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The more they fought, the safer Arthur and the gang would be. Caleb guided Morgan toward the northern edge of the city, closer to the boundaries where wealthy order began to bleed into industrial grit. He needed to plan his next moves carefully. He needed to manage Bronte's attention. He needed to direct the Pinkertons' paranoia.
As he reached the bridge leading out of Saint Denis's wealthiest district, Morgan's ears flicked.
Caleb tensed, as his high Perception stats informed him theres something wrong.
Someone was watching him.
He turned to look—
A bullet ripped past his head just in time, he manages to dodge it because he turned his head.
Someone was shooting at Caleb.
He immediately kicked off Morgan who immediately ride away and rolled behind a stone railing as another shot whizzed by.
He crouched low, eyes sharp.
Across the canal, on a rooftop—
A figure in a dark duster coat aimed a rifle at him.
Another shot fired.
Brick shattered beside his head.
Caleb cursed under his breath.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't ordinary.
This was a message.
Someone wanted McLaughlin dead. Someone wanted to stop him before he could maneuver the city into the direction he wanted.
He scanned the rooftop.
The shooter reloaded.
Caleb activated his Dead Eye again.
Time slowed.
The world turned gold.
Red crosshairs lit up across the shooter's chest and head.
Caleb drew his Navy revolver.
Fired twice.
CRACK! CRACK!
The bullet struck true.
The shooter staggered backward due to the impact, dropped his rifle, and tumbled off the roof into the canal below.
Caleb stayed low for several seconds, scanning the surroundings.
No more enemies.
But this changed everything.
He mounted Morgan again and rode quickly away from the scene, disappearing into the weaving arteries of Saint Denis.
Someone had hired a professional.
Not a drunken outlaw.Not a street thug. Not a gang rat trying to make a name.
A trained marksman.
A hitman.
Which meant…
Caleb's careful maneuvering had already disrupted someone's plans.
Someone powerful. Someone who wanted him out of the picture.
Caleb spit onto the dirty cobblestone as the possibilities ran through his head, the metallic taste of adrenaline still lingering on his tongue. The shot had been too clean, too well timed to be the work of a street junkie or some half wit outlaw eager for a bounty. Whoever pulled that trigger was trained. Whoever hired him knew what they were doing.
The biggest suspect, of course, was the Pinkertons. Maybe after they approached him, after they probed him, after they tried to measure the threat level that famous bounty hunter "McLaughlin" represented, they decided he was an unstable variable, someone who could not be controlled. Someone who likes to do things his own way.
Someone who could, if half the rumors about his uncanny firearm ability were true, capture the Van der Linde gang before they ever could after doin gi tfor so long. And if that happened… if Caleb succeeded where they'd failed? They'd lose their funding, their authority, and their leverage. They'd be the fools outplayed by a lone operative who doesn't receive any support whatsoever.
Removing him preemptively would be textbook agency paranoia.
But it was only a suspicion, not certainty.
He wiped dust from his coat sleeve, narrowing his eyes as he replayed the angle of the shot, the timing, the chosen rooftop. Pinkertons fit the profile, but they weren't the only suspects.
The mayor of Saint Denis himself could be an option. In the game the man was subservient to Angelo Bronte, practically a puppet hanging off the Don's strings. But this world wasn't a game anymore. It had proven, over and over, that hidden variables existed. People not shown. Moves never revealed. Shadows that never appeared on a player's screen.
If the mayor saw him, McLaughlin, as someone who might one day replace or overthrow his position in Bronte's circle… he'd panic. Politicians like him thrived off predictability. Off control. A wild card was enough to make even a coward order a killing.
Still… that one was a low chance.
The rich of Saint Denis, though? They were a real possibility.
Caleb's actions, cleansing the criminal underbelly for "McLaughlin's image" and "Bronte's stability", had unintentionally disrupted a lucrative ecosystem.
Criminal gangs didn't survive without money, and money didn't move in the city without the blessing of wealthy men who operated from clubs, parlors, and cigar smoke filled boardrooms. Rich men used the street rats like tools. To create chaos where needed. To move product. To silence inconvenient rivals. To secure assets without drawing attention.
By eliminating pests Bronte hated, Caleb had also smashed the machinery these rich bastards quietly controlled for their own benefit.
They would not be happy.
And anger in Saint Denis, among the wealthy, didn't come in the form of angry letters.
It came in the form of hired guns.
Another shot at him would come. Caleb knew that as fact.
As for Bronte himself… if this had been some time ago, Caleb would've been certain the Italian crime lord was behind it. But Caleb had infiltrated Bronte's circle. He had survived the poisoned wine Bronte offered during their first meeting. He had completed tasks flawlessly, making himself a valuable tool, a man of efficiency, a quiet blade Bronte could point toward problems.
No, Bronte still needed him. The Don didn't eliminate assets. Not until they stopped being profitable.
This assassin was someone else's doing.
Caleb hissed a soft whistle.
Morgan's hooves clopped against the stone a moment later as she trotted back from the alley where she'd fled on instinct. Caleb touched her neck gently, calming her nerves before mounting.
"Good girl," he murmured. "Let's move."
He flicked the reins, guiding her north.
When the streets grew quieter, he reached into his coat and pulled out Guido's notebook, the one full of Bronte's problem gangs and Caleb's new assignments. Several names were already crossed out. The Lemoyne Rats. The Blackbridge Brothers.
Now it was time for the Bordeaux Street Snakes.
He found their name and drew a confident, deliberate line beneath it. The Bordeaux weren't thugs. They weren't drunken cowboys with big mouths and small brains. They operated like Bronte's own Italian outfit, organized, disciplined, efficient in their violence. They lacked Bronte's connections and muscle, but they made up for it in ruthlessness.
They preferred industrial sectors for their hideouts, and the northern warehouses were the least populated, the least guarded.
Perfect place for them to slither.
He tucked the notebook away and focused on the road ahead.
The northern industrial district wasn't much, just a handful of factories, mostly textile and mechanical, surrounded by sparse brick warehouses and rusted metal skeletons. Smoke rose lazily from chimneys. Steam hissed from pipes. The smell of oil hung heavy in the air.
Caleb slowed Morgan and began scanning every corner.
He asked questions to workers, bribed a night guard, even stepped into a saloon where dockworkers drank to forget their lungs were turning black from coal.
It was the guard who let slip the detail he needed.
The Bordeaux had moved south, something about too many "eyes" in the north now and needing more "privacy" for their shipments.
So Caleb turned Morgan around and guided her toward the sprawling southern industrial sector, the beating mechanical heart of Saint Denis. Massive factories, shipyards, train depots, scrapyards, and endless warehouses lined block after block.
The perfect place for organized crime to disappear inside.
As he rode, Caleb's mind churned.
If he wanted to send the Bordeaux a message, he had two choices.
A warning. Fear.
Or extermination.
But eliminating an entire organized crime outfit wouldn't be easy. Even with Dead Eye, even with gamer reflexes, even with the system… it was still risky to take on a group with hierarchies, informants, traps, escape routes, and central leadership.
He'd need precision.
He'd need timing.
He'd need McLaughlin level brutality without blowing his cover.
Morgan snorted as they approached the first southern warehouse cluster. Thick smog hovered overhead, turning the sunset into a dull copper smear.
Caleb slowed, scanning the area methodically.
Rusted freight carts. Stacked crates. Railway tracks running between factories. Steam engines chugging like mechanical beasts. The clang of metal and the hiss of furnaces filling the air.
Exactly the kind of place where a snake could nest.
He dismounted, tied Morgan in the shadows, and moved forward on foot.
His boots clicked lightly against the iron grating as he approached the first warehouse. Men loaded crates into wagons under dim lantern light, but they wore simple work clothes, laborers, not gang members.
The second warehouse was locked tight. He circled it. Nothing.
The third—
Voices.
Italian accents.
Whispering.
He approached the cracked window without making a sound.
Inside, he counted seven men. Three sorting crates. Two gambling over cards. One cleaning a revolver. One watching the door.
The Bordeaux Street Snakes.
Caleb exhaled slowly.
Time to act.
He slipped back into the shadows, planning.
A warning would be loud and fast, McLaughlin style.
Kill the leader. Leave the survivors terrified. Show dominance.
But extermination…
Extermination would send a far stronger message to the city's underbelly.
To Bronte.
To the Pinkertons.
To the hitman's employer.
To everyone.
That McLaughlin was untouchable and killing him meant inviting war.
Caleb's hand hovered near both of his Navy Revolver, considering.
Then he smirked faintly.
"Let's start small," he muttered.
He kicked the rear door off its hinges.
The room froze.
Seven heads turned.
Caleb strode in like walking death.
"McLaughlin?" one man choked out.
"Good evening," Caleb said.
Then everything erupted.
Two men lunged for revolvers.
Caleb already had both his Navy revolvers drawn before they cleared leather.
He fired twice, two chest shots, one for each, dropping them instantly.
The card players scrambled for cover.
The leader, the tall one with the dark vest, reached for a sawed off shotgun beside a crate.
Caleb flicked his wrist and shot the gun clean out of his hand, the impact sending the weapon spinning across the floor.
The leader screamed, gripping his bleeding fingers.
Caleb walked toward him slowly, revolvers held low.
"Did I not make myself clear?" Caleb's voice was cold, but controlled. "Saint Denis belongs to Bronte. And Bronte's tasks belong to me. You interfere with either—"
The leader spat blood.
"You… you can't stop us all…"
Caleb smiled darkly.
"That's the fun part."
He shot the man in the foot, dropping him to the ground.
Then he knelt, grabbed him by the collar, and whispered.
"You get one chance. One. Tell everyone in your outfit: the Rats are gone. The Blackbridges are gone. You're next unless you behave."
The man nodded frantically.
Caleb shoved him back onto the floor and walked away. The remaining gang members didn't dare move. They watched him leave like he was a demon walking back to hell.
Caleb stepped out into the night, holstered his guns, and breathed in the cool industrial air.
One more gang neutralized.
One more step deeper into Bronte's circles.
One more thread tied to his growing web of influence.
He untied Morgan, mounted, and rode away before anyone could intervene.
The sky had darkened into a blanket of deep blue by the time he reached the quieter edges of the southern district.
Lanterns flickered. Fog rolled across the ground. A train rumbled in the distance.
He kept riding, thinking.
Every gang he handled brought him deeper into the city's shadows. Every victory brought him closer to Bronte, closer to controlling Saint Denis from behind the scenes. But it also drew eyes. Suspicion. Fear. And now… an assassination attempt. Someone was afraid of him. Someone powerful enough to hire a professional hitman. He needed to flush them out. And the best way to flush out a snake? Set fire near its den.
...
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 3)
- 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: 3,787 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,142 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: -