the place. I'm sure Mr. Thorne's safe still holds ledgers he hasn't had time to burn."
The squad rushed to the study.
Minutes later, a tin box was hauled out. Borg pried it open in front of everyone with a crowbar.
Inside were gold coins, letters, and account books.
Borg picked up a letter and read aloud:
"To the Revered Grand Wizard: Enclosed is this month's activity fund of five hundred dollars. Please quickly cleanse Oak Manor of the Northern cancer…"
Borg flung the letter in Thorne's face.
"There's your evidence."
"Take him away!"
Thorne was dragged out like a dead dog.
As he was shoved into the black prison van, he saw eyes peering from behind curtains along the street.
Eyes full of fear.
That evening, three more mansions in Charleston were sealed.
No one dared protest. The "knights" who once swaggered about in white hoods now cowered under their beds, trembling.
Because they'd discovered these Northerners cared nothing for chivalry—only efficiency… Late night, sheriff's office.
Silas tipped the chest of gold coins onto the desk.
"Count it," he told Borg.
"Seal the money and ship it back to New York on the Argyle Bank wagon at dawn. It's 'ill-gotten gains'—needs to be turned over to the Treasury, or rather, to the Foundation."
Borg tallied the coins. "Boss, these boys are loaded. The loot we've hauled in could buy half of Charleston."
"This is just interest," Silas said, lighting a cigarette.
"The blood debt they owe has only just begun to be repaid."
At that moment the telegrapher handed over a slip.
"Boss, wire from New York. The chief wants a progress report."
Silas exhaled a smoke ring, his gaze cold behind it.
"Reply: Charleston secured. One-third of the targets on the list eliminated; the rest are queued. Local order stable, no resistance."
He paused, then added:
"Also tell the chief: we found a ledger in Thorne's house—records of bribes these people paid to certain bigwigs in Washington."
"I think the chief will like that gift."