After reviewing his plan, Henry took a cold shower and went to sleep.
At 6 AM, the streets of Chicago were filled with the cries of newsboys.
"Extra, extra! Pinkerton headquarters burned to the ground overnight!"
"Extra, extra! Allan and Robert Pinkerton, missing!"
"Mysterious 'Raven Brotherhood' clubhouse destroyed! Over three hundred bodies found at the scene!"
"Massive gunfight and explosion rocks Monroe Street! Over five hundred dead!"
The sensational headlines sent the city into a frenzy. The news that the Pinkerton and black market headquarters had both been annihilated on the same night spread like a hurricane.
In a manor in the suburbs, Morrison, the black market chief, had already received the reports from his own men. He read the morning papers, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. He could feel the cold, sharp point of Henry's invisible dagger at his throat, ready to strike at any moment. He knew, with an absolute certainty, that if his location was ever compromised, Henry would find him and bury him.
His entire Chicago operation was in ruins. A fortune in assets, gone. His most elite personnel, all dead. He didn't even dare to contact "The Banshee." He was terrified the big boss would offer him up as a sacrifice to appease Henry's wrath.
But he also knew he couldn't hide in Chicago forever. Sooner or later, "The Banshee" would find him. He decided he would take his family and his eight most trusted guards and flee the country.
At the same time, the five ranking senior detectives at the Pinkerton headquarters had sent a telegram to the agency's second-in-command, William Pinkerton, in San Francisco. The fire had been extinguished, but the building was a total loss, a charred skeleton. All evidence was gone.
They had also confirmed that Allan and Robert Pinkerton had never returned to their homes the previous night. A scouting party had found the burned-out wreckage of their carriage on a suburban road. They were presumed dead.
The detectives now strongly suspected that the two events were connected, that the agency and the black market had been targeted by the same powerful, ruthless enemy. But they didn't know why. They didn't know about Henry. The only man in their New York branch who had known the full story, Alston, was already gone.
In San Francisco, William Pinkerton made his arrangements and boarded the next train to Chicago. He would arrive in two days.
William Vanderbilt, in New York, also received the news. He knew immediately who was responsible. Henry's "talks" were proving to be remarkably effective.
The boy is a force of nature, he thought, a deep and profound admiration in his heart. He is a man who gets things done. He immediately sent for his granddaughter, Consuelo.
Henry awoke at 10 AM, ate four pounds of steak and five pounds of bread for breakfast, and then settled in to take a full inventory of his latest haul.
It took him until 7 PM that evening. When he was finished, he had only one word: Rich.
The three safes from the Pinkerton headquarters had contained only a small amount of operating cash. But the black market's vaults… that was a different story. He had acquired $287,650 in cash, over $390,000 in bearer bonds and railroad securities, and 62,800 ounces of gold bars.
His personal fortune had just swelled by over two million dollars. He was now worth nearly four million.
He suspected he had hit the black market on their settlement day. The massive hoard of gold was likely "The Banshee's" personal reserve, stored in the fortress-like headquarters for safekeeping. In an age of rampant bank robberies, it was a logical choice.
He spent the rest of the evening cleaning his Sharps rifles and studying the intelligence files. He found what he was looking for: a list of military-surplus cannons, stored in a black market warehouse in Pittsburgh.
In Washington D.C., "The Banshee" had also received the news. He immediately mobilized his own elite intelligence network. He had to find Henry. He had to make peace.
An open, declared enemy like Henry was one thing. A hidden, silent one was a thousand times more dangerous. He had no doubt that if Henry ever learned his true identity, he and his entire family would be next on the list.
In the upper echelons of the black market, Henry was now feared not just for his power, but for his cunning, his ruthlessness, and his utter lack of restraint. He didn't just kill his enemies; he erased them, then used their demise to build his own legend, to court the favor of the powerful.
It was a fucking ten-thousand-dollar bounty! "The Banshee" raged, his mind a storm of fear and regret. How did it come to this?
The next morning, Henry awoke to a clear, rain-washed sky. He tidied up the manor, then left, locking the door behind him. He rode his Appaloosa through the city, past the stables where his forty other horses were being kept. He could feel their presence, a strange, new connection forged by the pearl husks he had infused them with. They were all safe.
He rode for two hours, forty miles into the southeastern countryside, a vast, rolling landscape of corn, alfalfa, and soybean fields. He was looking for a new base of operations.
He found it at a small, hundred-by-hundred-meter farmstead, with a large grinding mill in the yard. The owner, an old German man named Hans, was looking to sell.