He threw two more knives, striking the mustached man in the throat. In the space of six seconds, all twenty-five members of the Whyos gang had two throwing knives in their necks.
Henry ignored their gurgling death throes and strode toward the office.
He pushed open the ajar door. Inside, a single, powerfully built man in his thirties was lounging on a sofa, enjoying a cigar. Three massive scars ran down the right side of his face. It was the Whyos' big boss, Mike.
Henry's hands moved. Two throwing knives flew through the air and pinned Mike's shoulders to the sofa, disabling his arms. The lit cigar fell from his hand and landed in his lap. He let out a pig-like squeal of pain, but his arms were useless.
Henry stepped forward, his rapier appearing in his hand, its tip resting against Mike's chin. The man immediately fell silent.
"Why did you frame Robert Murphy?" Henry asked, his voice cold.
"Who the hell is Robert?" Mike asked, feigning confusion.
"You sent Solow after him."
"Oh, shit!" Mike's eyes widened in realization. "That wasn't me! It was State Senator David Smith! He wanted Robert's liquor smuggling business, and his daughter. I can give everything back, pay compensation! I'll stay out of it, I swear!"
"Why did you kidnap Consuelo Vanderbilt and Kaylee Astor?" Henry asked, giving him no time to think.
Mike's pupils dilated. The tip of the rapier pricked his throat, and the truth came spilling out.
"It was the tycoons, Gould and Silva! They want control of the Chicago-New York line and the Northern Pacific. They've been at war with the Vanderbilts for years. I heard the Senate is involved, but I don't know the details."
"What proof do you have?"
"None! But I swear it's the truth. No one would dare to make a move on the Vanderbilts without that kind of backing. How did you even know about it? No one in the gang knew but me."
The rapier pressed a millimeter deeper, and a thin line of red appeared on Mike's throat.
"I'm the one asking the questions. What's the combination to your safe?"
A twisted, ugly smile spread across Mike's face. "Friend," he said, his voice a strained calm, "I can give you all the money you want. But you have to promise not to kill me. There are dozens of my men downstairs. You'll never get out of here alive."
"It seems you've chosen death," Henry said, and began to apply slow, steady pressure to the blade.
Mike felt the cold steel begin to tear through his skin, but he held his ground. He was a gambler. Three times in his life, he had gambled with his own life, and three times he had won. It was how he had risen to the top.
But his luck had just run out. The rapier continued its inexorable path, piercing his throat, his mouth, his brain stem, and exiting through the back of his skull. He died with a look of pure, unadulterated terror in his eyes.
Henry looted the office, taking two large safes, and then began the grim task of gathering the bodies. He piled the twenty-five from the antechamber and all the men from Solow's building into Mike's office. He doused the pile with kerosene.
He went back out to the iron gate at the entrance to the hall and killed the two guards standing there. He then found a side room where four more gang members were playing cards. He killed them, took a set of keys from one of them, and opened a door to a massive, five-hundred-square-meter warehouse.
The room was an arsenal. Two more Gatling guns, dozens of rifles and pistols, and, to his surprise, twelve Sharps 1874 sporting rifles with 3,600 rounds of .50-90 ammunition. There was also nearly two thousand pounds of TNT, hundreds of detonators, and a massive supply of whiskey, cigars, and kerosene.
He took it all.
He then prepared his parting gifts. A massive, 2,800-pound TNT bomb with a two-minute fuse, and thirty smaller 5-pound bombs, most with two-second fuses.
He set a fire in the warehouse, then went back and lit the pyre in Mike's office.
As the flames began to rage, he used a grey pearl to restore his health and started for the exit.