Sheriff Henry's invincibility was no longer news in New York City. The real story was the First Lady of New York.
At the Livingston family's dinner party that evening, State Senator Finn was disappointed to find that Henry was not in attendance. He had been ordered by "The Banshee," the true leader of the black market, to make contact with Henry, to de-escalate the conflict, and to explore the possibility of an alliance.
He would have to wait until the Adams' family party the next night.
Aboard the train, Henry woke at 6 AM. He disembarked at the next small station, 140 miles from Chicago, summoned a horse, and began to ride. Along the way, he stopped to practice with ten of his Sharps rifles, getting a feel for each one. He also disposed of all the bodies he had collected, except for the one with the $500 bounty.
He arrived in Chicago five hours later.
The city, which had been almost completely destroyed by the Great Fire nine years earlier, had been rebuilt with a furious energy. It was a city of iron frames, wide "Chicago windows," and simple, powerful architecture. It was also a city of immigrants, a sprawling, chaotic metropolis choked with the black smoke of industry.
Following the detailed map from the intelligence files, Henry rode for the Pinkerton Detective Agency headquarters in the heart of the city's bustling Loop district. Chicago, the great hub connecting the East and the West, was where he would build his empire. But first, he would have to scout his enemies.
He rode past the four-story black market headquarters on Monroe Street, a fortress surrounded by a network of subsidiary buildings, all of them disguised as legitimate businesses. He then made his way to the east side, to the livestock and grain exchanges. He rented a small warehouse and emptied a portion of his storage space, offloading several Gatling guns, ammunition, and other miscellaneous supplies.
He then prepared his tools: forty 5-pound TNT charges and a massive 1,260-pound bomb, all fitted with timed detonators. He also rented two stables and, over the course of four trips, transferred forty of his horses there.
By 4 PM, he was five miles outside the city, in the western suburbs. He found a dense grove of camphor trees a mile from the estate of Allan Pinkerton, the founder of the detective agency. He knew from the files that Pinkerton, though officially retired, still came to the office every day and returned home around 5 PM.
He climbed a twenty-meter-high camphor tree, secured himself with a rope, and waited.
In the Pinkerton headquarters, Robert was giving his father his daily report.
"Kent has been appointed to rebuild the New York branch," he said. "And I have instructed him to avoid any further provocation of Henry. The man is too powerful. Three shots, three top-tier assassins, including the legendary 'Eye of Balor.' It's best we bide our time."
"I've also just learned," Allan said, his expression grim, "that Henry was the one who saved Senator Garfield. The man has a very good chance of becoming the next president. We will have to be patient. Four or five years, at least."
"Of course," Robert agreed. "Our motto is 'We Never Sleep.' We will watch him. A man with his violent temperament will eventually make a mistake."
After Robert had left, Allan gathered his things and departed for home, his carriage escorted by six elite Pinkerton riders.
Just before 5:30 PM, the convoy turned onto the quiet suburban road.
Henry saw them coming. He saw the Pinkerton badges on the guards' chests. He saw the unblinking eye on the side of the carriage. And, through the open window, he saw the face of Allan Pinkerton himself.
He took out one of his Sharps rifles, rested it on a sturdy branch, and took aim. A profound sense of calm settled over him. He felt the flow of the air, the movement of the carriage, the delicate balance between his own body and the weapon in his hands, and he squeezed the trigger.
BOOM!
He swapped to a second rifle and fired again.
Two seconds later, Allan Pinkerton's head exploded, his body slumping onto the carriage seat. A moment after that, one of his guards was blasted from his saddle, a massive hole torn in his chest.
The remaining five guards, elite Pinkerton agents, reacted with a practiced skill. But it was too late. One by one, Henry picked them off, a shot every second, each one a perfect, soul-stealing strike.
The last three, seeing the shots were coming from over 700 meters away, far beyond the range of their own rifles, broke and fled.
It was a futile gesture. Two were shot in the back. The last, the driver, was nearly decapitated.
Henry then shot all eight of the horses.
From the first shot to the last dead man, less than thirty seconds had passed.
He climbed down from the tree, collected all the bodies, weapons, and horses, and then returned to his perch in the camphor grove. He took out a leather sofa and a small table from his space and sat down with a cup of hot coffee to read through his intelligence files.
Robert Pinkerton, he knew, was a workaholic. He wouldn't be leaving the office until after 9 PM.
He had time to wait.
He had decided, when he had first learned of their treachery, that he would eliminate the entire Pinkerton leadership. With them gone, the massive organization would fracture and collapse. He could then pick up the pieces and build a new, better intelligence agency of his own, one that would serve his own interests, and protect his future empire.
He was a man alone, with nothing to hold him back. This was his time to strike.