The olfactory assault on Lou Scarelli's gambling dens sent a shockwave of bewilderment and anger through his organization. His enforcers, usually quick with their fists or saps, were powerless against an enemy they couldn't see, smell, or punch. Scarelli himself, a man of volcanic tempers, was reportedly incandescent with rage, demanding answers his underlings couldn't provide. The loss of income was significant, but the loss of face, the public display of his vulnerability, was arguably worse.
As Dr. Finch predicted, Scarelli's immediate suspicion fell on Desmond Fitzpatrick. This new, sophisticated rival, with his talk of "modern methods," seemed the most likely culprit for such an unorthodox attack. Tensions between the two factions, already simmering, ratcheted up several degrees. There were reports, relayed by Mickey's ever-attentive Goblin ears, of minor skirmishes in neutral territories, glares exchanged in dimly lit bars, and veiled threats passed through intermediaries.
Elias, however, knew that Scarelli wasn't one to let a mystery lie if he could beat an answer out of someone. While his main suspicion was Fitzpatrick, he would also look for easier, closer targets to vent his frustration and extract information. And Mickey O'Halloran, who Scarelli's investigators Silas and Benny believed was Elias's easily intimidated informant, was a prime candidate.
Sure enough, two days after the "Stink Bomb Offensive," as Mickey had privately dubbed it, Silas and Benny found him. They weren't gentle this time. Anya, from a discreet rooftop perch that Elias had ensured was equipped with a clear escape route for her, watched with detached precision as they cornered Mickey in a narrow alley near the old port, far from his usual haunts. There was no pretense of a polite chat.
"We know your 'Mr. Thorne' was behind the stink at the dens, rat," Silas hissed, his cold eyes promising pain. Benny, the broken-nosed thug, cracked his knuckles. "Mr. Scarelli is very… unhappy. He wants to know how it was done. And he wants to know everything about this Thorne."
Mickey, for all his Goblin-enhanced slipperiness, was caught. He feigned terror, which wasn't entirely an act. "I don't know nothin' 'bout no stink, I swear!" he babbled, shrinking back. "Mr. Thorne, he just has me run errands! I just told you what you wanted to hear before!"
Benny backhanded him across the face, a sharp crack that echoed in the alley. Mickey yelped, tasting blood.
"Wrong answer," Silas said calmly. "We have ways of making even rats sing."
Elias, receiving Anya's terse, coded signal about Mickey's capture via their dead-drop system (a loose brick in a specified wall), felt a flicker of cold calculation. He had anticipated this. Mickey was a tool, and sometimes tools were put at risk. But Mickey, despite his flaws, had become a surprisingly useful asset. Losing him permanently would be an inconvenience. More importantly, allowing Scarelli to successfully torture information out of one of his agents, even a low-level one, would set a dangerous precedent. It would signal weakness.
He had a contingency in place. Thomas MacIntyre.
Thomas was stationed, by Elias's prior instruction, in a nearby rented room, ostensibly working on some "repairs" for Mr. Thorne. He was to remain there unless specifically summoned. When Anya's signal about Mickey's capture came, Elias had a pre-arranged secondary signal relayed through another, faster dead-drop (a chalk mark on a specific lamppost visible from Thomas's window, to be made by a street urchin Elias occasionally paid for such tasks).
Within minutes of Silas and Benny beginning their "persuasion" of Mickey, Thomas arrived. He didn't burst in like a hero from a dime novel. He simply appeared at the alley's mouth, a silent, hulking shadow against the weak afternoon light, his presence instantly changing the alley's oppressive atmosphere.
Silas and Benny whirled, surprised. They recognized the oversized Scotsman from Leclerc's.
"Well, well," Silas sneered, trying to regain his composure, though a flicker of unease touched his eyes. "The big dog himself. Come to save your little pet rat?" He shoved Mickey, who stumbled and fell. Benny moved to flank Thomas.
Thomas ignored the taunt. His pale blue eyes, hard as glacial ice, were fixed on them. The latent power of the Barbarian radiated from him, a palpable wave of intimidation.
"Mr. Thorne dislikes cruelty to animals," Thomas rumbled, his voice deeper and more gravelly than usual, a hint of the primal Barbarian bleeding through. "And he particularly dislikes those who harm what's his."
"He's Scarelli's now, old man!" Benny snarled, lunging forward with a drawn cosh.
Benny was fast for a big man, but Thomas, with his Barbarian-enhanced reflexes and strength, was faster. He met Benny's charge not by dodging, but by stepping into it, his massive hand shooting out to intercept the descending cosh. Thomas didn't just block it; his fingers closed around Benny's wrist like a vise, stopping the blow dead. Benny grunted in pained surprise. With a single, brutal wrench, Thomas twisted the wrist. There was a sickening crack, loud even over Mickey's whimpers. Benny screamed, a raw, agonized sound, dropping the cosh.
Silas, seeing his partner instantly incapacitated, paled. He fumbled inside his coat for a weapon, likely a firearm. But Thomas was already moving, shoving the screaming Benny into Silas, using his partner's bulk to disrupt Silas's draw.
Thomas followed through, a devastating haymaker from his free hand connecting with Silas's jaw. The impact was like a side of beef hitting a concrete wall. Silas's head snapped back, his eyes rolling up, and he collapsed in a boneless heap, unconscious before he hit the filthy alley floor.
It was over in less than ten seconds. Efficient. Brutal. Conclusive.
Mickey stared, wide-eyed and trembling, from where he'd fallen.
Thomas MacIntyre calmly picked up Benny's dropped cosh. He looked down at the groaning Benny, who was clutching his shattered wrist. "Tell Mr. Scarelli," Thomas said, his voice a low growl, "that the price for harming Mr. Thorne's… associates… is steep. This is the last warning. Next time, parts will be permanently misplaced."
He then helped a shaking Mickey to his feet. "Are you alright, lad?" he asked, his tone softening marginally.
"I… I think so, Mr. MacIntyre," Mickey stammered, wiping blood from his split lip. "Thank you. They… they were gonna kill me."
"Mr. Thorne looks after his own," Thomas said simply. He cast a glance at the unconscious Silas and the whimpering Benny. "Let's be gone before the watch stumbles by."
Anya, observing the entire exchange from her rooftop vantage, meticulously documented it – Thomas's terrifying efficiency, the complete incapacitation of Scarelli's supposedly professional investigators. She then melted away, her mission accomplished.
Later, when Elias received the full report, he felt a grim satisfaction. The System logged Thomas's intervention: [Barbarian Unit (Thomas MacIntyre) Activity Logged: Successful Asset Extraction & Retaliation].
[Influence (City-Wide): +0.3% (Demonstrated retaliatory capability against rival faction). Reputation (Underworld): [Ruthless Protector (Lethal Consequences for Transgressions)].
His energy remained [78.50/100], but his Host Power saw another small, almost imperceptible tick upwards from the System's constant, slow recalibration as his network acted: [3.52].
Mickey, patched up and given a generous bonus for his "ordeal," was terrified but also strangely invigorated. He had seen the raw power of Thorne's organization firsthand and understood the protection it offered, as long as he remained loyal. His fear of Scarelli was now dwarfed by his awe (and terror) of Thomas, and by extension, Elias. His Goblin loyalty, already bought, was now cemented by genuine gratitude and fear.
Scarelli would receive his investigators back, broken and humiliated. The message would be unmistakable. Attacking Thorne's people, even the lowest-ranking ones, carried a heavy price. Elias had demonstrated not only that he could strike from the shadows with bizarre efficiency but also that he could defend his own with brutal force. The dynamic in Montreal's underworld had shifted yet again.