Following the faint connection to his horses, Henry made his way through the winding streets of the stockyards. He soon found them. In the ground floor of a massive, four-story building, he could sense twenty of his horses.
The sign on the building read: "Pony Trade Company."
He knew the name from the black market files. This was a front for the "Lagan's Colts," the most powerful and notorious gang in all of Illinois. They were said to have over five thousand members and controlled a vast network of businesses, both legitimate and criminal. They were also infamous for their brutality, often disguising themselves to slaughter rival ranchers and farmers who refused to pay their protection fees, hanging even the women and children as a warning to others. Their reputation was so fearsome that their name was used to frighten misbehaving children.
"What do you want?" one of the five thugs loitering by the entrance asked.
"I'm looking for my hundred horses," Henry said with a calm smile. "I was told they might be in this building."
The five men exchanged a look. "Who told you that?" the skinny one asked.
"Kenneth, the insurance agent."
"That damn fool," the skinny thug muttered, then sneered at Henry. "We have a lot of horses in here, but none of them are yours. Get lost."
Henry looked around. The stockyards were a hive of activity, people and wagons constantly moving.
"He took a dollar from me to tell me," Henry said, his voice earnest. "He wouldn't lie. Just let me take a look. If they're not here, I'll leave immediately."
"Damn it, Kenneth…" the skinny thug was about to say more when another, larger man cut him off.
"Alright," the big man said, giving his friends a subtle, knowing look. "You can come in and look. But if they're not here, you leave. No trouble."
Henry followed the five of them inside. The ground floor was a massive warehouse, with stables, cattle pens, and storage for produce. Five more men—three Hispanics and two red-haired Irishmen—were in the process of leading twenty of Henry's horses from their stalls.
"Hey!" Henry called out. "Stop! Those are my horses!"
The big thug who had let him in slammed the door shut behind them.
The five stable hands turned and walked toward him. "Oh?" the red-haired one said with a malicious grin. "So you're the idiot?"
"Diego and his boys got lucky," one of the Hispanic men grumbled. "Heard they each got six hundred dollars off this fool."
The big thug behind Henry laughed. "You heard them, kid. A thousand dollars from each of us, and you can walk out of here alive."
Six more men, who had been loading a wagon, stopped their work and came over, their faces splitting into predatory grins. "And us," one of them said. "Not a single one less."
The massive loading doors at the back of the warehouse were slammed shut, plunging the room into a dim, hazy light. Eight more men emerged from the shadows. "Us too," they chanted. "Not a single one less."
Henry's hands became a blur.
He didn't even need his Super Reflexes. In two seconds, a storm of twelve-inch throwing knives filled the air. The seventeen men furthest from him all collapsed, a blade in each of their throats.
At the same time, a rapier appeared in each of his hands. The four men closest to him had their throats slit and their hearts pierced before they could even register what was happening.
He spun. His right rapier was now at the heart of the big thug who had let him in, and his left was at the man's throat.
"I ask, you answer," Henry said, his voice a low whisper. "You hesitate for a second, I'll open a new hole in you. Nod if you understand."
The big man nodded frantically.
"Where are my other eighty horses?"
"They took them to headquarters," the man gasped. "They're good warhorses. They were sent in batches. This was the last one."
"Good. You're cooperating. You might just live. What gang is this? Where's your headquarters?"
"We're Lagan's Colts. Headquarters is at 68th and Michigan Avenue, in the south side."
"The five stable hands?"
"They got a cut. Six hundred each. One of them, Diego, his cousin is one of our capos. Mario. He's up on the third floor right now."
"The warehouse manager, Sandy, and the insurance man, Kenneth. Are they yours?"
"Sandy is. The whole building is ours. Kenneth is an associate."
After a few more questions, the thug had told him everything he knew. He saw the expression on Henry's face soften, and he allowed himself a moment of hope.
It was the last thing he ever felt. The two rapiers shot forward, and his world went black.