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Caleb shrugged into his coat, adjusted the rifle sling, and headed downstairs. The patrons that have come to the Bastille in the morning watched him go with a mixture of admiration and curiosity. No one stopped him. No one asked questions. Outside, Morgan waited patiently, ears flicking as he mounted. "Easy, girl," he murmured, patting her neck.
He rode out of the city at an unhurried pace, blending into the flow of traffic until the streets widened and the buildings thinned. Only when he reached the outskirts did he turn off, guiding Morgan toward higher ground overlooking key roads and rail lines.
Pinkertons liked vantage points too. Offices near transport hubs. Temporary lodgings close to their targets. They weren't subtle, not really. They relied on authority, on the assumption that no one would dare strike them openly.
Caleb had no intention of doing anything openly.
He dismounted near a copse of trees, led Morgan deeper into cover, and tied her securely. From there, he climbed. Slowly. Carefully. Every step chosen for silence.
At the crest of a low ridge, he settled in.
The Rolling Block rested against his shoulder, scope aligned with a stretch of road leading back toward Saint Denis. He waited.
It didn't take long.
Two men appeared first, walking side by side, coats buttoned, hats low. They moved with purpose, scanning their surroundings without appearing to. Pinkertons. Field agents, judging by their demeanor.
Caleb adjusted his aim.
He didn't rush the shot. He watched their rhythm. Their spacing. He waited until they stepped into a natural break in cover, where the road curved and the trees thinned.
The rifle cracked once.
One man dropped instantly, momentum carrying him forward into the dirt. The second froze for half a heartbeat, confusion flashing across his face—
Then the second shot came.
Caleb was already moving before the echo faded, breaking down the rifle with practiced efficiency and slipping away from the ridge. By the time shouting carried across the road, he was gone.
That was the first pair.
The next came near the docks that night. Caleb watched from the shadows of a warehouse roof, the river reflecting lantern light below. Pinkertons liked the docks. Too much movement. Too many places to hide. Too much information changing hands.
Two agents spoke quietly near a crate, one lighting a cigarette.
Caleb exhaled.
One shot. One body.
The other ran.
Caleb let him.
Fear spread faster than bullets ever could.
Over the next hours, Saint Denis changed.
Whispers replaced confidence. Pinkertons moved in larger groups, then smaller ones again when they realized numbers only made them more visible to this mysterious shooter. They checked windows. Avoided open streets. Slept poorly.
Caleb never stayed in one place long. He fired from rooftops, from abandoned balconies, from shadowed alleys and distant rooftops where no one thought to look. Sometimes he didn't even shoot, just watched, mapped, and learned patterns of the Pinkertons.
By dawn, four agents were dead.
By the next night, two more.
The city buzzed with rumor right after that.
Some said Angelo Bronte was making his move against the Pinkertons. Others claimed the Pinkertons had crossed the wrong people, and it's not Bronte. A few whispered McLaughlin's name, though no one said it too loudly as it was the least logical rumours since he doesn't have any contact with Pinkertons.
Caleb returned to the Bastille briefly to rest, clean his weapons, and eat. He slept for a few hours, then went back out.
It was on the third night that he spotted them.
Agent Milton and Ross.
They were together, as expected and like in the game as well, moving with an armed escort through a quieter district near the edge of the city. Eight men total, which was armed, alert, and dangerous.
Caleb followed from above, leaping rooftops and moving through the city like a ghost. He didn't take the shot immediately. He waited for the right place.
A narrow street. High walls. Limited escape routes.
The escort moved first.
Caleb began by picking the escort off in sequence, controlled, precise shots that dropped men before they could even identify the threat. Chaos erupted, shouting echoing off stone as Milton and Ross drew their weapons and ducked for cover.
Milton barked orders, trying to rally what remained of his men.
Ross meanwhile looked around sharply, eyes darting from rooftop to window to shadowed alley, trying to triangulate where the shots could possibly be coming from. He knew better than to fixate on one angle for too long. Men who survived long enough in this line of work learned that tunnel vision was a death sentence.
Caleb waited.
He remained perfectly still, body pressed low against the rooftop edge, rifle steady, breath controlled. He watched Ross search, watched the way the agent's jaw tightened, the way his shoulders tensed. Ross was cautious, experienced, but not cautious enough to realize just how deliberate this silence was.
Milton, on the other hand, was already adapting.
He managed to rally the remaining three men from the original six-man escort, pulling them into tighter formation. His voice cut through the chaos with authority, sharp and commanding.
"Spread your eyes, not your bodies!" Milton barked. "Stay under cover! Watch the rooftops, the windows, the alleys, everything!"
The surviving agents shifted, backs pressed against stone and wood, weapons raised, scanning carefully. They were scared now. That much was obvious. But fear didn't make them useless. It made them unpredictable.
Milton took a step forward, still partially shielded behind a low wall, and raised his voice, not shouting blindly, but projecting, controlled.
"Whoever you are!" he called out. "Man or woman, it doesn't matter. I want to know why you're targeting the Pinkerton Detective Agency! We're official agents of the government!"
Caleb smiled behind his cover.
This was the moment.
He activated his Acting Skill, adjusting his voice deliberately. He pushed it higher, lighter, ambiguous, something that could belong to a man with an unusual pitch or a woman hardened by years of violence. He made sure it carried just enough mockery to cut.
"What I am," Caleb called back, voice ringing across stone and shadow, "is none of your business, Pinkerton."
Milton stiffened.
"But one thing you should know," Caleb continued, pacing his words carefully, "this is business… and personal."
Ross's eyes flicked toward Milton.
"You offended a very powerful man," Caleb went on. "A man you never should have offended. And he hired me to take all of you out."
A pause.
"And honestly?" Caleb added, letting a grin creep into his tone, "it's been a pleasure. I've got my own vendetta. And it turns out, when the situation's reversed, the high and mighty Pinkertons aren't so impressive after all."
Then Caleb laughed.
A loud, cackling laugh that echoed unnaturally between the buildings. High pitched. Unsettling. Impossible to pin down. It could have belonged to anyone.
The effect was immediate.
Milton's face darkened, his expression twisting into something cold and dangerous. Ross's jaw clenched, teeth grinding audibly.
Milton leaned closer to Ross, voice low now. "Have we hit someone recently? An organization? A group I don't know about?"
Ross shook his head sharply. "Not that I'm aware of. Our reports don't mention anything like this."
Milton exhaled through his nose. "Damn it."
Ross grimaced. "Communications with headquarters haven't been smooth. Not after Lemoyne."
Milton snorted quietly. "Four failed ambushes. Clients angry. Headquarters disappointed."
Ross's mouth tightened. "Cornwall especially."
Milton shook his head. "Leviticus Cornwall is a hard man to please. Money only goes so far. Tracking down the Van der Linde gang hasn't been easy lately."
Ross glanced down the street, eyes narrowing. "They've gotten smarter. Covering their tracks. Laying low."
"And yet," Milton muttered, "still reckless enough to blow up half the outskirts of the Braithwaite land and fall into an obvious wagon trap."
"They still slipped away," Ross said grimly.
Milton straightened, anger hardening into resolve. He raised his voice again, projecting toward where Caleb's voice had come from.
"Then there's nothing left to do," Milton called. "We end this here. Whoever walks away is the winner."
Caleb's smirk widened.
"Oh, I'm not afraid," he replied in the same disguised voice. "I'll be the one standing at the end of this. You'll be the ones dying tonight."
As soon as the words left his mouth, Caleb fired.
One of the Pinkertons peeked from behind cover for a split second, long enough.
The bullet took him cleanly in the head.
He dropped without a sound.
Milton swore loudly. Ross pointed sharply upward. "There! He's around there!"
Ross's finger jabbed toward the section of rooftop Caleb occupied.
Caleb was already moving.
Bullets snapped against stone as the remaining Pinkertons opened fire, their shots tearing chips from masonry where Caleb had been moments earlier. He ducked low, rolling behind a chimney stack as rounds screamed overhead.
He returned fire, not blindly, but with precision.
Dead Eye activated.
Time slowed.
Caleb leaned out just enough to line up his shots. Two quick pulls of the trigger.
Two bodies fell.
The echoes faded.
Silence returned, broken only by the distant shouts of alarm spreading through the district.
Only Milton and Ross remained.
Caleb disengaged Dead Eye and stayed in cover, listening.
Below, Ross grabbed Milton's arm. "We need to move. Now."
Milton shook him off. "Not without—"
"Listen to me," Ross hissed. "This shooter's too good. Better one of us lives than both of us die."
Milton hesitated.
That hesitation saved him.
Ross shoved Milton toward an alley. "Go! I'll cover you!"
Milton looked at him for a long second. Then he nodded once, grimly, and turned, disappearing into the shadows.
Ross stayed.
He took position behind a stack of crates, firing upward, forcing Caleb to keep his head down. Ross wasn't trying to win. He was buying time.
Caleb recognized it immediately.
A professional to the end.
He adjusted position, sliding lower, changing angle. Ross fired again, bullets chewing into the rooftop edge. Caleb waited for the rhythm. The reload.
Then he moved.
He dropped down to a lower roof, rolled, came up kneeling, rifle already aligned.
Ross peeked out.
Caleb fired.
The shot hit Ross square in the chest, throwing him backward. He collapsed against the crates, gun clattering to the ground.
Caleb didn't rush it.
He descended carefully, boots silent against stone, rifle lowered but ready. Ross was still alive, barely. Blood stained his coat, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Ross looked up at him, eyes sharp even now. "You're… aren't you… McLaughlin," he rasped.
Caleb crouched a few feet away, still keeping his distance.
"Yes," Caleb said calmly, voice back to normal now. "Yes I'm."
Ross coughed weakly. "Cornwall… won't stop."
Caleb nodded. "I know."
Ross let out a humorless laugh that turned into a wet cough. "Milton… won't either."
"I know," Caleb repeated.
Ross's gaze locked onto him. "You think… your boss control this city?"
Caleb tilted his head slightly. "I don't think. I'm making sure."
Ross exhaled slowly. "Then you'd better be ready."
Caleb raised the rifle.
"I am."
The final shot echoed softly, swallowed by the stone walls.
Caleb stood for a moment after, listening to the city react, distant shouts, whistles, footsteps converging far away. He wiped the rifle down quickly, slung it over his shoulder, and disappeared into the maze of alleys before anyone arrived.
By the time dawn broke, Saint Denis was in turmoil.
Agent Ross was dead.
Milton was gone.
And the Pinkertons knew, with terrifying certainty, that they were no longer the hunters. They were prey. Caleb returned to the Bastille before morning crowds filled the streets. He slipped inside unnoticed, weapons stowed, coat dusted clean. He climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door quietly behind him.
...
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: -