"Put it on," the bartender said. "The wooden plaque is your number, your identification for accepting jobs. If you decide to quit, you can return it for a refund, prorated based on your rank."
Henry pocketed the plaque and pulled the hood over his head.
The bald bartender led him to the back door of the saloon. He knocked twice, waited two seconds, then knocked three more times. The door opened from the outside.
"In you go," the bartender said, stepping aside.
The moment Henry stepped through, the door slammed shut behind him. Three pistols were leveled at his head.
"Hands up," a man with a brutish face said, his voice a low growl. "We're going to search you."
Henry complied, raising his hands. Two men frisked him, their search slow and meticulous.
When they were finished, they flanked him, one in front and one behind, and led him into the back alley. The path was a winding labyrinth, twisting through narrow passages and even through the back doors of several seemingly ordinary houses.
After nearly five minutes, they arrived at a two-story brick villa, surrounded by a three-meter-high granite wall. Eight guards stood at the entrance, pistols at their hips and Winchesters in their hands.
One of the guards checked Henry's wooden plaque, then opened the door and led him inside.
The courtyard was dominated by a large, Mediterranean-style building. Ten gunmen watched from the second-floor balcony, while another ten patrolled the grounds below.
"You're E-rank," the guard explained. "Missions C-rank and below are in the ten rooms on the left. The rooms on the right are for trading, B-rank and above missions, and for posting your own jobs. You'll be going to the left."
"A white plaque on the door means the room is free. Black means it's occupied. If they're all full, you wait on that bench. The seats further in are first in line."
"And one more thing," the guard added, his voice hard. "You stick to the path. You do not step into the center of the garden."
With that, he turned and left.
Henry counted twenty-eight guards so far, all of them seasoned professionals, judging by the calluses on their hands and the look in their eyes. The surrounding buildings could be hiding hundreds more.
He did a quick mental inventory. His progress bar was at 10.78%. He had enough pearls and husks to handle himself, as long as he wasn't facing a machine gun. He had enough stored energy to upgrade his Agility or Strength, but he was still set on saving up for his Precognition talent.
He walked down the line of small, partitioned rooms. All of them had black plaques on the door, except for the very last one. Business was good.
He knocked, then pushed the door open. The room contained a simple wooden table and three stools. A skinny, red-haired young man sat behind the table, a single guard standing behind him, a revolver resting in his lap.
Henry took the empty seat.
"What job are you here for?" the red-haired man asked. "Your plaque?"
Henry placed the wooden plaque on the table. "What do you have available?"
"You're E-rank, so you can take D or E-rank jobs," the man said, sliding a small notebook across the table.
Henry flipped through it. The jobs were standard mercenary fare: guard duty, kidnapping, robbery, assassination, theft. The pay was low. A spot on a twenty-man team guarding a fur merchant paid $1.50 a day. The black market also took a 5% commission, with a two-dollar minimum, and they were likely taking a cut from the employer as well.
The red-haired man looked Henry over, his eyes lingering on his tall, powerful frame. "There is one other job," he said with a smile. "No rank required. The head of a man named Henry Bruce. Interested in his latest whereabouts? Only ten dollars."
"Who's Henry?" Henry asked, his voice a low, gravelly muffle from behind the mask.
"Sheriff of some backwater mountain town. Someone's put a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on his head. Anyone can take the job, no deposit required. The full intel report on him will cost you three hundred."
"I'll take the ten-dollar version," Henry said, pulling two five-dollar bills from his pouch.
The red-haired man slid a single sheet of paper across the table.
Henry read it. It detailed the exact time he had emerged from the Rocky Mountains, the number of people in his party, their weapons, and their final destination: the Mellon estate. It even included his plan to escort Linda to the train station.
At the bottom, a single line was printed in bold, underlined text:
SUBJECT IS A HIGHLY SKILLED GUNMAN, EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND RUTHLESS. POISON, STEALTH, OR AMBUSH RECOMMENDED.
"Can you tell me how many people have bought this information?" Henry asked. "I need to know about the competition."
"A lot," the man replied with a grin. "But I can't give you the exact number."
"How do I collect the bounty?"
"Bring his head here. We'll pay you in cash, minus our ten percent commission. We will guarantee your safety within these walls and provide you with a secret exit from the city."
The man leaned back in his chair, the picture of a successful professional. "So, have you chosen a job?"
"I have," Henry said. "But I have one more question. It's my first time here. Do I have to leave the same way I came in, through the Hamlet Saloon?"
"No," the man said. "That's just for new arrivals. Someone will show you the way out."
"Thank you. And if I have important intelligence to sell, who do I talk to?"