Chapter 38: Squads & Shadows
By seven o’clock in the morning, the damp river fog over the Gansevoort alley was beginning to burn off under a pale yellow sun.
Inside the quiet brick storage shed, all ten members of the Founder’s Syndicate were assembled around the long wooden staging table: Ricky, Marek, John Caldwell, the three Murphy brothers (Arthur, Frank, Tom), and the four Williams brothers (Jimmy, Sean, Michael, Patrick).
The air in the shed was cool, smelling of raw timber, lamp oil, and the faint, sweet scent of tobacco smoke.
Ricky stood at the head of the table, his master ledger open before him. He looked over the group, taking in the four Williams brothers, who were practically vibrating with eager energy after receiving their silver payouts the night before.
"Listen up," Ricky said, his voice quiet, conversational, and grounded. "First off, I’m officially introducing the Williams brothers to the rest of the crew. Jimmy, Sean, Michael, Patrick. They proved their worth on the route last night, hauling twenty-seven drops before midnight."
Frank Murphy let out a soft snort from the corner, leaning against a flour barrel. "Crazy bastards moved like their tails were on fire."
Jimmy Williams offered a sharp, gap-toothed grin, tipping his flat cap. "We like the silver, Frank."
Ricky tapped his pencil against the ledger, bringing the room back to order. "Now that you’re in, you need to understand what this group is. We aren’t a street gang. We don’t shake down vegetable carts, we don’t break windows for protection money, and we don’t extort working men. We’re a commercial syndicate—a shadow logistics company built to supply every merchant in this city while cutting out the middleman."
He looked Jimmy and Sean dead in the eye. "Our vision is simple: we build an untraceable commercial network that spans every borough in New York. We give the shopkeepers better quality at lower prices, and in return, we own the supply lines. We operate in silence, and we take care of our own."
Jimmy and Sean exchanged a wide-eyed glance, genuinely surprised by how structured, formal, and ambitious Ricky’s operation was. It was a world away from running illegal card games in Aunt Molly’s loft or stealing off the piers.
"Now that we’re ten men strong," Ricky continued, "we’re restructuring our operation. Starting today, we operate in three dedicated three-man squads. The squad roster won’t be permanent—every month, I’ll rotate the squads so everyone gets a chance to work with different men and learn different roles."
Ricky pointed his pencil at Marek. "Squad One is our Daytime Order Squad. Marek leads it, accompanied by Tom Murphy and Jimmy Williams."
John Caldwell looked up, a faint frown touching his brow. "Am I off daytime orders then, Ricky?"
"You’re moving to night deliveries, John," Ricky explained smoothly. "Jimmy’s bold energy will help Marek push into new shopfronts during the day, while your sharp eyes are better suited for security on the night wagons."
Ricky turned back to the ledger. "Squad Two takes the first night wagon: Arthur Murphy leads, with Sean Williams and Patrick Williams as his crew. Squad Three takes the second night wagon: John Caldwell leads, with Frank Murphy and Michael Williams."
Marek tilted his head, leaning his elbows on the wooden table. "Ricky, what are the squad leaders’ exact responsibilities? If we’ve got three different leaders out on the streets, how do we keep decisions consistent?"
"Good question," Ricky said, offering a genuine nod of approval. "The squad leaders report directly to me every evening. You’re responsible for guiding your crew, keeping order, and making immediate tactical decisions on your route. Whether it’s day or night, the leader makes the call. Every month, I’ll rotate the leadership assignments randomly among the senior members so everyone learns how to manage a route, handle clients, and direct men."
Arthur Murphy nodded slowly, rubbing his broad jaw. "And what about when we expand further?"
"When we expand," Ricky said, his gray eyes catching the faint lantern light, "you leaders won’t just be driving wagons. You’ll be vanguards. You’ll be assigned whole neighborhoods—Hell’s Kitchen, the Bowery, Brooklyn. Each of you could be managing twenty, thirty, fifty men under your command. But no matter how big we get, we maintain strict discipline. We do our job properly, we treat our workers fairly, and we keep order in our ranks."
The boys stood quiet for a second, the sheer scale of Ricky’s vision settling over them. Managing fifty men... owning whole neighborhoods.
Ricky stepped back, turning toward a large, wooden crate resting near the back wall that had been materialized from the Ledger Vault earlier that morning. He pried the lid open with a crowbar, revealing neat rows of dark wool garments.
"Last night, I put some thought into our public image," Ricky said, reaching into the crate. "Starting today, we have an official uniform."
He pulled out a sleek, impeccably tailored black three-piece wool suit, a matching black flat cap, clean black leather shoes, a slender steel butterfly-style stiletto knife, and a solid black, weighted wooden sap stick.
The room went dead silent.
Frank Murphy gasped, stepping closer to touch the crisp black wool of the suit. "Holy hell, Ricky... these look like Wall Street funeral suits."
"From today onward," Ricky said, his voice dropping into a low, serious tone, "you are strictly forbidden from uttering the name ’Founder’s Syndicate’ in public. To the shopkeepers, to the patrolmen, and to the gangs... we have no name. We operate in the dark, we deliver in the night, and we blend into the shadows in black wool. The public will call us whatever rumors they dream up. The less the city knows about our true identity, the safer our logistics remain."
The boys looked at the sharp black suits, then at Ricky’s calm, cold face. The sudden shift from comfortable commercial merchants to a quiet, lethal shadow organization made Arthur’s chest tighten with respect. Ricky wasn’t just hiding from the coppers—he was making them invisible.
"Operate in the dark," Arthur repeated softly, a grim, approving smile touching his lips. "I like it."
Ricky turned to a second, smaller crate on the table and popped the latch. Inside lay three gleaming, dark steel revolvers—Colt double-action .38s—alongside three cardboard boxes of lead-nosed cartridges.
Tom Murphy gasped, taking a step back, while Jimmy Williams let out a low, sharp whistle.
"Guns are last-resort insurance," Ricky said, his tone turning stone-cold. "Only squad leaders are permitted to carry a revolver. Marek, Arthur, John. You carry them hidden beneath your vests at all times."
John Caldwell stared at the revolver lying in the straw, his sharp English accent laced with caution. "And the rules on pulling ’em?"
"You only pull the steel if your life or the wagon is under immediate, deadly threat," Ricky declared, looking every squad leader in the eye. "Firing a gun in Manhattan brings every precinct copper on the beat. If a squad leader pulls a revolver at an inappropriate time or place and brings heat on this company, you lose your leadership rank instantly and you get suspended without pay. Am I clear?"
"Crystal, boss," Arthur said calmly, stepping forward to pick up his Colt .38. He snapped the cylinder open, inspecting the smooth steel action with an experienced eye before sliding six cartridges into the chambers.
Marek reached out hesitantly, his fingers wrapping around the cold grip of his revolver. He had never held a handgun in his life, but he swallowed his anxiety, giving Ricky a firm, trusting nod. John Caldwell took his revolver with quiet, practiced familiarity, checking the hammer.
"Can we train with ’em?" Marek asked quietly. "So we don’t shoot our own toes off?"
"Sunday," Ricky promised. "I’ll find a secluded spot in the countryside out past the Bronx where we can practice target shooting. Until then, you keep them hidden. If a situation gets ugly, showing the steel should be enough to turn back any crowd. The knives and weighted sticks are for close work."
Ricky reached into the crate and pulled out three leather shoulder holsters, handing them to Marek, Arthur, and John.
John buckled the leather webbing over his white shirt, sliding the dark revolver beneath his arm before pulling his new black vest over it. The gun vanished completely under the tailored wool.
"What about the shotguns, Ricky?" John asked, adjusting his vest. "Do they stay on the wagons?"
Jimmy Williams’ eyes widened. "Shotguns? You’ve got shotguns?"
"Two Winchester twelve-gauge pump guns," Arthur scoffed with a grin. "Tucked under the canvas on the bench."
"They stay on the wagons," Ricky instructed firmly. "And they’re only used if you’re heavily outnumbered or cornered by shooters. I’m trusting you leaders to handle your firepower responsibly. We’re still small, and a police investigation would cripple us. Use the night-shift shadow, use the sticks, and only pull lead when there’s no other choice."
"We won’t let you down, Ricky," Arthur said, his broad face serious. "Your trust isn’t misplaced."
"Alright," Ricky said, waving his hand toward the uniform crates. "Get dressed."
The boys stripped off their old jackets and pulled on the crisp black three-piece suits, matching caps, and leather shoes. Within five minutes, the ten young men looked like a formidable, high-class shadow unit—clean, sharp, and intimidatingly organized.
With their new notebooks, black suits, and hidden weapons, Marek, Tom, and Jimmy Williams stepped out of the storage shed, heading out on foot to take daytime orders across Greenwich Village.
The remaining six crew members—Arthur, Frank, John, Sean, Michael, and Patrick—settled into the storage shed to rest and wait for their evening shift. Frank opened a crate of paper cigarettes, tossing a pack to Arthur, while Jimmy had left a bottle of cheap rye whiskey on the corner workbench.
Arthur uncorked the bottle, taking a small, conservative sip before setting it down, leaning back against a flour sack with a tobacco cigarette between his lips.
Ricky sat at the wooden table, his master ledger open, a lead pencil in hand as he began calculating their weekly profit projections. He looked over at the boys laughing quietly in their crisp black suits.
"Keep it light on the whiskey, Arthur," Ricky said smoothly, a small, tired smile touching his lips. "I need you awake and sharp when the sun goes down."
Arthur chuckled, raising his cigarette in a quiet salute. "Don’t worry, boss. I’m keeping an eye on ’em. We’ll be ready."
Ricky nodded, returning to his ledger as the quiet morning settled over the Gansevoort alley. The Founder’s Syndicate was armed, organized, and ready for whatever the West Side threw at them.