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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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Tavish let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his body as he believed the lie. "They are in the Rhodes bank," Tavish confessed, his voice a defeated whisper. "In the primary underground vault. Safe deposit box number one. The key... the key is hidden inside the hollowed out base of the grandfather clock in my study."
"Thank you, Tavish," Caleb said softly.
He stepped back from the bound men.
But it was a lie, of course. Caleb was a warlord, not a saint. While he would never harm the children or the elderly women, he had absolutely no intention of leaving the able bodied Gray cousins and nephews alive. He would meticulously weed out the men and women that proved to be a potential threat, anyone old enough to hold a grudge or a rifle, and erase them from the board.
After being explicitly told where the location of the deeds was, Caleb simply turned his back on the patriarchs and looked at Dean. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
Dean didn't hesitate. The Italian capo drew his customized M-1911 pistol in a blur of motion.
BANG! BANG!
Dean shot Tavish and Leigh point blank in the center of their foreheads.
The heavy .45 caliber slugs ended their lives instantly. The two men slumped forward against the heavy hemp ropes, their blood pooling in the dirt of the curing barn. The arrogant reign of the Gray family had officially, violently concluded.
Caleb didn't even flinch at the sound of the gunfire. He simply turned to Arthur, his mind already shifting to the legal battles ahead.
"Now," Caleb said calmly, stepping out of the dim barn and back into the cold winter sunlight. "We have the intelligence, and we have the location of the paperwork. Now, we have to wait for Pierre to work his magic."
Arthur nodded, holstering his pistol. "He's going to turn all of the official documents of the Grays over to your name?"
"Exactly," Caleb smirked. "Pierre has the politicians in Saint Denis ready to rubber stamp the property transfers the second he files the paperwork. Caliga Hall, the tobacco fields, the storefronts in Rhodes... it will all be legally registered to the Thorne corporate holding company by Friday."
Caleb walked back toward the main house, barking crisp, efficient orders to the capos stationed around the perimeter.
"Dean!" Caleb called back into the barn. "Tell the capos to go clean up those bodies. Wrap them in canvas and burn them in the back fields. I don't want a grave marking where they fell."
Caleb then turned to another group of highly trusted mobsters standing near the shattered front gates.
"You four," Caleb ordered, pointing toward the sprawling mansion. "Go into the study. Smash the base of the grandfather clock and get the vault key. Then ride directly into Rhodes, secure the bank, and take the official deeds from the safe deposit box."
The capos nodded sharply, immediately sprinting toward the house to execute the command.
"And when you have the deeds," Caleb yelled after them, "I want two of you to ride your horses until they collapse if you have to! Send those documents directly to Pierre at the law offices in Saint Denis so he can immediately begin the legal takeover for the Grays' land!"
Hearing the rapid fire volume of precise numbers and strict orders being given by Caleb, the Italian capos immediately snapped into action to do exactly what they were ordered to do. There was no hesitation, no questioning of the Don's logic.
The men who had been assigned to clean up the bodies in the curing barn dragged the corpses of Tavish and Leigh Gray out into the back fields, wrapping them in heavy, blood soaked canvas tarps before dousing them in kerosene and setting them ablaze.
The thick, black smoke of the burning Southern aristocrats rose into the winter sky, completely erasing their physical existence from the earth.
Caleb, having secured the primary objective of the Caliga Hall assault, adjusted the collar of his leather duster and headed back out to the sprawling main courtyard of the mansion. The white gravel was still slick with the blood of the mercenaries, but the active fighting had entirely ceased. The surviving members of the Gray family were locked inside the ruined manor, weeping in the shadows of their shattered foyer.
Caleb looked around the estate, his tactical mind instantly transitioning from conquest to occupation. He ordered a massive detachment of his heavily armed capos to stay here.
"Lock down the perimeter!" Caleb barked, his voice echoing off the white pillars of the plantation house. "Nobody goes in, and absolutely nobody comes out unless I personally authorize it! Set up rotating patrols along the tobacco fields and the tree lines. If anyone from the local law enforcement or the state government tries to approach the property, turn them away. If they draw a weapon, put them in the dirt."
The men nodded sharply, immediately dispersing to set up fortified firing positions and guard posts around the sprawling property. With the estate securely occupied, Caleb turned his attention to the town.
He walked over to his pure black Arabian horse, which had been brought forward by one of the gang members. He pulled himself up into the saddle with fluid, practiced grace. Arthur, John, Sadie, Bill, Lenny, and Sean mounted their own warhorses right beside him, their weapons freshly reloaded and their faces smeared with the grim soot of the battlefield.
With a sharp whistle, Caleb kicked his spurs into his horse's flanks, and they rode out. The small, highly lethal vanguard thundered down the dirt road, leaving the smoking ruins of Caliga Hall behind, and rode directly toward the town of Rhodes.
The town was entirely locked down. The streets were completely empty of civilians, the storefronts boarded up, and the usual bustling, dusty thoroughfare was replaced by a suffocating, terrified silence. The only people walking the boardwalks were the dark-coated Italian mobsters of the Thorne syndicate, holding their Vanguard rifles with absolute authority.
Caleb and his entourage arrived directly in front of the Rhodes Parlor saloon, the very building where the representatives of the eastern corporate backers were currently being held.
Vincenzo had initially led the surrounding perimeter, but Caleb had dispatched his most trusted, calculating Underboss to personally handle the high value prisoners.
Antonio, the impeccably dressed head butler and ruthless syndicate manager, had led the charge into the parlor's aftermath to oversee the extraction of intelligence.
Caleb brought his horse to a halt, the heavy hooves kicking up dust. He stepped down from the saddle, his boots crunching over the massive carpet of shattered glass that had been blown entirely out of the parlor's front windows. He walked through the ruined, splintered swinging doors.
Inside, the parlor was a slaughterhouse. The bodies of the expensive corporate bodyguards were piled in the corners, the mahogany bar was reduced to splinters, and the air was thick with the smell of spilled top shelf whiskey and drying blood.
Kneeling in the center of the room, stripped of their bespoke suit jackets and shivering violently in the cold wind blowing through the shattered windows, were the four surviving representatives of the eastern backers, including Mr. Sterling. They looked absolutely pathetic, their faces bruised and their eyes wide with a primal, inescapable terror.
Standing over them, completely unbothered by the carnage, was Antonio. He rested his hands on his silver headed cane, looking perfectly out of place in a warzone with his immaculate suit, yet radiating a cold, terrifying authority.
Caleb walked up, his heavy duster sweeping across the broken floorboards. He looked down at the weeping executives, then turned his sharp blue eyes to his Underboss.
"Antonio," Caleb asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the kneeling men flinch. "Have we gained any actionable information from the representatives of these backers?"
Antonio looked up, a thin, deeply satisfied smile crossing his usually stoic face. He nodded his head slowly.
"We have, Don McLaughlin," Antonio replied, his tone perfectly polite, as if he were discussing the evening dinner menu rather than a brutal interrogation. "Using the specific, highly persuasive 'techniques' that you told them about... the representatives here did not take very long to speak. In fact, they were incredibly eager to share everything they knew once the pain became properly localized."
Antonio reached into his tailored breast pocket and pulled out a small, blood spattered notebook. He opened it and began to list the names of the people involved in the massive corporate conspiracy. He named the railroad barons from Chicago, the steel magnates from the Rust Belt, and the corrupt federal politicians who had secretly signed off on the assassination funding.
Caleb stood in the center of the ruined parlor, completely silent, simply nodding his head slightly as every single name was read aloud. With his cognitively enhanced mind, Caleb was permanently putting down the names of the people involved in his head. He didn't need a piece of paper, his memory was photographic, completely locking the targets into a mental kill list that he would systematically execute over the coming months.
"And the man who orchestrated this coalition?" Caleb asked, though he already knew the answer from his interrogation at the curing barns.
"Leviticus Cornwall," Antonio confirmed, snapping the notebook shut. "He is the primary financier. He used his remaining liquid assets to rally these men against you."
Hearing that, Caleb nodded his head. A dark, terrifyingly cold expression washed over his handsome face. He turned to look fully at Antonio, delivering his next order with the absolute certainty of an leader commanding a war.
"Antonio. I want you to reach out to our finest underworld contacts across the country. I want you to hire the absolute best, most ruthless private investigators, spies, and bounty hunters money can buy," Caleb ordered, his voice echoing in the silent saloon. "You are to look into every single one of these people. I want to know their daily routines, I want to know where they sleep, and I want to know where they hide their money. And most importantly... you are to find out exactly where Leviticus Cornwall is hiding."
Antonio nodded his head, his mind instantly calculating the sheer, astronomical logistics of launching a nationwide espionage campaign.
"I will make absolutely sure that these people will all be found, Don McLaughlin," Antonio assured him, his grip tightening on his cane. "No matter how deep they bury themselves. But... I must warn you, sir. Launching an operation of this magnitude across state lines, bribing federal clerks, and hiring premium talent... it will need a massive, incredibly large amount of funding, considering the sheer distance we have to cover to do it."
Caleb looked at Antonio, and a slow, dark, highly amused smile broke across his face. He thought of the three hundred thousand dollars currently sitting in his vault from the weapons auction, the millions in gold he had just ripped out of the Grays' floorboards, and the endless revenue streams of his casinos and factories.
"Antonio," Caleb smiled, his blue eyes flashing with supreme confidence. "When has money ever become a problem for this family?"
Antonio paused for a fraction of a second, realizing the absolute truth of the statement. The Thorne syndicate possessed wealth that rivaled the federal treasury. Antonio bowed his head deeply, a genuine, matching smile appearing on his face.
"Right away, Don," Antonio agreed perfectly.
With the intelligence secured and the nationwide hunt officially commissioned, Caleb's business in the parlor was concluded. He looked down at the four weeping, kneeling corporate executives. They looked up at him with desperate, pleading eyes, hoping that their cooperation had earned them a reprieve.
"Please... we gave you the names. We gave you Cornwall!" Sterling sobbed, his hands clasped together in prayer. "You have to let us go back East! We will never set foot in the South again! We swear it on our lives!"
Caleb stared at them with eyes as cold as a frozen lake. He had absolutely no use for them anymore, and leaving them alive would only give his enemies witnesses to his methods.
"You are right about one thing, Sterling," Caleb whispered softly. "You will never set foot in the South again."
After that was said, Caleb turned his back on the men and began walking out of the parlor. Without looking over his shoulder, he of course ordered the execution of the representatives.
"Kill them all," Caleb commanded simply as he walked through the shattered doors.
Behind him, Antonio and the capos didn't hesitate. The deafening, rapid fire cracks of the M-1911 pistols echoed loudly into the street, followed immediately by the heavy thuds of the executives' bodies hitting the floorboards. The corporate proxy war was dead.
Caleb stepped off the boardwalk, pulling himself back up onto his black Arabian horse. He looked at Arthur, John, Sadie, and the rest of his gang, all of whom were looking at him with a profound mixture of awe and sheer respect. They had just conquered an entire county in a single morning.
"Let's move out," Caleb ordered.
He led his group, alongside a heavily armed detachment of capos, to leave the bloody, shell shocked area of Rhodes and head back to the elevated, heavily forested ridge encampment they had made previously.
The adrenaline of the morning's slaughter was finally beginning to fade, replaced by a deep, bone weary exhaustion. They reached the camp, secured the perimeter, and finally took a well deserved rest among the pine trees, waiting for the legal fallout to catch up to their violence.
Meanwhile, miles away in the bustling, industrial heart of Saint Denis, a completely different type of war was currently being waged. This one was not fought with bullets and submachine guns, but with ink, wax seals, and archaic property laws.
Inside a sprawling, smoke filled, gas lit office on the top floor of a premium building, Pierre, the young and brilliant corporate attorney whom Caleb had placed on an exorbitant retainer, was actually working frantically with a small group of people that also deeply understood the convoluted nature of Lemoyne state law.
They were surrounded by towering stacks of leather bound legal precedents, municipal zoning codes, and property tax records. The air in the room was thick with cigar smoke and the frantic scratching of fountain pens on heavy parchment.
They were currently trying to perform a legal miracle: changing the name of the official land deed which covered the entire, sprawling expanse of the Braithwaites' land over to the Thorne corporate holding company.
Pierre, sweating through his expensive tailored vest, carefully adjusted his spectacles as he stared down at the massive, ancient, leather bound ledger resting in the center of his mahogany desk. It was the personal ledger of the Braithwaites.
Pierre honestly didn't know how his boss, a man who was essentially a glorified mobster, could get his hands on these ancient, highly secretive land deeds and ledgers just moments before the Braithwaite manor had burned to the ground.
It seemed like Don McLaughlin possessed a supernatural level of foresight. But Pierre didn't question it. He only knew that this ledger could help their case massively.
The state of Lemoyne had attempted to seize the Braithwaite land after the family was wiped out, claiming it was abandoned property tied up in federal taxes. But Pierre was a legal shark. Using the absolute, undeniable proof of Braithwaite's tax evasion, slavery, and high treason documented in the ledger, Pierre was actively threatening to expose the state's complicity in the crimes unless they played ball.
Furthermore, he could just maneuver the legal argument to prove that the state's seizure deeds were actually just fake deeds, or at the very least, improperly filed under the archaic Confederate property laws that the state was trying to desperately ignore.
He, alongside his exhausted team of junior clerks and paralegals, had been working very, very hard, pouring over the documents continuously from the early morning until the deep, freezing evening to find the exact loopholes and legal laws required to force the state to sell the land to Caleb for absolute pennies on the dollar.
The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a grandfather clock, when suddenly, there was a massive, incredibly loud knock on the heavy oak door to the study.
The clerks jumped in their seats, terrified. Dealing with the Thorne syndicate always put them on edge.
One of the people, a nervous young paralegal, quickly stood up and opened it.
Standing in the hallway, looking completely terrifying in the refined corporate setting, were two massive, heavily scarred Italian capos. Their dark winter coats were stained with red dirt and tiny splatters of dried blood. They had ridden their horses to the absolute brink of exhaustion, practically killing the beasts to get from Rhodes to Saint Denis in record time.
One of the capos stepped into the office, reaching into his heavy coat. He pulled out a thick, official looking stack of parchment tied with a heavy black ribbon. It was the entire collection of the original land deeds that belonged to the Gray family, the deeds to Caliga Hall, the tobacco fields, the storefronts, and the banking charters.
The capo dropped the heavy stack of deeds directly onto Pierre's desk with a loud thump.
"Compliments of Don McLaughlin," the capo rumbled, his voice raspy from the long ride. "The Grays are dead. He wants the legal takeover initiated immediately."
The paralegals in the room gasped, staring at the blood-stained mobsters in sheer horror. But Pierre, looking at the fresh stack of property deeds that effectively handed them control of the entire southern half of the state, simply pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose.
A slow, ruthlessly ambitious corporate smile spread across Pierre's face. He loved working for a man who got results this fast.
Pierre looked back at his exhausted, terrified legal team, clapping his hands together sharply. "Well, gentlemen," Pierre announced to his team, picking up his fountain pen and pulling the Gray family deeds toward him. "It appears the hard work wouldn't be stopping yet. Brew another pot of coffee. We are going to own the entire South by sunrise."
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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: -