Meanwhile, in another corner of the lumber mill, Hassan, having finished the last half bottle of fine liquor Carlo had left behind, staggered toward the main building.
He was ready to get a good night's sleep. Once tomorrow's task was done, he could finally go home—he was going stir-crazy after two months of this.
Nature's call forced him to stop by a nearby drainage ditch to relieve himself.
"Hmm?"
Just as he let down his guard, a glint of silver flashed. He only had time to let out a short gasp before losing consciousness.
A pair of hands gently caught him and laid him down carefully.
A silver needle, no thicker than a pinky finger, was embedded in his temple.
Behind Leo, Sean's eyelid twitched involuntarily.
It wasn't the first time he'd seen Leo use such a technique, but every time it still gave him the chills.
Leo took the $20,000 from Hassan's body and handed it to Sean, whispering,
"Split it among the guys later."
Leo and Sean silently approached the main building.
As Daniel had said, there were two gangsters at the entrance armed with Thompsons, both dozing off while leaning on the pillars.
For their level of training, just staying awake this late was impressive.
Still, Leo and Sean remained cautious.
They crept up from the shadows at the back of the building—not only was it harder to be spotted that way, but it also gave them better visibility for any surprises.
Fortunately, everything was under control.
Two soft snaps later, there were two more corpses at the door.
Inside, snoring echoed from upstairs.
It was an old two-story wooden house; any footstep on the stairs would be loud enough to wake the guards above.
With two armed guards upstairs, a frontal assault—even with Leo's skills—would have been suicide.
Luckily, there was a window at the far end of the stairwell. Daniel had used it earlier to observe the second floor.
Leo made a hand signal for a pincer attack. Sean nodded in acknowledgment.
After a moment, three soft knocks came from the rear wall—Sean was in position.
Leo donned the coat of one of the dead guards and picked up a Thompson, then swaggered up the creaky stairs.
As expected, the wooden stairs made a racket.
The snores upstairs stopped. In the dim light, two gangsters raised their guns warily toward the stairwell.
But as they saw the familiar coat and weapon, they relaxed slightly.
Just as they were about to lower their guns and scold the newcomer for breaking protocol, the Thompson was hurled like a club, smashing into one of their faces.
At the same time, Sean leapt through the window, twisted the other man's neck with a swift move, and both dropped silently.
"A perfect sync," Leo muttered.
He walked to the window and looked across to the second-floor rest quarters. Joseph was waving at him—target eliminated.
"Sean, go to the front door and let Desmond in. Then you four take care of the bodies—make it look like nothing ever happened. Clean, no traces."
He handed out orders in a voice that allowed no objections.
"Oh, and deal with those two armed guys in the cutting shed. If there's a basement, find out who's hiding there. Leave someone alive—I still need answers."
Sean nodded and left.
Leo turned toward the closed door of Michael's office.
The moment he opened it, a wave of stench hit him.
What should've been a clean, tidy office was a mess of trash and empty liquor bottles. A bucket sat near the entrance—the source of the reek.
Michael stirred from the messy bed.
Gone was the sharp and charming man Leo remembered. This version of Michael had puffy eyes full of exhaustion and despair.
His once-pristine hair and beard were a disheveled mess—he hadn't groomed in ages.
It confirmed Leo's suspicions: Michael's disappearance hadn't been by choice.
"You are…?"
Michael looked groggy, then suddenly snapped awake.
"Leo! God, am I dreaming?"
"I don't think so. Uh, pardon me, but the smell in here is... impressive. I'll wait for you downstairs. You probably have a lot to say."
"Of course. Of course I do."
Leo used to play here as a kid. After the Great Depression, Michael had turned the first floor into a worker's hangout styled like a bar.
He would strum his guitar while the workers played cards below.
There had been a wide liquor cabinet—Michael used to share his homebrews generously.
Now, only a few bottles remained.
Leo poured two glasses. Just as he did, Michael came down, having tidied himself up slightly, even using some cologne. Still stinky, but bearable.
"Pour me one."
Leo offered him a glass.
Michael waved it off.
"No thanks. I've probably drunk enough in the last three months for a lifetime. So the war's over? We won?"
"We sure did. Dropped two giant sparklers and they surrendered."
"And the gangs?"
"Gangs?" Leo spread his hands.
"Didn't see anyone when I walked in."
Michael stared at Leo. He might not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he wasn't stupid.
Leo's words were technically a denial, but his eyes told a different story.
"Looks like war really does change people. I feel better leaving Emily in your hands."
"You saw Emily?"
Leo nodded.
"She's still as warm and radiant as ever."
"Warm?" Michael chuckled, thinking of the Emily who used to chase her brother around with a stick, then looked at the handsome Leo.
She's probably only warm when she's with you.
Then his face darkened.
"Leo, for all the times I covered for your mischief, promise me—take good care of Emily."
Leo looked him in the eye.
"You're talking like a dying man. Want to tell me what happened?"
Michael stroked his scraggly beard.
"It all started six months ago, when Jack came back from Richmond with an order…"
As John had previously mentioned, after the war began, business at the Brown Lumber Mill declined fast. Michael started leaning on family connections for help.
But he wasn't cut out for business, and those connections had long gone cold.
"Jack said a college friend introduced him to a century-old construction company."
"You trust what Jack says?"
Leo raised an eyebrow.
Michael gave a bitter smile.
"I know my son. That's why I asked my friend Patrick O'Do—the mayor of Lynchburg—to look into the company for me."