"Have all three of you been following me, twenty-four hours a day?"
"No, sir. We work in shifts. Our shift is from 8 AM until you return to the hotel for the night."
"How do you handle the handoff?"
"When you go back to the hotel, we leave. Our colleagues take over from there."
"Where do you watch me from?"
"Across the street, or from the alleys nearby."
After getting the information he needed, Henry slit the man's throat and stored his body. He knew that by now, the carriage would have returned to the hotel. The next shift of stalkers would have realized he wasn't in it, and that their colleagues were missing. He had to assume they would change their plans.
He changed his own disguise—black jeans, black shirt, black work boots, and a thick beard and mustache—and rode for the apartment on 42nd Street.
It was nearly midnight. He reached the building, a factory-dormitory-style apartment, and walked to the second door from the left. He knocked—two long, three short—then stepped back into the shadows and waited.
A few seconds later, his enhanced hearing picked up the sound of a door opening four units down. He moved silently toward it.
A man peered out. He saw only a blur of motion before a fist slammed into his temple, and his world went black.
Henry caught the man's body and, activating his Super Reflexes, charged into the apartment. His enhanced senses had already told him there were three other men inside.
Two of them were reaching for their shoulder holsters. The third was lunging at him with a dagger.
Henry dropped the unconscious man. Two 12-inch throwing knives flew from his hands, burying themselves in the throats of the two gunmen. He threw two more, into their hearts. He then sidestepped the lunging dagger and, with his rapier, pierced the third man's throat, the blade exiting through the back of his skull.
He cuffed the unconscious man, then, after a brief and brutal interrogation, learned the truth. These were four of the black market's Diamond-level operatives, their most elite assassins, sent here to kill him. Their leader was still on his way.
This one, the man who had opened the door, had almost dodged the fatal blow, even with Henry's surprise attack. They were professionals. Without his Super Reflexes, it would have been a much harder fight.
He snapped the man's neck and stored all four bodies. After wiping away the few drops of blood, he left the apartment. He saw a man on horseback approaching—another messenger. He dispatched him with two throwing knives, stored his body and horse, and then rode for the Pinkerton's apartment building, a mile and a half away.
It was a four-story building, the first floor serving as their public office, the upper floors as barracks and warehouses. The building housed thirty or forty resident agents and a few dozen hired guns. The chief, Alston, lived on the fourth floor.
He's the one pulling the strings, Henry thought.
It was now nearly 1 AM. The agency was quiet, their security lax. After fourteen years without a single incident, they had grown complacent.
Henry moved into the shadows across the street. He had a decision to make. He had thought his reputation would be enough to deter them. He had been wrong. They had immediately conspired with the black market to have him killed.
He would have to teach them a lesson. He would have to teach them the meaning of fear.
He moved toward the two guards at the main entrance, keeping to the shadows. From twenty meters away, he threw four knives. The two guards collapsed without a sound.
He rushed into the guardhouse. Four more guards were inside, playing cards. He killed them with his knives and his rapier and stored their bodies. He took a set of keys and let himself into the main building.
On the second floor, he picked the locks to the intelligence center. The room was filled with rows upon rows of filing cabinets. He emptied his storage space of all the outlaw bodies, then began to fill it with the files, taking everything that looked important. He then doused the remaining papers and the pile of corpses with kerosene. He did the same in the armory across the hall after looting it of all its weapons and explosives.
He went up to the fourth floor, picked the lock on Alston's private apartment, and slipped inside.
He moved through the dark rooms, silent as a ghost, until he reached the bedroom. He gently turned the knob. It was unlocked.
He pushed the door open. A soft creak, and the sound of snoring from within stopped.
He lunged. A single, sharp blow to the jaw, and the man in the bed was unconscious.
From the first guard outside to the man in the bed, less than nine minutes had passed.
He dragged the unconscious man—it was Alston—into the living room and, with a bucket of cold water and a wet towel, began the interrogation.
Two minutes later, he had everything he needed.