If you want to read 20 Chapters ahead, be sure to check out my Patreon!!!
Go to https://www.patreon.com/Tang12
...
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.
He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees.
Everything was moving now.
He had just removed one of the two dangerous men hunting the Van der Linde gang, without the Pinkertons ever knowing who their mysterious attacker truly was.
Bronte would hear of this news soon enough. Cornwall too. As for Milton, he would definitely retreat, regroup, and escalate the situation, as he wasn't the kind of men who back down. The city would tighten further.
Exactly as planned.
Caleb lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains.
Saint Denis was no longer just a city caught between crime and law. It was a battlefield that Caleb have made between Bronte and the Pinkertons.
As he thought so, Caleb realized that soon it would be time for him to leave Saint Denis.
Not flee. Not vanish. Leave.
There was a difference.
The way out had to be clean. Ordinary. Unsuspicious. He couldn't afford even the faintest trace that would connect the bounty hunter McLaughlin, the quiet, observant foreigner with business sense and polite manners, to the Van der Linde gang.
Bronte especially could never be allowed to catch even a whiff of that truth. Caleb had spent too long cultivating this disguise, too many conversations measured, too many gestures restrained, too many nights walking carefully between monsters, to let it unravel now.
Saint Denis had been a mask. A necessary one.
Everything he had done here, every whispered rumor, every dead Pinkerton, every careful provocation,had been for his own interest, yes, but also for the gang. To keep them alive. To keep them breathing long enough to see the truth.
And the truth was this, Dutch van der Linde was no longer the man they followed.
Caleb stared at the ceiling, eyes unfocused, mind working relentlessly.
The moment that sealed it for him hadn't even been Saint Denis. It had been earlier. Dutch abandoning Javier. Leaving him to a Pinkerton ambush. Watching Bill hesitated in money of confusion and feat, watching Arthur hesitate, watching Hosea's face darken with disbelief.
And then watching Dutch justify it.
That was when Caleb knew.
Dutch had been dragged back into the rescue not by conviction, but by pressure, by the weight of the others refusing to accept his decision. Even then, even after risking everything to pull Javier out alive, Dutch had returned to camp bitter, defensive, simmering.
The argument that followed had been inevitable. Voices raised. Accusations flung. Dutch pacing like a caged animal, eyes wild, accusing Hosea and Arthur of betrayal.
And Caleb.
Especially Caleb.
In Dutch's eyes, being questioned was the greatest sin of all.
Caleb understood men like him. Men who wrapped their ego in philosophy. Who mistook control for leadership and obedience for loyalty. Dutch didn't fear the law. He didn't fear the Pinkertons. He feared irrelevance. He feared being wrong.
And now, surrounded by people who were beginning, finally, to see through the fog of his rhetoric, Dutch was becoming dangerous in a new way.
A ticking powder keg.
Caleb exhaled slowly.
It was time Dutch was taken care of.
Whether that meant elimination, formal removal from leadership, or something messier… Caleb didn't yet know. But one thing was certain, the gang had to be free of him. Free to see clearly. Free to survive.
Only then could Caleb begin the second phase.
He had the money. More than enough. Funds he have siphoned from his business and also the Blackwater money, alongside the moneys he got from robbing and also Bronte. He could give them new identities. Legitimate work. A future that didn't end with a rope or a shallow grave.
He imagined it as his thoughts drifted, assembling possibilities like pieces on a board.
Strauss, cold, cruel, but brilliant with numbers, could become his accountant. Keep the books clean. Make the money grow instead of rot in buried chests. Caleb would never forgive Strauss for the lives his loans destroyed, but genius was genius, and Strauss's mind was wasted on cruelty alone. Caleb could use him. Would use him, cautiously.
Miss Grimshaw, the strict, uncompromising, and terrifying women when crossed. Perfect. A store manager, overseeing operations, inventory, staff. No theft. No disorder. She would thrive in structure.
Pearson… Pearson deserved better than camp stew and complaints. Given proper ingredients, the man could cook. Caleb could already see it, him working at his fast food establishment at first, then a proper dining restaurant. Pearson as head chef. Honest work. Honest pride.
Karen, Tilly, Molly, they could have freedom. Choices. Safe work if they wanted. Love if they found it. Tilly's future in the epilogue proved it was possible. Karen could sing, charm, act. Molly… Molly just needed freedom from Dutch's shadow.
The boys and Sadie.
Especially Arthur, John, and Charles.
Men and women forged in violence, yes, but disciplined, capable, loyal when led properly. A private security firm. Mercenaries, bodyguards, protection for legitimate enterprises. No random bloodshed. No pointless robberies. A purpose.
And Hosea… old Hosea.
Caleb smiled faintly.
Hosea would be perfect where words mattered. Negotiation. Recruitment. Reading people. Human resources, in the modern sense Caleb envisioned. The old man would finally get to use his gift without blood on his hands. Who could keep everything honest when Caleb couldn't be everywhere at once.
It could work.
It would work.
But first… Saint Denis had to be exited cleanly, and only if Dutch was gone.
Caleb let the thoughts settle and, for the first time in days, allowed exhaustion to claim him. He rolled onto his side and slept.
The knock came at noon.
Sharp. Firm. Deliberate.
Caleb eyes opened, clear and alert, instincts snapping awake as though he'd never slept at all. He rolled to a sitting position, rubbing his face once before swinging his legs over the side of the bed.
Another knock.
"Who is it?" Caleb called out, voice roughened just enough with sleep to sound natural.
The answer froze him.
""Buongiorno, Signore McLaughlin," came the familiar, cultured Italian accent from the other side of the door. "It is me, Angelo Bronte. I have something to discuss with you immediately, if you would be so kind as to open the door."
Caleb was fully awake now.
Then his pulse steadied.
No panic. Panic was useless.
He swung his legs off the bed, pulled on his boots, straightened his clothes with practiced efficiency. Everything neat. Everything in place. No weapons visible. No sign of alarm.
He crossed the room and opened the door.
Bronte stood there smiling.
He wore a tailored suit, immaculate as ever, his dark hair slicked back, eyes sharp and calculating. At his side stood Guido, his present right hand, expression unreadable. Behind them loomed two of Bronte's enforcers, thick necked men with the quiet menace of predators who didn't need to bare their teeth.
"Ah," Bronte said pleasantly. "You are awake."
"Good Morning Mr. Bronte," Caleb replied smoothly. "To what do I owe this unexpected visit?"
Bronte gestured lightly. "Come. Let us speak inside. In private."
Caleb stepped aside without hesitation.
They entered the room, the door closing softly behind them. The enforcers remained outside, as expected. Guido stayed.
The room felt smaller instantly.
Bronte glanced around the room, taking in every detail, the bed, the table, the lamp, the faint scent of oil and gunpowder that clung to a man who worked as Caleb did.
"You live simply," Bronte observed.
"I like it that way," Caleb replied.
Bronte nodded approvingly. "Good. Simple men are dangerous men."
He gestured toward the chairs. "Sit."
They did.
Bronte folded his hands over his cane, leaning forward slightly, eyes never leaving Caleb's face.
"You have been busy," Bronte said.
Caleb didn't deny it. "I do what I'm paid to do."
Bronte smiled wider. "The Pinkertons are pulling back. Ross is dead. Milton has vanished like a frightened rat."
He laughed softly. "Saint Denis is quieter already."
Caleb allowed himself a faint smile. "They shouldn't have overstayed their welcome."
"No," Bronte agreed. "They should not have."
He studied Caleb for a long moment, then nodded once, decisively.
"You have done me a great service, Signore McLaughlin. Greater than I asked."
Caleb met his gaze steadily. "I aim to exceed expectations."
Bronte laughed outright at that. "Ah! I like you."
He leaned back. "The police chief is cooperative. Cornwall is furious. The Pinkertons are licking their wounds elsewhere."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "But men like Milton… they do not forget. They escalate."
Caleb shrugged. "Then he'll make mistakes."
Bronte's smile returned, sharp as a knife. "Exactly."
He rose slowly to his feet. "There may be more work soon. But for now… enjoy Saint Denis. And oh, this is your payment for a job well done."
Guido took out a letter from his suit and gave it to Caleb who stood as well, and receive the money. "Of course Mr. Bronte, and thank you for the money."
Bronte paused at the door, turning back.
"One more thing," he said lightly. "If you ever decide to leave the city… come speak to me first."
Caleb inclined his head. "Naturally."
Bronte left, Guido following close behind.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Caleb exhaled.
So Bronte was watching him more closely now.
That meant his window was narrowing.
Good.
It was almost time to disappear.
Caleb waited until the echo of Bronte's footsteps had fully vanished down the corridor before moving again.
Only then did he turn back to the small table near the window and open the letter Guido had handed him.
Inside were crisp dollar bills, folded neatly, the edges sharp enough to bite. He didn't need to count them to know the weight, but habit was a hard thing to break. He did anyway, methodical, precise.
750 dollars.
Caleb let out a slow breath through his nose.
That was, without question, the largest single payment Angelo Bronte had ever given him.
Ross was dead. Milton had vanished. The Pinkertons had been pushed into a corner, bloodied and scrambling, their grip on Saint Denis loosening by the hour. Whether they withdrew entirely or simply bled quietly while Bronte tightened his hold, the result was the same.
The iron fisted crimelord of Saint Denis was pleased.
Very pleased.
Caleb folded the bills once more and, with a practiced thought, slid them into his system inventory. The weight vanished from his hands, stored safely beyond reach, beyond theft, beyond the messiness of the physical world. It was a comfort he never fully took for granted.
750 dollars for a single operation.
For killing Ross.
For forcing Milton into retreat.
For turning hunters into prey.
Worth every drop of blood.
Caleb straightened his coat, gave the room one final glance to ensure nothing was out of place, then stepped out and locked the door behind him.
The Bastille was quieter than it had been that morning. No Bronte. No Guido. No enforcers lingering in corners pretending to be furniture. Whatever business Bronte had intended, it was already finished. They had come, assessed, rewarded, and departed.
Efficient. Brutal. Predictable.
Caleb descended the stairs at an unhurried pace and headed toward the bar.
Ezra was on duty today.
The older man glanced up as Caleb approached, recognition flickering briefly across his face before settling back into professional neutrality.
"Afternoon," Ezra said.
"Afternoon," Caleb replied, resting his elbows lightly against the counter. "Steak. And a bottle of beer."
Ezra nodded once. Caleb reached into his pocket and placed 11 dollars on the counter. No haggling. No hesitation. Ezra took the money, slid it into the register, and reached beneath the bar for a bottle.
...
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: 3,776 dollars and 10 cents
Inventory: 112,892 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: -