Chapter 120: The Trojan Horse Recieved

Kid Yorke stood over the bleeding, twitching addict lying on the floorboards of the 8th Avenue saloon. Powder stood beside the table, flexing his swollen knuckles with a dark scowl.

​"I’m glad you brought him back alive, Powder," Kid said, his voice dripping with dry sarcasm. "Really, top-notch work."

​"What was I supposed to do, Kid?" Powder grumbled, wiping a smear of sweat and ash off his forehead. "I asked him three times nicely who gave him the matches and he just stared at the ceiling and babbled. He wasn’t giving up a damn thing."

​"No shit," Kid muttered, glaring down at the man’s sunken, dark-ringed eyes. "Look at him. He’s an addict. The bastard’s still floating high on whatever he took before he lit the fuse."

​Kid turned his head toward his lieutenant. "Dennis. Give me two vials of white powder out of your coat."

​Dennis reached into his heavy vest, pulled out two small glass vials, and handed them over without a word.

​Kid crouched down on his heels in front of the shivering man. "Listen to me, twitch. You answer my questions straight, and I’ll give you a vial for every answer. How’s that sound?"

​The addict wiped a trail of blood from his split lip with his sleeve, his eyes locking onto the glass in Kid’s hand like a starveling looking at a piece of bread. "Two... two vials per question, man. If it wasn’t for this gorilla here beating my brain in, I wouldn’t even be talking to you. Two vials, or I keep my mouth shut."

​Kid ground his back teeth together, taking a quiet breath to hold back his urge to strangle the man on the spot. "Fine. Two vials. First question: Did you set all four fires across Chelsea tonight?"

​The addict shook his head frantically, terror breaking through his haze. "No! No way! I only burned the Gunpowder! What the hell do you mean, four fires?"

​Kid paused, his brow furrowing as he swallowed his rage. "Alright. Second question: You didn’t just walk into the Gunpowder with a kerosene can out of the goodness of your heart. Someone put you up to it."

​"Yeah! Some guy in the alley!" the addict rasped out, his hands trembling violently. "I don’t know who he was, man, I swear! But... wait..." He fumbled inside his frayed coat pocket with thin, clumsy fingers and pulled out a crumpled scrap of paper. "He gave me this along with three vials of powder..."

​Kid snatched the paper out of his grip. "Three vials? That’s all your loyalty is worth? Three little bottles to burn down my place?"

​Dennis stepped up beside Kid, looking down at the scrap. "Maybe the fires were separate coordinated hits, boss."

​Kid unfolded the note under the faint light of the saloon lantern. Written across the center in rough, rushed ink were eight words:

​You shouldn’t have poached my customers, old man. By Yours Truly.

​Kid’s eyes widened, the blood rushing to his face until his neck flushed bright red with sheer, unadulterated fury.

​The addict reached out a thin, trembling hand toward Kid’s coat. "Where’s... where’s my payment? You promised me..."

​Kid reached down to his belt, sliding a heavy hunting knife from its leather sheath. "Yeah. Here’s your payment."

​He grabbed the addict by his matted hair, yanking his head back firmly against the floorboards, and drove the steel blade straight into the side of his neck. The man choked violently, his fingers clawing at Kid’s wrist for a brief second before his eyes rolled back and his body went dead limp.

​Kid stood up, wiping the wet blade against the dead man’s trousers before sliding it back into his sheath. "Prepare the men. Get every rifle, shotgun, and gas can we have in the back."

​Dennis looked at him in shock. "Boss? What does the note say?"

​Kid shoved the paper hard into Dennis’s chest.

​Dennis read the lines quickly, his jaw tightening in instant rage. He turned around and roared at the enforcers slouched around the bar tables. "You heard the boss! Arm up! Get every piece of iron out of the back!"

​Josh took the paper next, read it, and immediately barked toward the rear exit, "Load the wagons! Grab every box of shells we own!"

​Powder didn’t bother reading the scrap; he simply reached behind the bar counter and pulled two heavy revolvers from the shelf, checking the cylinders with a practiced flick of his thumb.

​Kid walked to the front window, staring south toward Greenwich with cold, lifeless eyes. "I’m sorry, Frank... but your little brother dies today. I don’t give a damn about you or your little police force anymore. I’ll slaughter every last one of them. Nobody messes with me and walks away in one piece."

​Early that same morning, the second floor of the Indy Saloon on Gansevoort Street was packed to the rafters. Word of the massive fires sweeping across Chelsea had already spread south, and Barney was celebrating early.

​He stood near the wooden balcony railing with a heavy glass of whiskey, addressing the thirty enforcers gathered on the floor below. Though he had secretly ordered Peter to orchestrate the torching, he kept the details hidden from the general crew, choosing instead to frame it as a stroke of divine luck.

​"To Kid Yorke’s terrible fortune!" Barney bellowed, raising his tumbler high into the air. "Another man’s misfortune is our fortune, boys!"

​The crowd below cheered loudly, banging their heavy pewter mugs against the wooden tables.

​Peter sat at a nearby table, casually sipping his drink with a faint, composed smile. Beside him, street captains Alvin and Andy were laughing and tossing silver coins into a betting pile.

​The celebration came to a sudden halt as the front doors slammed open below. A gang messenger burst into the saloon, panting heavily as he scrambled up the wooden stairs toward the balcony.

​"Boss! Emergency!" the messenger shouted.

​Barney scowled over the railing, setting his glass down with a loud clatter. "Out with it, goddamnit! You’re spoiling the party!"

​The messenger stopped at the top stair, his face pale as chalk. "Sorry, boss... but your personal stash house on Jane Street got hit! All the cocaine’s gone! Every single one of our guys inside was murdered in cold blood!"

​The entire second floor went dead silent. Alvin dropped his playing cards onto the table. Andy sat bolt upright, his laugh vanishing instantly.

​Barney’s face turned a dark, vein-popping purple. "WHAT?!" he roared, slamming both hands onto the wooden railing until the timber creaked under his weight. "Are you telling me my product got stolen right under my fucking nose?! Who did this?!"

​"I don’t know, boss!" the messenger stammered, pulling a folded note from his pocket. "They left a note!"

​He handed it to Alvin, who quickly walked it over and passed it to Barney without daring to open it. Barney snatched the paper, tore it open, and read the message:

​This is payment for the saloons you burned. By Yours Truly.

​Barney let out a primal scream of rage, sweeping his heavy arm across the table and sending every bottle and glass shattering against the floorboards below.

​"PREPARE FOR WAR!" Barney shrieked, his chest heaving violently. "Call every man on every block! Rally on Gansevoort right now! We’re storming Chelsea today! Anyone who disobeys my orders gets shot where they stand!"

​Terrified by Barney’s unhinged fury, Alvin and Andy scrambled to their feet. "You heard him! Move! Call all the squad leaders!" they yelled, charging down the stairs to rally the men below.

​Barney turned around slowly, his bloodshot eyes locking onto Peter. He was half-furious with Peter because the saloon-torching idea had backfired into losing hundreds of pounds of cocaine, but his blind desperation forced him to look to Peter for an answer.

​"What do we do now, Pete?" Barney growled, shoving the note toward him.

​Peter took the scrap calmly, looking over the words. This is payment for the saloons you burned. By Yours Truly.

​Despite the heavy, suffocating tension in the room, Peter remained completely unflustered. He leaned in closer to Barney, keeping his voice low and steady.

​"Why don’t we do the exact same thing Frank Knox did to Hell’s Kitchen, boss?" Peter suggested softly, feeding Barney’s greed. "We rally our main force to storm Chelsea head-on, but while Yorke’s entire crew is distracted holding their front line... you and I take a small squad and raid Kid’s main stash houses. We strip him completely bare."

​Barney blinked, processing the suggestion as his mind raced.

​"Think about it," Peter added smoothly. "He already knows we know he hit us. He’ll expect us to hit his front lines, but he won’t expect us sneaking into his rear storage while his men are locked in a street fight."

​A slow, ugly grin spread across Barney’s face. He let out a booming laugh and slapped Peter hard on the shoulder. "Hahaha! That’s brilliant, Peter! Great fucking idea! While the rest of those idiots fight in the streets, we rob that bastard dry!" He pointed a finger at Peter. "Get your men ready! Let’s show them that stealing from us costs ten times as much!"

​"Understood, boss," Peter said with a respectful nod.

​He stood up and walked calmly down the stairs toward the street. Barney’s judgment was completely blinded by rage and greed, making him blind to the setup. Leading Barney directly into Chelsea territory in the middle of a chaotic street war meant Barney wouldn’t make it back alive—and when Frank Knox eventually returned, there wouldn’t be a single thread connecting the hit back to Peter’s crew.