The tone Felix set at the high-level strategic meeting caused the entire Argyle commercial system to begin operating at high speed around a new axis.
Edward Frost quickly settled into his new role. He was like an efficient sponge, madly absorbing the complex information about the company's various projects and transforming it into clear schedules and memos, becoming the most reliable bridge between Felix and his vast business empire.
Catherine was able to step away from miscellaneous tasks and devote all her energy to Umbrella Corporation. Under her leadership, the company was expanding its production of Iodoglycerol, and her joint working group with Archbishop Hughes had begun preliminary discussions about the future orphanage and the teaching staff for the schools.
Everything seemed to be developing in the best direction.
However, in Five Points, the lowest tier of New York, before the seeds of hope could sprout, they first had to face the venomous snakes lurking underground.
Jones, the president of the food company and executive director of the "Five Points Revitalization Plan," had been busy for a full week in this area where he once lived.
Every morning, he would change into a simple work uniform and personally come to the dusty, newly acquired block to supervise the demolition work of the construction team, and argue fiercely with the engineers sent by Mr. Upjohn, the architect, about the depth of the foundation and the layout of the sewer pipes.
He would even personally pick up a hammer and work alongside the newly recruited Irish workers.
His hands-on approach earned him the respect of the workers. They no longer saw him as a high-and-mighty Boss, but as one of their "own people" who genuinely cared about the area.
However, Jones keenly sensed an invisible undercurrent swirling beneath the seemingly calm construction site.
"Jones," Paddy O'Malley, the tavern owner who had helped him with all the acquisitions, found him one evening, his face filled with deep worry, "Things aren't quite right."
"What's wrong, Uncle Paddy?" Jones was wiping mud from his hands with a rough cloth.
"Three of the workers we recruited had their legs broken in an alley on their way home yesterday," O'Malley lowered his voice. "This morning, five more workers didn't show up for work. Their families said they received a 'warning.'"
Jones's eyes instantly turned cold. "Who did it?"
"Local Boys" O'Malley said, naming a group that all immigrants in Five Points feared. "Their leader is Kane Pugh. A native-born Englishman who hates us Irish who took their jobs the most."
Jones had, of course, heard that name. Kane Pugh and his "Local Boys" were not a traditional gang. They were more like a political group composed of local unemployed white men, full of xenophobia and violent tendencies. They didn't sell illegal liquor or run casinos; they only did one thing—use violence to "tax" all immigrants making a living in this area.
"What do they want?"
"According to the rules here," O'Malley sighed, "any project that wants to start work here must pay them a 'protection fee.' And," he added the most crucial sentence, "their demands this time are more excessive than ever before."
"I sent someone to ask," O'Malley held up five fingers. "Five thousand dollars. And they demand that all the highest-paying positions on the construction site, such as foremen and skilled workers, must be filled by people from their gang. Our people can only do the most tiring and dirty manual labor."
Jones sneered. This was no longer just extortion. It was an insult, a blatant discrimination and provocation against him and all the Irish workers.
"They're asking for death!" Jones snorted coldly.
He looked at his compatriots nearby, who had just received their wages and had long-lost smiles on their faces. The Boss's plan was to bring hope and dignity to this community. But now it seemed that in this lawless land, before the seeds of hope could be sown, all the weeds had to be uprooted with steel.
"Uncle Paddy." He turned to the old man and said, "Leave this matter to me."
"Tomorrow, help me arrange a meeting with that Kane Pugh."
"Tell him," Jones's voice was calm, "the president of Argyle & Co. Foods wants to invite him for a cup of tea."
...The next afternoon, at the "Clover" pub.
Jones sat alone at a table. There was no alcohol on the table, only two steaming cups of hot tea.
The door was violently pushed open.
Kane Pugh entered with two burly subordinates. He was about thirty years old, dressed in a decent suit, but his open collar revealed his strong muscles and menacing tattoos. His face wore a cruel smile full of superiority.
"So you're that... Argyle's subordinate?" Puge pulled out a chair and sat casually opposite Jones. His two subordinates stood behind him like two door gods.
"I am Jones, the president of Argyle & Co. Foods," Jones corrected, his tone devoid of any emotion.
"President?" Puge scoffed, "Alright, Mr. President. I heard from that old man O'Malley that you want to invite me for tea? I don't have time to chat with you. You should already know my terms. Five thousand dollars and half of the good jobs. Agree, and your school can be built smoothly. Don't agree," a fierce glint flashed in his eyes, "and I can't guarantee that those damned potato eaters will return home safely every night."
Jones ignored his threat. He simply pushed a cup of hot tea gently towards Puge.
"Mr. Puge, I invited you here today not to negotiate," Jones slowly began, "I'm here to give you a choice."
"Oh?"
"Choice one," Jones looked at him, "Pay compensation, and then you and your people never set foot in this block again starting today. Then we can let bygones be bygones for what you've done before."
Kane Pugh was stunned, then burst into a wild, arrogant laugh.
"Hahahaha! Are you kidding me, Irish man! Are you still half-asleep?"
Jones didn't laugh, he just calmly stated the second choice.
"Choice two," his voice was like ice about to solidify, "I will have my people throw you out of this block, one by one. Whether you remain in one piece is, of course, not guaranteed."
Puge's laughter abruptly stopped. He looked at the man in front of him, who had been terrifyingly calm from beginning to end, and for the first time felt a sense of unease.
"Are you threatening me?" His hand instinctively reached for his waist.
"I never threaten people, Mr. Puge," Jones shook his head. "I am merely stating a fact that is about to happen."
He stood up, looking down at the other man.
"My Boss, Mr. Felix Argyle, bought this land to build a place here for the children of this community, a place where they can see a future. I certainly don't want this place to be soiled by you rats lurking in the gutters."
"I'll give you one day to think about it." Jones finished speaking, then turned to leave.
"Stop!" Puge suddenly stood up, and his two subordinates immediately stepped forward to block the doorway.
Puge's face was contorted with ferocity, "Who do you think you are? You think you can just leave?"
Jones stopped. He slowly turned around.
He didn't look at Puge, but out the window. Unbeknownst to them, a dozen or so figures in black uniforms, with exceptionally stern eyes, had silently appeared. They were holding Militech 1863 rifles aimed at the three men, causing the air around the entire pub to solidify.
Leading them was Rambo, the commander of Miller's Action Department.
Jones stepped forward and patted Puge's face with his right hand, "Trash, I'm someone you can't afford to provoke. Remember to get out of the block tomorrow, understood?"
Perceiving their Boss being humiliated, Kane Pugh's two subordinates tried to draw their revolvers.
With two 'bang... bang' sounds, the hands of the two men drawing their guns were hit by the rifles of the Action Department.
"Ah... F*ck! My hand!"
"You bunch of..."
Seeing his two confidants injured, Kane Pugh hadn't expected the other party would actually dare to shoot like that.
"Enough, shut up!" Kane Pugh, who quickly stopped the two, felt a bit nervous internally; saying harsh words now might genuinely lead to their elimination.
He looked at the black-clad men outside the window, holding unfamiliar rifles and with cold eyes, then looked at the president of the food company in front of him, who hadn't shown a trace of fear from beginning to end.
Fear appeared on his ferocious face. In Five Points, guns were the only rule. And the guns in the other party's hands looked better than any he had ever seen.
"Alright, you're ruthless... let's go." Kane Pugh squeezed this sentence through gritted teeth; he didn't even dare to look at Jones again. Under the silent gaze of the Action Department, he led his two subordinates, clutching their arms, out of the tavern like a stray dog, disappearing into the shadows of the alley.
That night, at the Local Boys gang's stronghold in an abandoned warehouse, the atmosphere was extremely oppressive.
"Boss Kane, we... we've gotten into big trouble," one of the subordinates, whose wounds had been tended to, said with a trembling voice, "The guns those people had... I've never seen them before. They look even better than the army's, we can't afford to provoke them!"
"Shut up!" Kane Pugh smashed a bottle of whiskey fiercely onto the ground, glass shards scattering everywhere.
He, of course, knew they couldn't afford to provoke them.
But the feeling of being held at gunpoint, slapped in the face, and humiliated like a dog in the tavern that afternoon was still replaying in his mind. The more he thought about it, the more the anger and humiliation in his heart grew.
"You think a few good guns can scare me, Kane Pugh?" In his eyes, a crazy flame burned, "It's only a dozen or so people, and those black-clad thugs can't guard that damned construction site twenty-four hours a day!"
"Want to build a school there and be the savior of the Irish?" Kane Pugh let out a ferocious laugh, "Very good. I'm going to show him who really calls the shots in this land!"
Then he made a decision that he thought was clever but was actually extremely foolish.
"Then don't touch their people," he roared at his subordinates, "We'll secretly go and smash their construction site! They build walls during the day, and we'll tear them down at night! They transport wood, and we'll burn it! They buy new tools, and we'll steal them all and throw them into the East River! Go tonight!"
"I want to turn his construction site into a bottomless pit that can never be filled! I want him to know what happens when you offend the 'Local Boys' in Five Points!"
...The next morning, Felix's study.
Jones stood in front of Felix's desk, his face filled with deep self-reproach and anger.
"Boss," his voice was very low, "I... I messed up."
He handed Felix a report that O'Malley had sent overnight. The report detailed the extensive damage that occurred at the construction site last night. The newly laid foundation had been smashed to pieces with sledgehammers. Nearly a thousand pounds of cement stacked at the site had its bags slashed and was mixed with sand and dirt. Even the temporary shelters built by the workers had been burned to ashes.
Felix listened quietly, looking at the report, his face devoid of any expression.
"Yesterday, I should have dealt with them directly," Jones's voice was full of regret, "I shouldn't have given him any chance."
Felix didn't answer immediately. He just stood up and walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a glass of brandy.
Then, he fiercely splashed the drink onto the expensive carpet in the study.
"Messed up?" Felix finally spoke, his voice cold, sending a chill down Jones's and Frost's spines, "Jones, you didn't mess up. You made an unforgivable, naive mistake!"
"I put you in that position to solve problems, to protect our interests and our people. Not to play 'gentleman's duels' with those thugs and ruffians lurking in the gutters!"
Felix turned around, a rare anger showing in his eyes.
The last time was when he was assassinated.
"You remember this, Jones," he looked at the two, "When dealing with enemies, either don't act and use rules and interests to tame them. But once blood is shed, once the opponent has harmed our foundation, then there is only one choice left."
"That is to completely wipe him off this chessboard, all at once."
"You cornered him, pointed a gun at his head. But all you did was pat his face and send him home?" Felix's voice was full of disappointment, "You gave him a chance to breathe, and the courage to retaliate! Now, what we've lost is not just a few walls and some cement! It's the fragile bit of credibility and sense of security we had just established in that community!"
"What will the Irish workers who trusted us enough to come work on our site think? They'll think that we, Argyle Company, can't even protect our own construction site!"
Jones's head drooped even lower.
Felix took a sip of his new drink; the fiery liquid seemed to calm his cold anger somewhat.
He sat down again, but the atmosphere in the entire study had become like an ice cellar.
"Edward," he turned to his new assistant, who had turned pale with fear, "Send a telegram to Flynn."
"Tell him to contact those friends, this is not about telling them that the Irish must unite, we need to make our voices heard! Starting tonight, I want to launch a comprehensive purge in all Irish communities in New York, simultaneously targeting all exclusionary gangs like the 'Local Boys'."
Felix's tone was devoid of emotion, "I want the entire New York underworld to know what happens to those who dare to touch my property."
"Also," he paused, giving even more bloodthirsty instructions.
"Jones, you take the Action Department's Rambo squad to deal with Kane Pugh and his men. All members who participated in last night's destruction must completely disappear from the world before tomorrow's sun rises."
Frost's hand trembled slightly as he recorded.
"No process, only results."
Jones looked up, his eyes filled with joy and determination, he hadn't expected the Boss to let him handle it, this was simply too good.
"Your command is my direction, Boss!"
Where he falls, he will rise. That son of a bitch Kane Pugh, Jones lowered his head, a cruel smile on his face, vowing in his heart to torture that bastard to death.
Thus, a full-scale crackdown, driven by money and fury, targeting xenophobic gangs like the Local Boys, was about to unfold simultaneously in every dark corner of the city.
Upon receiving the news, Flynn dispatched messengers...
Hell's Kitchen, an underground Irish pub.
This was the territory of the 'West Side Boys' gang. Their leader, Finnian, a burly man with three knife scars on his face, was looking at the messenger sent by Flynn. The messenger was a young man, dressed respectably and speaking like a lawyer.
"...So," the young man calmly relayed Flynn's message, "starting tonight, all strongholds of the Local Boys entrenched in your territory will become your legitimate spoils of war. We will provide intelligence, weapons, and financial support. You only need to take care of the trash."
Finnian and his lieutenants exchanged glances, seeing greed and excitement in each other's eyes.
"Boss," a lieutenant whispered, "This is a great opportunity! Those bastards from the Local Boys, relying on being native-born Federals, have caused us no end of trouble in our territory! Now, with Mr. Argyle backing us, we can finally sweep them away completely!"
Finnian was no fool. He knew this was not just about revenge, but also a reshuffling of power. He clearly understood the weight of Felix Argyle's name in New York and knew that he had just reached an agreement with Archbishop Hughes.
"Go back and tell Mr. Flynn," Finnian made his decision, "and also tell Mr. Argyle for me. The West Side Boys will take this deal. Tell the brothers," he roared to his subordinates, "go to the designated place to get your gear! Tonight, we will avenge our bullied compatriots!"
The same scene was simultaneously playing out in Manhattan's docklands and Brooklyn's Irish enclaves. Driven by money and the desire for revenge, several of New York's most powerful Irish-American gangs were mobilized like sharks smelling blood.
An unprecedented extermination campaign targeting the Local Boys was about to begin...
New York City Hall, Police Commissioner's Office.
It was already sunset, but the office lights were still on. The precinct chief from the Five Points area was sweating profusely as he reported the situation to his superior, the New York City Police Commissioner.
"Sir, the situation is very bad," the precinct chief's voice trembled slightly. "All our informants are reporting that the underground Irish gangs have a big operation tonight. Their targets seem to be Kane Pugh's Local Boys and several other local gangs. This... this could escalate into a city-wide gang war!"
The Police Commissioner, a veteran who understood New York's political game, did not immediately issue orders. He simply walked to the window and looked at the Tammany Hall headquarters in the distance, a building still brightly lit in the night.
"Can it be stopped?" he asked absently.
"Stopped? Sir, it's impossible, even if we sent out every single police officer in New York City," the precinct chief replied with a bitter face. "This is city-wide. And... I heard that a big shot is backing this operation. Someone... we can't afford to offend."
"Mr. Argyle, right?" the Police Commissioner said slowly.
"Yes."
The Police Commissioner fell silent.
The name Felix Argyle was known to everyone in New York now.
Besides his public feuds with railroad magnate Sloan, he was also the new Irish-American elite who had just finalized a million-dollar charity agreement with Archbishop Hughes.
Such a figure was beyond the interference of a mere Police Commissioner.
"Tell our people," he finally gave the order after a long pause, his voice filled with helplessness and realism, "tonight, unless someone fires a gun on Broadway, let them stay in their police stations, drink coffee, and read the newspaper."
"As for what happens in places like Five Points and Hell's Kitchen," he sighed, "let them resolve it by their own rules."
...Five Points, in the abandoned warehouse used as a stronghold by the Local Boys.
The simple-minded Kane Pugh and his twelve core subordinates were celebrating their "great" victory from last night with stolen whiskey.
"Ha! Did you see the faces of those Irishmen?" a drunken thug boasted loudly. "They looked at us like we were devils! I bet that starting tomorrow, you won't see a single worker on that damned construction site anymore!"
"That's right! This is our territory!"
The warehouse was filled with arrogant laughter and the smell of alcohol. They were completely unaware that the shadow of death had quietly enveloped them from all directions.
Outside the warehouse, cold rain began to fall from the night sky.
Jones stood alone in the alley opposite the warehouse. Behind him were Rambo and his twenty-man elite action squad. They wore black waterproof jackets, blending into the night. The barrels of their Militech 1863 rifles gleamed with the cold metallic sheen of being wet by the rain.
"Flynn's men have confirmed," Rambo reported in a low voice beside Jones. "All thirteen core targets are in the warehouse. The two lookouts on the perimeter have been dealt with."
Jones looked at the warehouse door, which was letting out light, and his eyes reflected a thirst for blood.
"The Boss's orders are clear, Rambo," his voice was calm, but beneath the calm, there was a raging fury. "Not a single person who participated in last night's destruction is to be left alive." He added, "But Kane Pugh, keep him alive for now."
"Understood." Rambo nodded. He turned and made a few simple gestures to his team members.
The operation unfolded in an instant.
There were no warnings or shouts.
Two members of Rambo's squad silently approached the two dusty windows on the side of the warehouse.
They took out two specially made glass bottles filled with concentrated chili powder and chemical tear gas from their backpacks.
"Three, two, one."
Accompanying Ross's silent countdown, two crisp sounds of breaking glass rang out. The two glass bottles were accurately thrown into the warehouse.
"Cough... cough cough! What the hell is this!"
"My eyes! Ah! My eyes!"
Inside the warehouse, the arrogant laughter instantly turned into painful screams and violent coughing. The strong, irritating smoke quickly spread in the enclosed space, causing the drunken thugs to completely lose their bearings and their ability to resist.
Just as they were in a chaotic mess, the fragile wooden door of the warehouse was kicked open.
Rambo and his team members, wearing masks, rushed in in a combat formation, like reapers of life.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The dull, continuous gunshots of the Militech 1863 rifles erupted in the warehouse. Each gunshot was accompanied by a scream and the sound of a person falling to the ground.
Kane Pugh was terrified by the sudden attack. He endured the severe pain in his eyes, pulled out the revolver from his waist, and wildly fired a shot towards the door.
The bullet flew to an unknown place.
And what greeted him was Rambo's large hand, like an iron vice.
With a "bang," Rambo delivered a clean, swift rifle butt strike that landed heavily on Pugh's chin. Pugh's vision went black, and he slumped down, his revolver clattering to the floor.
The battle ended completely in less than thirty seconds.
Inside the warehouse, besides the captured Kane Pugh, the remaining twelve core members of the Local Boys lay in pools of blood.
Jones slowly walked into the warehouse, which was filled with the smell of blood and pungent smoke. He walked up to Kane Pugh, who was being held down by two team members, and crouched down.
Looking at the man before him, who was like a dead dog, there was no pity in his eyes.
"You scum, I'll make sure you have a good time next."
----
Five Points, the abandoned warehouse used as a stronghold by the Local Boys, reeked of a pungent mixture of blood, alcohol, and chemical tear gas.
Action Department leader Rambo and his team, like efficient butchers, silently loaded the bodies, one by one, into prepared burlap sacks.
In the center of the warehouse, Kane Pugh, the once arrogant gang leader, was tied securely to a chair like an animal awaiting slaughter. His jaw had been dislocated by Rambo to prevent him from biting his tongue, and a greasy rag was stuffed in his mouth. His face was filled with extreme fear and despair.
Jones ignored the bodies. He pulled over another chair and sat in front of Pugh. "I gave you a chance yesterday."
He glanced at Pugh's hands, which were a bloody mess from bullet wounds.
"Only shooting through your subordinates' palms was a warning. After all, I am already a company president and want to be a gentleman," Jones continued. "You should know that you broke the legs of three of my workers. Each of them has a wife and children to support."
"What's more, after receiving the warning, not only did you not scram, but you also burned down our construction site. That was a place meant to build a future for hundreds of orphans in this community."
Jones took a small iron hammer from one of his team members.
"So," he said slowly, "I've decided to settle this score with you in the most common way."
"Ah—!"
A shrill scream, muffled by the rag in his throat, echoed through the warehouse.
It was the sound of bones being crushed inch by inch.
Jones showed no mercy, using the most primitive and brutal methods to return the pain Pugh had inflicted on those innocent workers tenfold, a hundredfold.
It was a long night, filled with agonizing wails.
When Jones finally finished this 'settling of accounts,' Kane Pugh had become a thing that could no longer be called 'human.'
"Clean it up," Jones told Rambo.
"Of course, we're good at this," Rambo nodded, clearly knowing how to wrap things up.
Half an hour later, several unmarked carriages left the warehouse, disappearing into the dark, bottomless dock area of New York Harbor. Kane Pugh and his so-called 'pure blooded Locals' would forever evaporate into the underworld of this city... Just as Jones was conducting this bloody, point-by-point purge in Five Points, a larger, city-wide gang war simultaneously kicked off.
Hell's Kitchen.
Finnian, the leader of the 'West Side Boys,' personally led over a hundred subordinates, storming into the Local Boys' largest stronghold here—a tavern named 'American Glory.'
"Smash it all!"
Accompanied by Finnian's roar, a primitive and brutal street war erupted. Knives, clubs, and guns became the only language between the two sides. Finnian's men had an absolute advantage in both numbers and ferocity. In less than half an hour, the tavern was in ruins, and a dozen members of the Local Boys, their heads bloody, knelt on the ground begging for mercy.
"Tell everyone!" Finnian roared at the entire block, stepping on an opponent's face, "From tonight on, in Hell's Kitchen, any bastard who dares to collect 'protection money' from the Irish, this is what will happen to them!"
The same scene was simultaneously playing out in the Manhattan dock area and the Irish enclaves of Brooklyn.
With Felix's ample financial and weapon support, the long-suppressed Irish gangs, like a bursting dam, launched a devastating general offensive against the xenophobic gangs in their territories.
The entire New York underworld was completely ignited overnight... New York City Hall, Tammany Hall Headquarters.
This was the true core of power in New York City. The huge conference room was filled with smoke. William Tweed, the leader of Tammany Hall, and several of the most powerful district party whips were reviewing urgent reports sent overnight by police chiefs from various precincts and their informants embedded in various communities.
"They're crazy! All of them!" exclaimed a party whip responsible for the Hell's Kitchen constituency. "Finnian's 'West Side Boys' are like they've had a shot of adrenaline, completely uprooting the 'Dock Rats'! My people say some of them are even carrying a brand new type of repeating rifle! Better than what the army has!"
"It's the same in Five Points," another party whip added. "Kane Pugh and his 'Local Boys' have completely disappeared. Some say it was Jones, the president of Argyle & Co. Foods, who personally led the operation. The entire block is now flying shamrock flags."
Mr. Tweed, the leader of Tammany Hall, listened to all of this in silence. He wasn't alarmed like the others, but his eyes showed an unprecedented gravity.
He clearly knew this wasn't an ordinary gang fight.
This was a premeditated strike against the very foundations of Tammany Hall's power. Those purged local gangs had always been their 'dirty gloves' used to manipulate votes and intimidate opponents during elections. Now, these gloves were being ruthlessly cut off.
"It's Argyle," Mr. Tweed slowly spoke, uttering the name everyone knew. "He's making a show of force against us."
"A show of force?" a young party whip said indignantly. "He's declaring war on the order of the entire New York City! We should send in the police and arrest all his lawless Irish thugs!"
"And then what?" Mr. Tweed retorted coldly. "And then let Archbishop Hughes, in his Sunday mass, call on all two hundred thousand Irish-Americans in the city to vote all our people out in the next election?"
"Don't forget," he added, "he just reached that damned one-million-dollar charity agreement with the church. Now, in the eyes of all Irish people, he's not just a businessman, he's a saint. A saint who can bring food and a future to their children. Moreover, he's just established deeper cooperation with the army; we can't touch him."
Silence fell in the conference room. Everyone realized they were facing someone unprecedented, possessing both hard and soft power.
"So, what exactly does he want?"
"Didn't the report say, though on the surface it looks like revenge?" Mr. Tweed looked out the window at the complex New York night sky. "But I guess Mr. Argyle is just using this method to tell us that he's acquired the chips to sit at the same poker table and negotiate with us as equals."
He stubbed out his cigar and turned to his most trusted secretary.
"Go," he said, "and send an invitation to Mr. Argyle in my personal name. Tell him that I, William Tweed, would like to personally visit him tomorrow morning to discuss how to restore 'peace' to New York."
...The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight entered the study of the Fifth Avenue mansion, the entire New York underworld had returned to an eerie calm.
Jones stood before Felix, still carrying a faint scent of blood.
"Boss, it's done," his voice was calm. "Kane Pugh and his men won't bother anyone anymore."
Felix nodded, not surprised by the outcome.
Just then, Edward Frost walked in, holding a beautifully crafted calling card.
"Boss," he reported, "Mr. William Tweed of Tammany Hall sent someone with a calling card. He hopes to personally visit you this morning."
Felix looked at the calling card, then at his loyal subordinate who had just cleared the obstacles for him, and stepped forward to pat him on the shoulder.
"Go take a hot shower, then go home and rest. Get the construction site back up and running as soon as possible."