Meanwhile, in a manor in Chicago's western suburbs, William Pinkerton, Allan's second son, was in a tense meeting with the agency's five remaining senior detectives.
"Based on the telegram from Kent in New York," one of the detectives, Dallas, was saying, "it's clear that Allan and Robert were deeply concerned about Henry Bruce. It's highly probable that he was the one behind the destruction of our New York branch."
"And the Raven Brotherhood as well," another, Fraser, added. "From the New York Sun's reports and our own channels, it's clear Henry's combat prowess is inhuman. The Italian fencing master, Luca, who challenged him at the Vanderbilt party, died in the hospital two days ago. And Henry's methods are always the same: fire and overwhelming force, leaving no evidence behind."
"The Whyos headquarters was likely his work as well," Fraser continued. "And the McKinley family… our Denver branch reports they've lost four or five hundred of their private soldiers and have been forced to hire our own patrolmen for protection. Their main manor has been nearly destroyed. The timeline for the Chicago attacks also fits. Henry disappeared after the Vanderbilt party and missed his other social engagements."
A heavy, chilling silence fell over the room as the men absorbed the full, terrifying scope of Henry's campaign.
"If this is all Henry's work, William," a detective named Callum said, his voice grave, "then you are in extreme danger. Henry spared the rank-and-file agents in New York and Chicago, but he specifically targeted Allan and Robert."
His words landed like a stone. The implication was clear: Allan and Robert had provoked this demon, and he had responded with a targeted, personal vengeance. The rest of them were safe, as long as they stayed out of it.
William was furious. He knew that Callum, an Irishman with his own ambitions, was subtly undermining his authority. But he couldn't deny the logic.
Just then, there was a knock at the door. An agent entered.
"An hour ago, the Lagan's Colts' Chicago branch headquarters was completely destroyed by fire. Fifty-five bodies were found outside the main building and the hotel next door. Another twenty-four were found inside the hotel. There were no survivors from the main building."
He's still in Chicago, the six men thought, their blood running cold.
"I'm going to investigate," one of the detectives, Rory, said, and immediately stood to leave. Callum and another, Frederick, followed him.
William was left with a feeling of profound despair. Even his father's most loyal men were abandoning him.
"William," Dallas said, his tone gentle, "I also advise you to leave. Go abroad, for a time. It's clear Henry's target is specific."
But William could not accept it. To run, to flee in the face of this enemy, was a cowardice he could not stomach. If he left now, the company his father had built would be torn apart by the jackals.
"I will consider your advice," he said, his voice a low, hollow whisper.
Dallas and Fraser exchanged a look, then nodded and left as well.
As the three detectives who had first left rode away from the manor, they passed a tall, lone rider on an Appaloosa, his face hidden by a wide-brimmed hat and a thick beard. They spurred their horses, a silent, shared understanding passing between them.
A few minutes later, Fraser and Dallas left as well. As they passed the same rider, Fraser's horse suddenly bolted. Dallas, startled, followed suit. It was only when they had put a mile between themselves and the manor that Fraser finally slowed.
Dallas pulled up beside him, a question on his lips, but he saw the look on his friend's face—a mixture of terror, regret, and a strange, chilling relief—and he understood. He pulled on his own reins, but Fraser reached out and grabbed his arm.
"It's too late," Fraser said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
He knew, in that moment, that if they had turned back, Henry would have hunted them down. A man who could destroy the Lagan's Colts in a single afternoon was not a man to be trifled with.
I tried to warn you, William, Fraser thought, a silent eulogy for the man he was leaving to die.
Henry, his Intuition talent tingling, had sensed the fear and the resignation in the men as they passed. They knew. And because they knew, and because they had chosen to flee, he let them go. They were smart. They were survivors. He could use men like that.
He dismounted five hundred meters from the Pinkerton estate, pulled on his mask, and began his approach.
The two guards at the main gate saw only a flicker of motion before they were shot through the head.
He walked up the long drive, his pace steady and unhurried. The guards in the watchtowers and behind the walls saw him coming. But every time one of them raised a rifle, a bullet was already on its way, a perfect, soul-stealing shot that found its mark before they could even pull the trigger.
Eight more shots, and the manor's outer defenses were silenced.
With his LV 5 Rifle Mastery, his aim was perfect, his movements fluid and economical. The rifle was an extension of his will.
He was the god of death, and his gaze was a judgment from which there was no escape.