Chapter 117: Get Yoinked!

Henry and his four men slipped onto West 14th Street under the dim glow of the gas lamps, keeping close to the brick building fronts. The street was quiet, save for the occasional horse-drawn cart rolling down the avenue a few blocks over.

​"Alright," Henry said, pulling his crew into the shadow of a recessed shop doorway. "We’re in position. You all know the main spots Kid Yorke’s been running his new liquor out of, right?"

​The three men nodded in unison.

​"It’s just past one in the morning," Henry continued, checking his pocket watch. "Everything happens at two on the dot. The kerosene cans are hidden right where we stashed ’em earlier today. If someone moved ’em, or if the spot looks hot, you fall back immediately. If you can’t find an addict on the curb to throw a bag of powder at to light the match, you handle it yourselves."

​One of the younger crew members frowned, scratching his chin. "Wait, Henry... do we pour the kerosene now and wait for two o’clock to light it, or do the dousing and lighting together at two?"

​Henry stared at him, along with the other two men who looked equally baffled by the question.

​"Are you out of your mind?" Henry muttered, smacking the back of the guy’s cap. "If you pour kerosene an hour early, half of it’s going to dry up or stink up the whole street before you even strike a match. You do it all at two AM."

​"Right, right," the kid stammered, adjusting his cap. "Got it."

​"Any other questions that might ruin the whole night?" Henry asked, scanning their faces.

​Nobody spoke.

​"Good. Go have yourselves a front-row seat for the fire festival," Henry said with a faint grin.

​The men grinned back, chuckling under their breath. Four of them split off toward 8th and 9th Avenues, while one headed toward West 16th Street. Henry turned and made his way down 10th Avenue alone.

​As Henry walked the dark sidewalk, he spotted five of Kid Yorke’s lookouts hanging around the stoop of a second-floor loft across the street, passing around a bottle and laughing while keeping a loose watch on the block. Henry tilted his flat cap low over his eyes, letting the streetlamp shadows cover his face, and brushed right past them without breaking stride.

​A block away, one of Henry’s goons—the same one who had asked about the kerosene—walked straight up to a pair of Yorke’s lookouts posted outside a corner building.

​"Hey, pal," the goon asked casually, leaning against the lamp post. "Where’s the Gunpowder Saloon around here?"

​The lookout snorted, pointing a thumb down the block. "Two doors down on the right. Yorke’s got the best whiskey in Chelsea in there, friend. Go on in."

​"Appreciate it," the goon said, nodding smoothly as he walked off, leaving the lookout thinking he was just another Greenwich customer lured in by Yorke’s discounted liquor.

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​Over on Perry Street and West 4th, Peter and four of his men rounded the corner, approaching the heavy brownstone where Barney kept his private quarters. Five of Barney’s loyal enforcers were lounging on the stoop beside the front door, coats unbuttoned, cigarettes glowing in the dark.

​As Peter’s group drew close, one of the guards stood up, resting his hand near his belt. "Hey! Take a hike, pal. This block’s closed."

​Peter reached up and pulled back his flat cap into the lantern light. "Relax, Tommy. It’s me."

​The guard paused, his face softening instantly. "Ah, shit, Peter! Sorry about that, boss. Didn’t recognize you and the boys in the dark."

​"Don’t worry about it," Peter said smoothly, stepping up the stoop while his men pulled a deck of cards from their pockets and sat down on the stone steps. "Keep your eyes peeled, that’s all."

​Peter’s crew waved the guards over, shuffling the cards. "Who’s in for a quick game of five-card draw?"

​The guards eagerly crowded around, pulling out small wagers. Peter leaned against the iron handrail, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

​"So," Peter murmured, nodding toward the upper windows. "Is Barney out cold, or is he still up with those girls?"

​"Out like a light," Tommy chuckled, leaning back against the doorframe. "Fell asleep twenty minutes ago after all the noise those whores were making." He paused, looking at Peter with a curious frown. "Hey... weren’t you and your boys supposed to be over in Chelsea tonight torching Yorke’s saloons?"

​Peter took a slow drag, blowing the smoke into the cool air. "And risk Yorke’s men spotting my face and starting a street war early? Not a chance. I paid a couple of green recruits to handle the matches tonight. Told ’em it was part of their initiation into the crew."

​Tommy laughed, slapping his knee. "Hahaha! Man, that’s rich! My initiation back when I joined was taking a iron pipe to a grocer on 8th. Good to see you’re keeping traditions alive for the new blood."

​"Everyone’s got to earn their stripe," Peter smiled faintly. "As long as the job gets done, Barney stays happy."

​"Damn right," Tommy agreed, shaking his head with genuine admiration. "I don’t get why some of the old heads complain so much about Barney. He looks after our families, keeps our pockets full of cash... hell, it’s the first time the whole neighborhood’s stood together to protect our own turf."

​Peter kept his smile fixed, though his eyes remained cold. They’re completely devoted to him, Peter thought. Barney played these young kids like a fiddle. Poor bastards... when we launch the strike tomorrow, they’re going to die on these steps for a man who doesn’t even know their names.

​"Yeah," Peter said aloud, patting Tommy on the shoulder. "He takes real good care of you boys."

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​A few blocks away, tucked into a pitch-black alley off Jane Street between Greenwich Avenue and West 4th, Reggie and eight of his men stood motionless. The air was frigid, their breath rising in faint white plumes as they watched the double-story brick building across the cobblestones. It was Barney’s third and most secure cocaine stash house.

An hour later, Reggie held his silver pocket watch in his palm, watching the second hand sweep past the twelve.

​It hit exactly 2:00 AM.

​"Move," Reggie whispered.

​The men crossed the street in swift, silent formation. The front of the building was dark, with no guards posted outside on the curb. Reggie stepped up to the heavy oak door and knocked four times in rapid succession.

​Silence.

​Reggie knocked harder, the sound echoing down the empty street.

​"Hold your horses, goddamnit!" a voice yelled from inside. A small iron peephole slid open, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes staring out at Reggie. "What the hell do you want at this hour?"

​"It’s Reggie," he said in a tense, hushed voice. "Word just came down—the first and second stash houses down on Downing got hit by a crew half an hour ago. Barney sent us to run an immediate inventory check here to see if anything’s missing."

​The guard stared through the slit, unmoving.

​Reggie’s men shifted nervously behind him, fully exposed under the yellow glare of the streetlamp across the way. Any passing patrol or watchman could spot them at any second.

​"Are you going to open this fucking door or what?" Reggie snapped, raising his voice just enough to sound thoroughly pissed off. "I haven’t slept in twenty hours, and if Barney finds out you held us up on the stoop, it’s your neck!"

​"Alright, alright! Keep your shirt on," the guard grumbled. "Just being careful."

​The heavy bolt slid back, and the door swung open. The moment the gap was wide enough, Reggie slammed his shoulder into the wood, shoving the guard backward into the hallway. Reggie’s men poured inside like a flood, instantly pulling the door shut behind them and throwing the deadbolt.

​The guard stumbled back, his eyes widening in sudden terror as he saw five men holding pump shotguns and heavy revolvers.

​"Don’t shoot!" the guard raised his hands, shaking violently. "I—I thought you said you were just here for the inventory!"

​"We are," Reggie said coldly, stepping up to him. "Lead the way down. Make it fast, or I’ll put a hole in your chest."

​"Yes, sir! Right this way," the guard stammered, turning quickly and leading them down a narrow set of wooden stairs into the damp basement. "Just so you know, boss... if the weigh-ins are short, it wasn’t me! Some of the restock boys were pocketing powder last week, so Barney sent in extra guards and installed those new locks..."

​The guard stopped at the end of the basement hallway, gesturing toward a heavy reinforced iron door.

​Hooked along the doorframe were ten separate mechanical combination padlocks, glinting under the basement lantern.

​Reggie stopped in his tracks, staring at the wall of iron hardware. "What the hell is this? A bank vault?"

​"You know how Barney gets," the guard squeaked, frantically dialing the combinations on the first three locks. "Paranoid as hell about his white powder."

​The guard popped the final lock, swinging the iron door open to reveal a cramped, windowless room stacked high with wooden crates and canvas sacks filled with pure cocaine.

​Reggie stepped up, looking at the mountain of cocaine. Over five hundred pounds of pure white powder sitting in one room.

​Without a word, Reggie swung his Winchester shotgun around, slamming the heavy wooden stock directly into the guard’s temple. The man collapsed like a sack of bricks, his head cracking against the concrete floor, blood pooling beside his ear.

​"Fucking parasite," Reggie muttered, stepping over the body.

​He turned to his crew, his voice sharp and ruthless. "Clear the rest of the building. Kill anyone sleeping upstairs. No witnesses, no survivors."

​The men moved instantly, fanning out toward the stairwell.

​Seconds later, the muffled thump-thump-thump of revolvers and shotgun blasts echoed through the floorboards above, accompanied by quick flashes of light through the hallway cracks. A few sleep-deprived enforcers in the upper rooms barely had time to sit up in their cots before rounds tore through the bedframes.

​Reggie walked back out the front entrance, stepped onto the stoop, and put two fingers to his mouth, letting out a sharp, low whistle into the night air.

​From the dark corner of Greenwich Avenue, a heavy flatbed wagon pulled by two dark horses rolled up to the curb, its wheels wrapped in burlap to deaden the noise.

​Reggie gestured toward the open basement doors. "Load every single crate onto the bed. Over two hundred kilos of powder sitting down there. Search the office upstairs while you’re at it—find Barney’s cash box before someone finds out."