Chapter 177: Compromised
By late morning, news of Mandy Moore’s death had spread swiftly through Brooklyn Heights, even if it failed to claim the top headline on the city’s major front pages. To the shopkeepers, dock bosses, and neighborhood locals on the Brooklyn waterfront, Moore was viewed as a respectable, generous local businessman—a man who readily tossed coins to street urchins and covered funeral costs for fallen longshoremen.
The morning papers reported his death alongside a secondary, high-intensity blast three blocks away, noting a suspicious link between the two events. Police investigators swarming the scene gathered statements from multiple witnesses who reported seeing a black Ford Model T pull up near the Irishtown pub. Moore had stepped out onto the cobblestones alongside men in dark wool suits before an explosion tore through the sidewalk. Minutes later, the getaway vehicle was detonated in a nearby alleyway—a tactic the precinct inspectors concluded was an aggressive effort by the killers to destroy all physical evidence and untraceable traces of their getaway ride.
Beneath the official police reports, the White Hand Gang knew exactly who to blame. Dinny Meehan and his top captains felt no personal grief for Moore, but the crumpled note recovered from the Astoria waterfront—claiming the hit for the East Side Manhattan gangs—served as the perfect spark. Dinny immediately used the murder to rally his ranks, using the promise of blood vengeance against Manhattan’s Five Points gangs to recruit dozens of angry young longshoremen along the docks.
For Ricky, the public spectacle was a calculated success. detonating the vehicle and planting the letter erased his squad’s movements across Queens, ignited a brutal turf feud across borough lines, and drew heavy police surveillance directly toward active gang war zones. By exposing the police department’s sheer inability to maintain order on the streets, the resulting chaos eroded public confidence in the city administration, severely weakening Tammany Hall’s grip on local precincts ahead of the upcoming municipal elections.
Over on Roosevelt Island, a black touring car pulled up to the curb outside 456 Main Street. John Caldwell and Davis Brians stepped out onto the gravel lane, keeping John De George sandwiched tightly between them.
De George glanced nervously over his shoulder, his eyes darting toward the quiet residential windows lining the street. His hands were stuffed deep into his coat pockets to hide his iron-cuffed wrists. The two agents walked in absolute, stone-faced silence, their heavy wool coats buttoned tight against the damp river breeze. Their total lack of conversation was deeply unnerving to the politician, but De George swallowed his panic and led them into the brick apartment building.
They climbed the narrow, creaking staircase to the third floor, stopping outside Room 23. De George pulled his brass key from his pocket with trembling fingers, worked the lock, and pushed the door open.
The moment they stepped inside, De George froze.
The apartment was in total ruin. Drawers had been yanked from dressers and dumped onto the floorboards, mattress ticking was sliced open with heavy cotton stuffing pouring out, and papers, extra suits, and broken porcelain lay scattered across every inch of the room.
John Caldwell stepped over a pile of upturned books, his hand resting casually inside his coat on his shoulder holster. He looked around the wrecked parlor, his eyebrows raised slightly.
"You leave quite a mess here, politician," John remarked dryly.
"No... no, I didn’t leave it like this," De George stammered, his eyes wide as he looked at the destruction. "I keep this place spotless! Someone’s been through here... they searched the whole apartment!" He let out a shaky breath, forcing himself to calm down. "Thankfully... the damned fools had no idea where to actually look."
De George hurried across the room into the small bedroom closet. He shoved aside shredded trousers and tossed out broken coat hangers, dropping to his knees on the floorboards. Reaching into the dark back corner of the closet wall, he gripped a loose wooden panel, gave it a sharp tug, and pulled a hidden compartment open.
He reached inside and hauled out a heavy leather file bag alongside a strapped canvas satchel, cradling them against his chest.
"I got them," De George gasped, turning around on his knees. "The ledgers, the buyer names, the draft checks—everything’s in here."
Meanwhile, Davis Brians had moved quietly over to the front parlor window. He pulled the lace curtain back half an inch, peering down at the gravel street below.
Parked along the curb directly across from the entrance were seven men dressed in mismatched wool suits and flat caps. They stood in small groups, pretending to talk while their eyes remained locked on the front door and upper windows of 456 Main Street.
"Well, it sure as hell wasn’t him," Davis said calmly, without turning around. "We got guests outside, John. Five or seven of them."
John walked over to the edge of the window frame, taking a quick glance down at the street before pulling back into the shadows. He looked down at De George.
"I guess someone sold you off, politician," John said.
De George’s face drained of all color. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the leather file bag to his ribs as his chest heaving frantically. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit! You have to get me out of here! Those are Tammany enforcers! If they catch me, they’re going to put a bullet in my head!"
"We’re not planning to give you up just yet, politician," John said, his voice flat and unhurried. "The question is, now that you’re completely compromised, can you still be of any damn use to us?"
"Of course I can!" De George pleaded desperately, stepping closer to John. "My information network is bulletproof! As long as Tammany doesn’t put hands on me, they’ll never figure out who my informants are!"
Davis turned around from the window, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "If your apartment got tossed this fast, politician, how do you know one of your girls didn’t sell you out? Or get picked up by ward thugs and broken in a back room?"
"No! Absolutely not!" De George insisted, shaking his head frantically. "I select every woman I pay personally! Maids, parlor staff, hotel workers—they don’t know each other, and none of them know where this safehouse is! Besides, you men underestimate women when it comes to digging up dirt, especially when there’s good coin on the line. Even if one of them feeds me a lie, I cross-reference every report with three other sources. It’s easy to separate the truth from the tail-end."
John stepped away from the window, edging toward the apartment doorway. He cracked the door open an inch, listening to the creaking floorboards in the stairwell below.
"Enough talking," John cut in quietly. "They’re coming up."
John reached inside his overcoat, drawing his Colt M1911 pistol. He slid the magazine out, pressed down on the top brass .45 cartridge to verify the tension, and slapped it back into the frame with a sharp CLACK. He reached into his coat belt, counting his spares.
"I’ve got four magazines total including the one loaded, plus two friction pipe grenades," John whispered, turning to Davis. "What are you carrying?"
Davis pulled his own sidearm, checking his belt pouches. "Five magazines."
"Gimme one," John said, holding his palm out.
Davis pulled a heavy steel magazine from his leather pouch and tossed it over. John caught it cleanly, dropping it into his side coat pocket.
John turned back to De George, pointing his gun barrel toward the far end of the hallway. "You know where the fire escape exit is in this building, politician?"
De George nodded rapidly, his knuckles white against his file bag. "End of the corridor... through the laundry window!"
"Good," John said, taking a slow, deep breath to settle his pulse. "When I say go, you step behind me and run like your entire life depends on it. Because right now, it does."
De George swallowed hard, nodding in silence.
John crouched low, pressed his shoulder against the doorframe, and inhaled deeply.
In one fluid, practiced motion, John slid sideways out into the main corridor.
Two Tammany enforcers were already halfway down the third-floor hallway, heavy revolvers held at their sides. The moment they caught sight of John, their eyes widened, but their reflexes were far too slow. Before they could raise their handguns—
BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!
John squeezed off four rapid shots. The heavy .45 slugs struck both enforcers square in the chest, driving them backward into the wall. Their revolvers clattered onto the floorboards, and both men collapsed in a lifeless heap.
"GO!" John roared.
De George bolted out of the apartment, keeping his head down as he sprinted down the narrow corridor toward the rear exit. John fell into step right behind him, keeping his pistol raised to cover the front stairs.
Davis stepped out of Room 23 to secure the rear. As he passed the two fallen thugs, one of them groaned, his hand reaching weakly toward his dropped revolver. Without pausing his stride, Davis raised his Colt and fired two smooth shots into the man’s chest, neutralizing the threat instantly.
Down on the street, the echo of heavy gunfire blasting through the third-floor windows sent shockwaves through the remaining Tammany enforcers waiting outside.
"THEY’RE INSIDE! GET UP THERE!" the lead thug shouted, drawing a heavy .44 revolver from his coat.
The five remaining enforcers drew their weapons, kicked open the front entrance doors of 456 Main Street, and charged blindly up the timber staircase into the building.