Riding boots trampled on the muddy red earth, making a squelching sound.
The air at this large cotton plantation on the edge of Georgia was filled with a pungent, burnt odor.
The No. 7 wooden warehouse, which should have been stacked with cotton bales waiting for transport, was now nothing more than a pile of charred remains still emitting black smoke and a few twisted support pillars.
Silas, the general manager of the Southern Development Company, stood before the ruins, his brows knitted tightly together.
Finch, the regional supervisor of the plantation, stood half a step behind Silas, holding a ledger and quickly recording something with a charcoal pencil.
"Has it been cleared out?"
Silas shoved a cigar into his mouth, biting down on the tip, his voice laced with suppressed anger.
"It's just about cleared, General Manager."
Finch closed the ledger and brushed the ash off it.
"We lost about three hundred bales of cotton in the warehouse. Thirty-seven black laborers died, all shot to death in their sleep by those bandits who rushed in. Twelve brothers from our security team died, as well as three administrative clerks."
Silas snorted coldly and turned his head to look at Finch.
"I don't want to hear these numbers. I just want to know if those scumbags are all dead?"
"Thanks to the tip from Zane."
"To save his own skin, he sold out their whereabouts and retreat route. We mobilized four security squadrons and set an ambush in the swamps across the state line. Several Gatling Guns opened fire at once, tearing more than eighty men to pieces on the spot. The few that remained fell into the mud and fed the alligators."
Upon hearing this result, Silas's expression softened slightly.
He turned around and looked at the black laborers in the distance, who were trembling as they cleared the ruins under the supervision of armed security personnel.
Over the past few years, he had been carving out territory in the South for the Argyle Family.
The environment here was completely different from New York.
The South during the Reconstruction era was full of hostility, chaos, and ubiquitous violence.
This year, President Ulysses S. Grant sat in The White House, constantly remote-controlling state government officials belonging to the Republican Party to cause trouble for the Southern Development Company.
They inspected the plantation under various pretexts, attempted to disband the legal militia specially approved by the Argyle Family, and even set up obstacles for the approval of railway lines.
"That drunkard Grant has been getting more and more excessive lately."
Silas spat out some cigar tobacco.
"I heard that Washington is drafting a bill, planning to completely revoke the gun permits for our security teams that President Lincoln granted us back then. If he really succeeds, we'll become toothless tigers in these southern states, and anyone will be able to take a bite out of us."
Finch nodded in deep agreement.
"Indeed. It would be better if someone else were sitting in that position. Even if the vice president, Mr. Clark, were to take office, our Southern Development Company could logically expand our security team into a formal mercenary group. By then, who would dare to burn our warehouse?"
Silas did not respond, instead turning the topic back to the trouble at hand.
"Those security team brothers who were killed. Have their guns been recovered?" Silas's gaze suddenly turned sharp.
This was the issue he cared about most.
The rules of the Argyle Family were very strict.
Every lever-action rifle sent to the South by Vanguard Military Industry had the Southern Development Company's exclusive anti-counterfeiting emblem and serial number stamped on the side of the receiver.
Hearing this question, Finch's expression became slightly unnatural. He looked left and right, then lowered his voice.
"General Manager, the battlefield has been cleared. We recovered most of the guns. But..."
"But what? Speak clearly!"
Silas barked sharply.
"At the time, a few of the ringleader bandits broke through the encirclement with a dozen men and escaped. The service weapons of the twelve brothers we lost were also snatched away by those fleeing bastards. A total of fourteen standard-issue rifles and a few revolvers were lost."
Silas's eyes widened abruptly, and he grabbed Finch by the collar.
"Fourteen rifles with the family emblem were lost? Why didn't you tell me this sooner! Do you realize this violates the headquarters' firearms control regulations?"
Finch did not seem particularly panicked; he let Silas hold his collar, his tone actually becoming calm.
"General Manager, please listen to me first."
Finch looked directly into Silas's eyes.
"It's only a dozen guns. In a place like the South, guns leaking into the black market is an everyday occurrence. If we report this to the New York headquarters via private telegraph now..."
Finch paused, throwing out the realistic problem.
"What would the boss think of you? The boss would feel that your control in the South has loopholes. Even a few wandering bandits from the West could break into our core plantation, burn the warehouse, kill the administrative staff, and finally make off with our exclusive weapons."
"Next month is the day when the presidents of the family's major companies gather in New York for the Executive Committee's year-end meeting. You have worked hard in the South for the past two years, and profits have doubled. Everyone is saying that the boss is preparing to formally promote you to a permanent director of the Executive Committee at this meeting."
Finch's words pierced into the deepest desires of Silas's heart.
"If you report the attack and the lost guns at this time, your competence will be thoroughly called into question. Those guys staying at the New York headquarters will definitely use it to create trouble. Your director position might be in jeopardy."
Silas fell silent, his chest heaving violently.
Finch leaned in closer, continuing to persuade.
"This account is actually easy to balance. For the losses in the cotton warehouse, we just need to cut the rations for those black laborers in half over the next two months and extend their working hours by four hours. We can re-recruit from the nearby area to replace those who died, and the lost profits will soon be made up."
"As for those dozen guns, just write them off as daily wear and tear and balance the serial numbers. Those fleeing bandits have probably already run off to South America; who would care about a few second-hand rifles on the black market?"
Finch's calculations were shrewd and fit the survival logic of a middle manager.
Silas paced around in a circle twice.
Looking at the vast cotton fields in the distance, a fierce struggle raged in his mind.
Indeed, he was unwilling to give up.
He had endured so many years in this place, infested with mud and mosquitoes, just to be able to sit in that conference room on the top floor of the Empire State Building, which represented the highest power of the Argyle Family.
Just because of a dozen broken guns, he would ruin his future?
"Remember to keep the ledgers clean."
Silas lowered his voice and finally made his decision.
"Go tell the security captain. Comfort the families of the brothers who died in battle and pay double the pension. Make sure everyone who knows keeps their mouths shut. If anyone from New York asks, just say that everything in the South has been peaceful lately."
Finch laughed.
"A wise choice, General Manager. I guarantee that headquarters won't hear a whisper of this."
Just as the two had reached this tacit understanding to deceive their superiors and conceal the truth, and were preparing to return to the office area for a drink...
A fast horse, soaked in sweat and foaming at the mouth, rushed along the plantation's main road like a madman.
The courier on horseback dismounted, not even waiting to steady himself, and scrambled over to Silas.
"General Manager, an emergency telegram! An urgent private line transferred from the Atlanta telegraph office!"
The courier handed over the sealed telegram with trembling hands.
Silas frowned.
He took the telegram and tore open the seal.
Finch stood by, watching as Silas's gaze swept across the telegram.
Only two seconds passed.
Finch was horrified to see that Silas's face, which appeared somewhat rough from years of sun exposure, instantly lost all its color, turning paler than a dead man's.
Silas's hand holding the telegram began to shake violently and uncontrollably, and the thin piece of paper rustled in the wind.
His lips trembled, and his eyes revealed panic.
"General Manager... what happened?"
Finch asked cautiously.
Silas, like a madman, kicked over the wooden bucket used for washing hands nearby.
"To hell with peace, to hell with being a director!"
Silas roared, grabbed Finch by the hair, and slapped the telegram directly onto his face.
"Look for yourself! See what those second-hand rifles you said ran off to South America have done!"
Finch scrambled to steady the telegram, his eyes landing on a line of text.
"President Grant was assassinated in Indiana; the weapon has been confirmed as a repeating rifle with the Southern Development Company's exclusive emblem. Congress is enraged; headquarters demands an immediate verification of the weapons depot."
A buzzing sound filled Finch's head, and he collapsed directly into the mud.
Silas pulled out the revolver at his waist and fired a shot into the sky, his roar echoing over the ruins.
"Assemble! Get everyone assembled for me, and prepare the horses!"
"Bring me Zane!"
Atlanta, the regional headquarters of the Southern Development Company.
This was a solid structure converted from an old pre-war government building.
At this moment, the entire building had been completely sealed off by hundreds of heavily armed security personnel.
All the windows were covered with thick curtains, and the atmosphere was so oppressive that it felt as if the very air was about to solidify.
In a windowless interrogation room in the basement.
The pungent smell of blood mixed with the burnt odor of seared flesh was nauseating.
Zane, the notorious Western bandit, was currently hanging suspended in mid-air, tightly bound by two thick iron chains.
His clothes had already been whipped into rags, and there wasn't a single patch of unblemished skin left on his body.
He had originally thought that by betraying his accomplices and helping the Southern Development Company set up an ambush, he could collect a bounty and fly away to freedom.
But he never dreamed that Silas, who usually looked like a respectable businessman, was more terrifying when it came to torture than the most brutal cannibals in the West.
Silas had taken off his coat, wearing only a white shirt soaked in sweat. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and he held an iron rod with a tip that was glowing red-hot.
"I'll ask you one last time, Zane."
Silas's voice lacked any inflection, as calm as an emotionless machine. Yet, the iron rod in his hand pressed without hesitation directly onto the extremely tender skin on the inside of Zane's thigh.
"Sss..."
"Ah!!!"
Zane let out a shrill, piercing scream, his entire body struggling and twisting violently under the pull of the iron chains, causing the chains to strike the pulleys with a deafening clatter.
"Are those people you betrayed all of them? What are the names of the few who escaped? And where did those guns go? Who instructed you to do this!"
Silas yanked the iron rod out and grabbed Zane by the hair, forcing him to lift his face, which was covered in blood and sweat.
"If you get a single word wrong, I will use this iron rod to puncture your eyeball."
"What do you want me to say... I already told you..."
Zane gasped for air, completely broken.
"Ha... Do you take me for an idiot? Continue the torture!"
Hearing the ruthless tone in Silas's voice, Zane knew he must have figured something out, so he quickly said.
"Stop, stop, stop, I'll talk! That group was indeed not all of them. The one who led the escape... was our boss, Cole." Zane confessed intermittently.
"Back when we raided your farm, he laughed when he saw the logos on those guns."
Silas's eyes narrowed sharply.
"What was he laughing at?"
"He laughed because... this batch of guns was the best cover."
Zane gasped in pain, recalling his boss's words.
"Cole told us that the job we accepted was hired by a respectable man from the North."
"That Northerner gave us a bounty voucher worth a full three million dollars! He told us to come South, burn your warehouses, and kill your people. But Cole is an extremely cunning guy; he didn't want to share that much money with so many people."
Zane's eyes showed fear of his boss.
"And Cole knew your security team's firepower was too strong. If we fought head-on, we would definitely be wiped out, so he intentionally let me come and inform. He was prepared to use the lives of those eighty-plus brothers to attract the attention of all your Gatling Guns and main forces."
"And he himself, taking his most trusted subordinates, slipped into your dead security team during the chaos and took those rifles bearing your logo."
Upon hearing this, Silas felt as if his heart was being squeezed by a giant hand. This wasn't just some accidental loss of firearms; it was a chain of calculated moves.
"What did he do with those guns he took?"
Silas asked through gritted teeth.
"He... he didn't seem to have any intention of staying in the South." Zane answered weakly.
"After getting the guns, he said that the employer wasn't very satisfied with this action of destroying the manor, and it seemed they added a sum of money to do other things. Then he said to find him after I was done here."
Zane raised his head and looked at Silas.
"I don't know anything else..."
Everything fit together.
Silas abruptly released Zane's hair, and the iron rod in his hand dropped to the stone floor with a crisp clatter.
It seemed this disaster wasn't just dumped on the Southern Development Company; it was aimed directly at the jugular of the entire Argyle Family.
And, most fatally.
Over the past two days, because of that stupid suggestion from Finch, he had actually suppressed this matter just to keep his so-called board position!
Headquarters had no idea that the South had lost guns.
Now that this had happened, when the Boss faced the questioning of politicians in Washington, he didn't even have a filed report about the stolen weapons in the South in his hands!
This was equivalent to letting the Boss be stabbed in the back while completely unprepared.
"It's over, it's over."
Silas muttered to himself.
He knew the Boss's style of doing things all too well.
In the Argyle Family, you can make mistakes, and you can fail.
But you absolutely cannot hide things.
Deceiving superiors and subordinates, causing the family to fall into a bad situation.
This kind of thing was fatal.
"General Manager!"
Finch rushed into the interrogation room, covered in sweat, not daring to even look at Zane hanging in mid-air.
"The communications room is ready, and the direct telegraph line has been cleared. Secretary Frost is waiting there, and the Boss wants to speak with you personally."
Silas took a deep breath and turned to look at Finch.
"Dispose of this person, burn him to ashes."
After speaking, Silas walked out of the interrogation room with extremely heavy footsteps.
He arrived at the communications room upstairs.
In front of the telegraph machine, the operator had already vacated his seat.
Silas stood in front of the telegraph machine, listening to the hissing current in the machine that signaled a clear connection. He felt as if he were standing on the trapdoor of a gallows, waiting for the final pull.
He picked up paper and pen.
There was no need for flowery language, nor any need for excuses.
He wrote a few lines on the paper with a charcoal pencil and handed it to the operator.
"Send it."
The telegraph operator's hands trembled as he sent this confession to New York.
"To the Boss. The South was suddenly attacked by organized mercenaries, suffering heavy losses. Twelve security team members sacrificed, and a total of fourteen repeating rifles with the family emblem were lost. Subordinate, in order to cover up dereliction of duty, failed to report the fact of the lost guns to headquarters in the first instance. This led the family into a passive position. The murder weapons of those assassins in Indiana indeed flowed out from the South. The situation in the South has been initially controlled, and I am willing to accept any punishment from the family. Sincerely, Silas."
After the telegram was sent, the communications room fell into silence.
Everyone held their breath, staring at the brass telegraph machine. Waiting for the final verdict from New York.
A full five minutes passed.
The telegraph machine suddenly began to click violently, and the paper tape spat out rapidly.
The telegraph operator didn't even dare to take the paper tape.
Silas stepped forward himself and tore off the tape.
He cross-referenced it with the cipher key.
The reply above was extremely brief.
"Hold your position, find out the employer."
Seeing these words, Silas's tense nerves instantly relaxed. He slumped into a chair and covered his face, his shoulders heaving violently.
It seemed the Boss didn't intend to blame him too much, and had even given him a chance to redeem himself.
But Silas knew that if he didn't figure out the Northern employer hiding behind the scenes, not only him, but the entire management of the Southern Development Company would face punishment.