As the carriage carrying Richard and his wife disappeared into the distance, Brendan returned to his study alone. He picked up his discarded cigar, took a long drag, and began to think.
After a long while, he rang the bell for his steward.
"Take three hundred dollars to Liam at the Vigilance Committee in the morning," he ordered. "Tell him that if Henry's party leaves the Mellon estate in the next few days, I want them detained. Find a reason. A major altercation, a murder, it doesn't matter."
"If he can hold Henry for us, there will be another seven hundred dollars for him. And I will support his bid to become the next president of the committee."
"Yes, sir," Elendt said, and left the room, only to rush back in a moment later.
"Sir, a report just came in. There was a massive gunfight and a large explosion at the black market. The main building has been almost completely destroyed by fire. There are over a hundred bodies, all of them black market personnel."
"Then the Denver black market has been effectively wiped out?"
"It would seem so."
"What are our losses?"
"Our three-thousand-dollar deposit for the bounty on Henry, and another two thousand for two other contracts we had posted."
"Keep a close watch on the situation," Brendan said. "The powers behind the black market are not to be trifled with. Keep the receipts. Someone will come to answer for this."
"Yes, sir," Elendt said, and left again.
Who could have done this? Brendan wondered. How could such a powerful force appear in Denver without a word? The National Guard? Unlikely. The black market has too many enemies…
But damn it all, this means the bounty on Henry is effectively void.
Still… he is here. In Denver. In my city.
A new sense of urgency gripped him.
After dinner, Henry took out the safe he had acquired. He examined it closely. With his LV 4 Lockpicking skill, he was confident he could open it, but it would take time. He stored it away. He would deal with it, and the Arizona map, later.
He went back to work on his explosives, assembling ten more 50-pound charges and two massive 500-pound bombs made from dynamite, setting them with 30 and 60-second fuses.
When he was finished, it was nearly 9:30 PM.
He checked out of the hotel, retrieved his quarter horse from the stable, and rode for the McKinley manor in the southwest of the city. The sky was dark, but Colfax Avenue was lit by gas lamps every hundred meters.
He rode hard. He hadn't had time for reconnaissance, but the intelligence file had given him a basic layout of the estate.
And it was still early. He had nearly eight hours until dawn.
At the ruins of the black market, Denver's city Sheriff, Killian, stared at the carnage, his face a grim mask. The destruction of this place meant a significant loss of his own personal income.
Fuck! he thought, spitting on the ground. Couldn't you have waited until after I got paid at the end of the month?
"Sheriff," his deputy said, "we have 226 bodies, many of them burned beyond recognition. No sign of Daisler. What should we do with them? The morgue can only hold thirty-six."
Killian's head throbbed. Not only was the money gone, but now he had to deal with this mess. How was he going to explain a massive gunfight and explosion in the middle of the city to the council?
"Have the Vigilance Committee haul the bodies to an empty warehouse for the night," he ordered. "Check for any wanted men. Post a notice at the station for families to claim the bodies. The rest, we bury."
At the Denver branch of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, the man in charge, a man named Bowie, read his agent's report with a heavy heart. He knew the black market and his own agency were deeply intertwined.
Who could have done this? he wondered, lighting a cigarette. And how did I not hear a single whisper about it? Is our own network so full of holes?
He decided he would send a telegram to headquarters in the morning. In the meantime, he would consolidate his patrols and suspend all new operations until he got to the bottom of this.
When Richard and his wife returned to their own manor, they passed the Hamlet Saloon and saw the massive crowd and the commotion. They didn't stop. They found their estate guarded by Henry's deputies, but Henry himself was gone.
"He left shortly after you did," Edith told them. "Linda doesn't know where he went." She was slightly annoyed; she had spent over an hour getting dressed, and he hadn't even been there to see it.
A dozen minutes later, Henry reached the turnoff to the McKinley family estate. The manor was situated on the side of a mountain, overlooking the South Platte River. The private road was a mile-long ascent, wide enough for a four-horse carriage. It had long been guarded by over a hundred private soldiers.
He wasn't planning on a stealthy approach tonight. It was far easier to lure the enemy out than to storm a fortress.
He put on his beard and mustache disguise and rode openly up the road.
After the first bend, he came upon a barricade of cheval de frise. Behind it was a granite guardhouse, a single gas lamp casting a warm glow.
Three guards stepped out, their rifles leveled at him. "Who goes there?"
Henry raised his hands. "I have a message," he called out, his voice a low drawl, "from Barack, in Frisco."