Chapter 596 - 596: 568. Sadie Goes To Washington & Business Reports

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"They won't look at you twice, Sadie," Caleb explained, leaning forward. "They will see a woman, and they will dismiss you. They will walk right up to him, thinking they are safe. Your only job, your absolute priority... is to see them before they see you. If anyone pulls a weapon near the President or planned to do immediate, you either kill them or talk with me first on how to handle the ones plotting. No hesitation. No warning."

Sadie slowly set her glass down. A fierce and capable smirk touched her lips. She understood the play perfectly. "A wolf in sheep's clothing, I like the idea Caleb," Sadie murmured, her hand drifting instinctively back to her revolver.

"Exactly," Caleb nodded. "You are leaving in couple of days, on a morning train to head to Washington after everything you need have been prepared."

Sadie stared at Caleb for a long, silent moment, the gears of her mind turning as she processed the sheer audacity of the assignment. Then, without breaking eye contact, she raised the crystal glass to her lips and downed the expensive bourbon in one smooth, unbroken swallow. She set the glass back on the mahogany desk with a sharp clack.

"I despise playing dress up, Caleb," Sadie said, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, a fierce, predatory grin spreading across her face. "But I will admit... I absolutely love the damn plan."

Caleb let out a short, genuine laugh, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. "I knew I could count on you, Sadie. Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. If I have to wear a corset, I might end up shooting the tailor before I even make it to Washington," she warned, standing up and stretching her arms. "When do we start?"

"Right now," Caleb said, standing up and gesturing for her to follow him. "We are going to the armory."

He led her out of the study and down the quiet corridors of the mansion to a heavy, reinforced steel door in the basement. Unlocking it, he pushed the door open, revealing a meticulously organized room that smelled strongly of gun oil, polished wood, and cold steel. It was a private stockpile of the finest weapons the Thorne-Marlin factories produced.

Sadie immediately walked toward a velvet lined rack holding beautifully engraved Schofield revolvers and heavy Lancaster repeaters. She reached out, tracing the familiar wooden stock of a repeater.

"Leave them, Sadie," Caleb ordered softly, standing by a long wooden workbench.

Sadie stopped, looking over her shoulder with a sharp frown. "What do you mean, leave them? These are the guns I know. The old style works just fine, Caleb. I can draw a Schofield faster than any man you've got."

"I know you can," Caleb agreed, walking over to a locked wooden crate and prying the lid open. "And I know you love the old style. But the old style is heavy, it requires manual cocking, and it is entirely impossible to conceal beneath a woman's dress. You are not riding into a shootout on horseback, Sadie. You are going to be standing in the crowded lobby of a Washington hotel. If a threat emerges, you won't have time to fan a hammer, and you won't have the luxury of reloading six individual chambers."

He reached into the crate and pulled out two sleek, blued-steel M1911 semi automatic pistols. He laid them on the workbench, alongside a half dozen loaded magazines.

"These are the newest iterations," Caleb explained, sliding a magazine into the grip of one pistol with a satisfying metallic click. "14 rounds of .45 caliber ammunition. They fire as fast as you can pull the trigger, and they reload in one second. More importantly, their profile is flat. They don't have a bulky cylinder. You can hide these."

Sadie looked at the modern weapons with deep skepticism. She was a frontier woman, raised on the reliability of single action revolvers. But she was also a survivor, and she recognized an evolutionary leap in violence when she saw one. She picked up one of the M1911s, testing the weight. It was balanced, deadly, and terrifyingly efficient.

"Fine," Sadie grunted, racking the heavy slide back and locking it into place. "I'll take the new toys. But I ain't going to Washington with just handguns. What if things go entirely sideways?"

Caleb smiled, stepping over to a larger gun cabinet. "I already thought of that."

He pulled out a heavy, custom-built steamer trunk. He popped the latches and opened it, revealing a false bottom. Resting inside the velvet lined compartment was a modified, sawn off Thorne pump action trench shotgun, a disassembled Vanguard bolt action rifle with a telescopic sight, and a compact variant of the Thorne-Marlin submachine gun.

"The trunk goes in your private quarters at the Executive Mansion," Caleb instructed. "If the capital ever truly falls into chaos, you will have enough firepower to fight your way out of the city."

Sadie looked at the hidden arsenal, her skeptical frown finally dissolving into a deeply satisfied smirk. "Alright, Thorne. You've convinced me. Now, about this secretary business..."

The next morning, the true nightmare of the assignment began for Sadie.

Caleb had enlisted the help of Mary-Beth, Mary Linton, and the girls from the gang to execute the physical transformation. Mary Linton, who possessed a lifetime of experience navigating the absolute highest echelons of polite society, took absolute command of the operation.

They practically dragged a loudly protesting Sadie to the most exclusive, high end tailor in the French Quarter of Saint Denis.

"I feel like a damn stuffed turkey!" Sadie roared from behind the velvet curtain of the dressing room, the sound of tearing fabric echoing into the shop. "Who designed this thing? I can't take a full breath, Mary! If I have to draw a gun, I'm going to rip the seams right out of the shoulders!"

Mary Linton sat elegantly on a plush sofa, sipping a cup of tea, completely unfazed by Sadie's violent complaints. Mary-Beth sat beside her, trying desperately to hide her laughter behind a gloved hand.

"Breathe shallowly, dear," Mary Linton instructed calmly, gesturing to the terrified French seamstress to keep working. "We are not dressing you for a saloon brawl. We are dressing you for the White House. You need to look invisible. A well tailored, conservative walking suit in navy blue or charcoal gray. It projects competence and absolute boredom. Exactly what a secretary should be."

Sadie finally threw the curtain back, stepping out into the mirror.

The transformation was staggering. The rough, mud stained outlaw in riding pants and a dusty duster was gone. In her place stood a striking, sophisticated woman wearing a high collared, perfectly tailored navy blue skirt and jacket. Her blonde hair had been pinned up in an elegant, severe twist. She looked like the highly educated, fiercely organized daughter of a wealthy northern banker.

"I look ridiculous," Sadie muttered, scowling at her reflection, aggressively pulling at the lace around her wrists.

"You look beautiful, Sadie," Mary-Beth offered warmly.

"I don't want to look beautiful, I want to look dangerous," Sadie shot back.

"You look entirely harmless," Mary Linton corrected, standing up and circling Sadie with an approving nod. "Which makes you infinitely more dangerous. Now, the tailor is sewing reinforced leather pockets into the lining of the jacket, and a specialized holster rig that will sit flush against your thigh beneath the skirt. You will be able to carry both of the flat pistols Mr. Thorne gave you without anyone noticing a bulge in the fabric."

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the drawing room of the Thorne mansion, where Mary Linton put Sadie through a grueling, exhausting crash course in high society etiquette, makeup, and posture.

Sadie was forced to practice walking across the room with a book balanced on her head, eliminating the heavy, swaggering cowboy strut she had adopted over the years. Mary taught her how to apply cosmetics, just a faint dusting of powder, a subtle touch of rouge, and a muted lip color. Nothing flashy, nothing that drew the eye.

"When the President speaks to you, you do not nod and say 'Sure thing,'" Mary Linton instructed firmly, tapping a wooden ruler against the palm of her hand like a strict governess. "You say, 'Yes, Mr. President.' Or 'Right away, sir.' You keep your voice even, your eyes slightly lowered to project deference, but you keep your peripheral vision entirely active. Can you do that?"

Sadie sighed, dropping the book from her head and catching it smoothly. She adjusted her posture, squared her shoulders, and offered Mary a look of blank, polite servility.

"Yes, ma'am," Sadie said, her voice perfectly modulated, entirely devoid of her usual gravelly edge. "Right away."

Mary-Beth clapped her hands together in delight. "She's perfect."

Sadie immediately dropped the act, rolling her eyes and collapsing into a velvet armchair. "I hate every single second of this."

That evening, Sadie marched into Caleb's study, looking exhausted and deeply irritated. She dropped the book of etiquette Mary had given her onto his desk with a loud thud.

"I did it," Sadie grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. "I walked the walk, I learned the talk, and I let them paint my face. But if one of those Washington politicians touches my skirt, I am breaking his jaw, President or no President."

"I would expect nothing less," Caleb smiled, opening a drawer in his desk.

He pulled out a thick, heavy manila envelope and slid it across the mahogany. Sadie looked at it, then looked back at Caleb, raising an eyebrow. She reached out, flipping the flap open.

Inside were stacks of crisp, large denomination federal reserve notes. It was a staggering amount of money, easily enough to buy a massive ranch out West, or a luxury townhouse in New York.

"What's this?" Sadie asked, her irritation faltering slightly.

"A bonus," Caleb answered smoothly. "For the mission, and for the suffering you endured in the tailor's shop today. You are walking into the absolute center of American power, Sadie. You are going to be surrounded by the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world. I want you to have the capital to walk among them as an equal, even if you are pretending to be a secretary. Buy whatever you need. Bribe whoever you have to."

Sadie stared at the money, a slow, genuine grin breaking through her annoyance. The grumbling entirely ceased.

"Well," she muttered, tucking the heavy envelope into her coat pocket. "I suppose I can tolerate a corset for a few months."

Two days later, the morning sun broke over the bustling platform of the Saint Denis Union Station.

Sadie stood near the boarding steps of a northbound luxury Pullman car. She was dressed in her new, perfectly tailored gray traveling suit, a modest, elegant hat pinned to her hair. She carried a leather satchel that contained her official credentials, forged flawlessly by Hosea, identifying her as a highly recommended administrative aide transferring from the New York governor's office. Hidden beneath the impeccable tailoring were the two fully loaded M1911 pistols, resting flush against her body.

She looked absolutely magnificent, and completely, terrifyingly lethal.

Caleb stood on the platform with her, having come to see her off personally. The capos had already loaded her heavy steamer trunk into the secure baggage car.

"You are going in completely alone, Sadie," Caleb warned her, his voice low over the hiss of the locomotive's steam. "No backup. No gang. You will be entirely surrounded by federal agents who do not know what you are capable of."

"I prefer working alone, Caleb," Sadie replied, her voice calm and absolute. She wasn't afraid. She had stared down O'Driscolls, Pinkertons, and the harsh elements of the Grizzlies. A city full of soft politicians didn't scare her in the slightest.

"Keep your eyes on the crowds," Caleb instructed, his Past Life Memory flashing to the chaotic, deadly moments that history had recorded. "Especially at public events. Fairs, train stations, anywhere the public is allowed to approach the President to shake his hand. If a man approaches with a concealed hand, or a hand wrapped in a bandage... do not wait. Draw your weapon."

Sadie nodded, committing the specific instruction to memory.

"And Sadie," Caleb added, placing a hand on her shoulder. "If anything happens. If you see something you don't like, or if you need extraction... go to the communications room in the Executive Mansion. Ask for McKinley's permission to use the secure T&T radio line. You call me directly. Understood?"

Sadie waved a gloved hand dismissively, offering him a confident, sharp smile. "Don't you worry about me, Caleb Thorne. I can handle a few angry men in suits. I'll keep your President breathing."

The conductor blew his whistle, signaling the final boarding call.

Sadie turned, walking up the iron steps of the railcar with practiced, fluid grace. She didn't look back as she stepped into the carriage. The locomotive lurched forward, the massive steel wheels grinding against the tracks, carrying the deadliest woman in the Thorne empire north toward the capital.

With Sadie dispatched and the geopolitical shield established, Caleb returned to the mansion, stepping seamlessly back into the role of the industrial titan. He poured himself a cup of coffee, sat behind his massive desk, and began tearing into the mountain of reports and telegraphs that had accumulated during his time with Mary-Beth.

The first report on the stack was a lengthy, highly detailed telegraph from the manager of his luxury hotel in Strawberry, high in the mountains of West Elizabeth.

Caleb read through the financial figures, nodding in satisfaction. The hotel was a massive success. A steady, unbroken stream of high society customers from New York, Chicago, and Boston were making the long train journey to experience the rugged beauty of the West, wrapped in the absolute, opulent luxury of Thorne hospitality.

But it was the second half of the report that truly caught Caleb's attention.

The manager noted that the guided hunting trips had become the absolute premier attraction of the resort, generating massive profits. Wealthy industrialists and politicians were paying exorbitant fees to track big game through the Grizzlies. The man handling the logistics, the tracking, and the safety of these expeditions was Charles Smith.

Attached to the manager's report was a secondary wire, dictated directly by Charles.

"Caleb," Charles's message read, translated into brief telegraphic bursts by the operator. "The hunting parties are successful. The easterners pay well. But the pressure on the local ecosystem is becoming unsustainable. If we continue to allow fifty wealthy men a month to shoot prime bull elk and grizzly bears simply for the trophies, the breeding populations in the Big Valley and the Grizzlies will collapse within three years. They will hunt the region into extinction, just like they did the buffalo."

Caleb leaned back in his chair, tapping his finger against the desk. He knew Charles was absolutely right. In his past life, Caleb had seen the tragic historical reality of overhunting in the early 1900s. He knew that raw, unregulated capitalism would strip the mountains bare if left unchecked.

He continued reading Charles's pitch.

"We must implement a strict management system. We do not allow the guests to shoot the prime breeding males. We track and cull the older, weaker animals that are past their breeding prime, or the predators that are overpopulating and threatening the deer herds. The easterners won't know the difference, they just want a trophy for their walls. We manage the herds, we preserve the species, and we ensure the mountains remain wild. It is good for the land, and it is good for the business. Furthermore, we should open a guided fishing operation on the Dakota River and Owanjila. The trout and salmon populations are booming. If you approve, I will hire a dedicated fishing expert to manage that sector, diverting some of the pressure off the hunting grounds."

Caleb smiled. It was a brilliant, highly sustainable business model, pitched by a man who truly understood the delicate balance of the earth.

Caleb pulled a blank telegraph form toward him and quickly drafted a reply.

"Charles. Your assessment is flawless. You have authority over the game management protocols in West Elizabeth. Restrict the hunting tags immediately. Impose heavy fines on any guide who allows a guest to shoot a prime breeder. Preserve the ecosystem at all costs, a dead forest is bad for business. I approve on the fishing expansion. Hire the best expert you can find. Name your price for the equipment. Keep the mountains wild. - Thorne."

Caleb set the wire aside to be sent and picked up the next heavy envelope.

It was a comprehensive, highly confidential financial report from Herr Strauss in New York.

Caleb broke the wax seal, reading through the pristine, immaculate ledgers Strauss had compiled. The Thorne Crown restaurant franchise was exploding. Strauss reported that they had successfully opened their fourth branch in Manhattan. Every single location was booked solid for months in advance, catering to the absolute elite of New York society. The standardized menus, the flawless service, and the sheer, consistent quality Caleb had pioneered were operating like a well-oiled machine.

"We are currently capping the expansion in New York at four locations, as per your previous directives to maintain exclusivity," Strauss wrote. "I am pleased to report that Pierre's legal framework held up flawlessly. The Thorne Holding Company officially owns the physical land rights and the building deeds for all four locations. We are not paying rent to anyone, we own the dirt beneath the business."

Caleb nodded approvingly. That was the true secret to long-term wealth. Restaurants could fail, but real estate in Manhattan was immortal.

Strauss's report continued, shifting to the financial sector.

"The sheer volume of capital moving through our accounts has inevitably attracted the attention of Wall Street. In the past month alone, I have been approached by representatives from J.P. Morgan, the Vanderbilt trusts, and three independent investment syndicates. They are offering massive infusions of cash in exchange for equity stakes in the Thorne Holding Company, specifically targeting the restaurant franchise and the bicycle manufacturing divisions. I have, in accordance with your strict, standing orders, politely but firmly rejected every single offer. They are growing frustrated."

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Name: Caleb Thorne

Age: 23

Body Attributes:

- Strength: 8/10

- Agility: 8/10

- Perception: 9/10

- Stamina: 8/10

- Charm: 8/10

- Luck: 9/10

Skills:

- Handgun (Lvl MAX)

- Rifle (Lvl MAX)

- Firearms Knowledge (Lvl MAX)

- Past Life Memory (Lvl MAX)

- Knife (Lvl MAX)

- Blunt Weapon (Lvl MAX)

- Sneaking (Lvl MAX)

- Horse Mastery (Lvl MAX)

- Poker (Lvl MAX)

- Hand to Hand Combat (Lvl MAX)

- Eagle Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Dead Eye (Lvl MAX)

- Bow (Lvl MAX)

- Pain Nullifier (Lvl MAX)

- Physical Regeneration (Lvl MAX)

- Crafting (Lvl MAX)

- Persuasion (Lvl MAX)

- Mental Fortitude (Lvl MAX)

- Cooking (Lvl MAX)

- Teaching (Lvl MAX)

- Trilingual Language Proficiency - G, I, & C (Lvl MAX)

- Inventory System (Permanent - 100x100x100)

- Acting (Lvl MAX)

- Alcohol Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Treasure Hunter (Lvl MAX)

- Drugs Resistance (Lvl MAX)

- Business (Lvl MAX)

- Leadership (Lvl MAX)

Money: 2,772 dollars and 60 cents

Inventory: 283,392 dollars and 61 cents, 11 gold nuggets, 74 gold bars, 1 Double Action, 1 Schofield, 2 Colm's Schofields, 1 land deed (Parcel), 1 Mauser, 1 Semi Auto Pistol, 1 Lancaster Repeater, 1 Old Wood Jewelry Box, 1 F.F Mausoleum small brass key, 1 Ruby, 1 Broken Pirate Sword, 1 Milton's Safety Deposit Key, Proof Of Marlin-Thorne Firearms Co., 10 Dynamites, 1 LeMat, 1 M1899, 1 Carcano, 1 Ownership deed of Doyle's Tavern, 3 Diamonds, & Important Documents & Deeds Of Cornwall

Bank: -