The jazz club in Harlem smelled of gin, smoke, and sweat.
A saxophone wailed, cutting through the thick air.
Jason stood at the back bar, finishing his whiskey. He wasn't there for the music. He was there to meet a man named O'Malley, the head of the Stevedores Union.
"The docks are secure, Mr. Prentice," O'Malley grunted, pocketing the thick envelope Jason slid across the bar. "Your crates don't get inspected. The Customs boys know better than to look at Standard Oil cargo."
"Good," Jason said. "The shipments to Liverpool increase next week. Rubber. Steel. Nitrates. I want them buried deep in the hold."
"Nitrates?" O'Malley raised an eyebrow. "Making fertilizer?"
"Something like that," Jason said.
He finished his drink and turned to leave. He checked his pocket watch. 2:00 AM.
He walked out the back exit into the alleyway. The cold night air hit him, drying the sweat on his forehead.
His private car, a sleek black Pierce-Arrow, was waiting at the curb. His driver, Thomas, was leaning against the hood, smoking a cigarette.
"Ready, sir?" Thomas asked, flicking the butt away.
"Home, Thomas. Take the long way. I need to think."
Jason opened the rear door.
He felt it before he heard it. A prickle on the back of his neck. The feeling of eyes watching him from the darkness.
It wasn't the clumsy surveillance of a jealous husband or a corporate rival. It felt... precise. Military.
"Thomas!" Jason barked. "Get in!"
Too late.
A delivery truck, headlights off, roared out of the cross-street. It accelerated with a mechanical scream.
CRUNCH.
The truck slammed into the front of the Pierce-Arrow.
Metal shrieked. Glass exploded. The heavy luxury car was shoved sideways, pinning it against the brick wall of the jazz club.
Thomas didn't even scream. The impact threw him through the windshield. He lay motionless on the hood.
Jason was thrown against the door. His head cracked against the window. Stars exploded in his vision.
He shook his head, tasting blood.
He looked up.
The back of the delivery truck flew open.
Three men jumped out. They wore long coats and dark caps pulled low. They moved in perfect synchronization.
No shouting. No wasted movement.
The man in the lead raised a pistol. It wasn't a revolver. It was a Luger P08. A German semi-automatic.
Pop-pop-pop.
Three shots punched through the rear window, inches from Jason's head. Shards of safety glass rained down on his collar.
They weren't trying to scare him. They were liquidating him.
Jason scrambled across the leather seat. The door on the alley side was jammed against the brick wall. He was trapped.
The gunman walked closer, raising the Luger for a kill shot through the broken window.
Jason's mind raced. He was a banker. A trader. Not a soldier.
But he knew machines.
He kicked the front seat forward, scrambling into the driver's compartment.
The gunman fired again. The bullet tore through the upholstery where Jason's chest had been a second ago.
Jason grabbed the emergency brake lever. He ripped it disengaged.
The car was on a slight incline.
"Push!" Jason screamed at himself.
He braced his back against the dashboard and kicked the heavy rear door with both feet.
The gunman was reaching for the handle.
SLAM.
The door flew open, hitting the gunman square in the chest. He staggered back, wheezing.
Jason tumbled out onto the pavement. He scrambled to his feet.
The other two men were closing in. They raised their guns.
Jason didn't run away down the alley. That's what they expected.
He turned and threw himself through the wooden back door of the jazz club.
He crashed into the kitchen.
Waiters screamed. Trays of dishes shattered.
"Gun!" Jason roared. "Get down!"
The music in the main room stopped abruptly as Jason burst through the swinging doors, blood streaming down his face.
The patrons froze.
The back door kicked open behind him. The three Germans entered. They scanned the room, weapons drawn.
They didn't care about witnesses.
O'Malley, the union boss, was still at the bar. He saw Jason. He saw the Germans. He saw the Lugers.
O'Malley reached under the bar. He pulled out a sawed-off shotgun.
"Not in my place!" O'Malley bellowed.
BOOM.
The shotgun blast took out a chunk of the doorframe next to the lead German's head.
The Germans flinched. They were professionals, but they weren't suicidal. A room full of drunk dockworkers and a shotgun was bad tactical ground.
They exchanged a quick look. A nod.
They retreated, vanishing back into the alley.
Jason leaned against a table, gasping for air. His suit was ruined. His head was pounding.
O'Malley walked over, cracking the shotgun open to reload.
"You got enemies, Mr. Prentice," O'Malley said, spitting on the floor. "Serious ones. Those weren't street thugs."
"No," Jason wiped the blood from his eye. "They were soldiers."
The safe house in Greenwich Village was quiet.
It was a small apartment Jason kept under a false name for emergencies. No servants. No phone. Just a first aid kit and a bottle of whiskey.
Jason sat on the edge of the bathtub, shirtless.
Alta Rockefeller Prentice was stitching a cut on his shoulder. Her hands were steady. She didn't look faint. She looked furious.
"Hold still," she commanded.
She pulled the thread tight. Jason hissed in pain.
"Three inches to the left and you'd be dead," Alta said. She snipped the thread. "Thomas is in the hospital. The doctors say he'll live, but he lost an eye."
She threw the bloody towel into the sink.
"Who was it, Ezra? Gates' friends? Anarchists?"
"Gates is dead," Jason said. He picked up the object he had retrieved from the floor of the car—a shell casing.
He held it up to the light.
"9mm Parabellum," Jason said. "German manufacture."
Alta frowned. "Germans? Why would...?"
She stopped. Her eyes widened.
"The rubber," she whispered. "The oil. The nitrates."
"They know," Jason said. "Berlin knows we're stockpiling for the British. They know I'm building a supply chain that can feed a world war."
He stood up, wincing as his shoulder pulled.
"This wasn't a warning, Alta. It was a preemptive strike. They wanted to take the king off the board before the game starts."
"So we are at war," Alta said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Then we need an army," she said.
Jason walked to the window. He looked out at the dark street. He felt vulnerable. Exposed.
"I need to make a call," Jason said.
"To the police?"
"No. The police can't handle the Abwehr. I need someone who understands predators."
Thirty minutes later, Jason was in a phone booth on the corner.
He dialed a private number. It rang four times.
"Sagamore Hill," a gruff voice answered.
"It's Prentice," Jason said. "Wake him up."
A moment later, Theodore Roosevelt was on the line.
"Ezra?" TR's voice was thick with sleep but alert. "It's 4:00 AM. Did the market crash?"
"They tried to kill me, Teddy," Jason said. "Tonight. In Harlem. Three men. Military training. Lugers."
Silence on the line. Then a low, dark chuckle.
"Then you must be doing something right," Roosevelt said.
"This isn't funny," Jason snapped. "They rammed my car. They shot my driver. The Kaiser is sending hit squads to New York."
"I warned you," TR said, his voice turning serious. "I told you the Germans were watching. My sources in the Navy Department say Berlin is terrified of your 'Future Holdings.' They call you Der Architekt."
"The Architect?"
"You're building the machine that will crush them, Ezra. Of course they want you dead. You're more dangerous than a division of cavalry."
"I'm a businessman, Teddy. Not a spy."
"Not anymore," TR said. "You crossed the line when you bought the Congo. You're a combatant now. Act like one."
"How?"
"Stop hiding," TR commanded. "If they want a shadow war, give them darkness. But carry a big stick."
The line clicked dead.
Jason hung up.
He stood in the booth for a moment, watching the streetlights hum.
He realized Roosevelt was right. He had been playing defense. He had been trying to be clever.
But you can't be clever with a wolf. You have to be brutal.
Jason walked back to the apartment.
Alta was waiting. She had cleaned the gun Jason kept in the safe—a .38 revolver.
"What did he say?" Alta asked.
"He said we're targets," Jason said.
He took the gun. He checked the cylinder.
"I'm done with bodyguards," Jason said. "Thomas was a good driver, but he was a civilian."
"What do you need?"
"I need killers," Jason said. "Go to the Pinkerton agency. Find the men they fired for being too violent. Find the Irish from the docks who hate the British but love money. Find me a counter-intelligence unit."
He put the gun in his waistband.
"If Berlin sends three men next time... I want to send back three heads."
Alta looked at him. She saw the change. The last traces of Ezra Prentice, the timid lawyer, were gone. Burned away by the adrenaline and the blood.
She walked over and kissed him. It tasted metallic.
"I'll make the arrangements," she said.
Jason looked at the map of Europe on the wall. He stared at Sarajevo.
"They started the war early," Jason whispered. "Fine. Let's finish it."