Chapter 179: Political Ties
By mid-afternoon, the sun had burned through the morning river fog, casting long, sharp shadows across the quiet cobblestones of MacDougal Alley.
The black touring car rounded the narrow alley entrance in Greenwich Village, its engine idling low as John Caldwell steered it through the heavy wooden carriage doors of the squad’s concealed warehouse shelter. Right behind them, the heavy iron-reinforced doors swung shut, locking out the noise of horse-drawn delivery wagons and distant streetcars on Eighth Street.
Moments later, the heavy timber doors rattled open again as Luther’s convoy arrived from the north. The three covered Mack trucks pulled smoothly into the vast brick interior, their tires crunching over the dust-covered floorboards, while three smaller touring cars parked along the eastern brick wall. Squad agents leaped down from the running boards, immediately setting up sentry posts near the alley gates and loading ramps.
John clicked the ignition off, unlatched his door, and stepped down onto the concrete floor. He reached back into the rear seat, gripping John De George by his coat sleeve, while Davis Brians stepped out from the opposite side, keeping his right hand casually rested against his hip holster.
De George stepped out carefully, clutching his heavy canvas satchel of stolen ledgers tightly against his ribs. His high collar was rumpled, and his eyes darted nervously around the shadowy expanse of the warehouse.
In the center of the floorboards, near an overturned wooden freight crate serving as a makeshift table, Ricky sat on a low bench. Five field agents were resting nearby on canvas cots and stacked crates, cleaning their sidearms or sipping black coffee from tin mugs.
Ricky looked up as the three men approached, setting his enamel mug down on the crate. He gestured toward a solitary wooden armchair resting near the table.
"Take a seat, Mr. De George," Ricky said smoothly.
De George pulled the chair out and sat down, carefully resting his satchel across his lap. He sucked in a quiet breath, trying to smooth his disheveled hair.
Ricky leaned back, resting his hands in his coat pockets. "How went the trip to Roosevelt Island?"
John Caldwell pulled off his flat cap, slapping it against his thigh to clear the road dust. "We had some struggles, Boss."
Ricky raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "What kind of struggles?"
Davis stepped forward, leaning against a timber support beam. "His safehouse wasn’t exactly the way he left it. Somebody tossed the place top to bottom before we arrived, and seven Tammany enforcers were waiting outside on the street. We only figured out the setup after we were already inside the room."
Ricky tapped his chin thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the politician. "Hmm... that kind of risk was bound to catch up with you sooner or later, Mr. De George. Did one of your parlor girls get picked up by ward thugs and broken?"
John stared down at De George with a stern, cold gaze. "That’s exactly what Davis and I figured happened."
De George shook his head rapidly, leaning forward against his satchel. "No, no, no... absolutely not. I know who I hire. I am not foolish enough to deal directly with informants. I use Henrietta Arnette as my intermediary for every exchange. The fact that she hasn’t been dragged off yet, means my parlor girls didn’t spill a word. Besides, none of those women know each other, and not a single one of them knows where my safehouse was located."
Ricky rested his forearms on his knees, watching De George’s face closely. "Hmm... then if it wasn’t your girls, you were sold out by someone inside the reformist committee."
De George let out a bitter, dry laugh. "Yes. That is almost certainly what occurred."
A faint grin touched the corners of Ricky’s mouth. "Too bad for you we aren’t reformists."
De George remained remarkably calm, resting his hands flat against the leather satchel. He looked Ricky square in the eye. "I already assumed as much."
Ricky smiled faintly. "Did you now? What gave it away?"
De George glanced back over his shoulder at John and Davis, then turned his gaze back to Ricky. "For one thing, the anti-corruption reform committees are composed almost entirely of high-society lawyers, church moralists, and ambitious aldermen. They lack the brute muscle Tammany Hall commands. It would make no sense for a committee of silk-stocking reformers to employ men who move like military veterans."
John and Davis exchanged a quiet, amused glance behind De George’s chair, but kept their mouths shut.
"And the second thing?" Ricky asked, gesturing for him to continue.
"Your methods," De George said plainly. "You use cold tactical force and psychological terror to extract information. Men like Charles Parkhurst or the Fusion reformers prefer public scandals. They use financial documents to drag Tammany bosses into court rooms, or they pay cash for political mud. They wouldn’t hire a hit squad to tear through vice dens in Queens or execute gang leaders in broad daylight. Dealing with reformers is always a gamble, but dealing with you people... this is something else entirely. So, who exactly are you guys?"
John Caldwell took a half-step forward, his right hand settling firmly over the wooden grip of his Colt M1911. His voice dropped into a low, warning growl. "You being alive right now, politician, means there’s a line you shouldn’t cross. We’ve been more than generous letting you breathe this long."
𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒆𝙬𝒆𝒃𝓷𝒐𝓿𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝒎
De George visibly tensed, leaning back slightly in his chair as John’s shadow fell over him.
Ricky raised a calm hand, signaling John to hold back.
"Learning who we really are, Mr. De George," Ricky said softly, "means you give up your freedom. It means you join us—either voluntarily or by force. And in our line of work, the only other exit is six feet under a wooden box."
De George swallowed hard, his throat working as he stared at Ricky.
"However," Ricky continued, his voice steady and persuasive, "joining us comes with undeniable benefits. Wealth, absolute protection, high-level political leverage, and opportunities you could never achieve as a minor Midtown politician. But we have one absolute, unbending rule: our organization’s existence remains a secret to the public. Always."
Ricky rested his hands on his knees, looking intently at the politician. "So, Mr. De George... your answer determines what happens next. Choose very carefully."
De George gulped, his eyes sweeping across the dark warehouse, taking in the armed agents, the heavy transport trucks, and the cold discipline of the men standing around him. He let out a soft, raspy sigh.
"I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?" De George whispered.
Davis scoffed, a dark smirk playing on his lips as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, unfortunately not, politician. You should consider yourself lucky. We decided to forfeit Mandy Moore’s life this morning because you turned out to be far more useful to us alive."
De George blinked, looking up at Davis in surprise. "What do you mean?"
"The original plan," Davis explained casually, "was to put a bullet in your head as soon as we grabbed those buyer ledgers from Roosevelt Island. Then we were going to force Moore to march into a precinct, confess his ties to your Midtown ring, and hand over the prostitution ledgers to tear Tammany apart in the press. But when the boss decided to keep you alive, we blew Moore up in front of the Irishtown pub instead."
De George’s kept calm. "I can only pray for the man’s soul."
"We framed the Five Points gangs for the hit," Davis added coolly. "Planted a fake manifesto on the Astoria waterfront to start a bloody turf war between Brooklyn’s White Hand and lower Manhattan. While they butcher each other in the streets, Tammany loses control over their own muscle, and the police department looks entirely helpless right before the municipal election."
De George sat frozen in his chair, a cold shudder running down his spine as he absorbed the sheer, terrifying calculation behind the maneuver. The level of strategic manipulation went far beyond anything he had ever witnessed in the backrooms of Midtown politics.
Ricky smiled warmly, his tone grounded and remarkably conversational. "You hear how it works, Mr. De George. Current politics is a muddy, disgusting swamp. The men running Tammany Hall and the reform committees don’t care about the citizens of New York—they care about personal power and lining their coat pockets."
Ricky leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto De George’s. "We aren’t socialists, communists, or street anarchists. We love this country. But we are not going to stand by and watch corruption rot New York City from the inside out while ordinary working people suffer. You can think of our organization as the true representatives of the people—working to safeguard the future for your sons and your grandsons."
Ricky paused, letting the weight of his words sink into the room. "If medicine can’t cure a malignant tumor, Mr. De George, a surgeon has to step in and cut it out with a blade. So... what do you say?"
De George stared at Ricky for a long moment. Slowly, the sheer terror in his eyes gave way to a cold, resolved clarity. He gripped his leather satchel tighter, straightening his posture in the chair.
"If that is truly who you are," De George said, his voice firm, "then I don’t mind trading my freedom for the future of New York. If an unseen force is what this city needs to cut away the rot, then I will gladly volunteer my services."
Ricky grined, looking around at John, Davis, and the squad agents, who all offered subtle nods of approval.
"Are you certain, though?" Ricky asked, his eyes gleaming with quiet humor. "Working with us means getting your hands dirty. It means burying a lot of corrupt bodies that stand in our way. It might stain whatever moral compass you have left."
De George scoffed, a faint, cynical smile breaking across his tired face. "My moral compass was dirty the day I was born. New York wasn’t clean when I found it, and it certainly isn’t clean now. You give me the word, and I’ll gladly grab a shovel and start digging holes for those bodies."
Ricky chuckled softly, standing up from the crate and extending his hand. "That’s the spirit."
De George stood up and shook Ricky’s hand firmly.
"Understand one thing clearly, Mr. De George," Ricky added, his tone turning businesslike once more. "You will be kept on a strict need-to-know basis for the time being. Until you’ve proven your absolute loyalty, my men will guard you twenty-four hours a day to protect you from Tammany—and to ensure you don’t get any clever ideas about talking to a third party."
"I understand completely," De George said without hesitation. "If that is what it takes to earn your trust, then so be it."