Three hours later.
Night had fallen.
Leo had deliberately waited longer than necessary, letting the sky turn pitch black.
It was an overcast night. A thick blanket of clouds separated heaven from earth, choking off the starlight.
Leo looked up at the oppressive cloud cover and thought to himself:
A pity. I can't see the full moon tonight.
He remembered that tonight was supposed to be a full moon.
While missing the view was regrettable, tactically, it was perfect. The clouds suffocated any moonlight, wrapping the land in a dense, impenetrable darkness. Ideal conditions for infiltration.
Looking ahead, he could see bright firelight flickering inside "The Paradise."
Someone is home.
He hadn't made the trip for nothing. Leo let out a long breath of relief.
He adjusted [Vajra] at his hip and then stripped off his khaki trench coat. In this darkness, the light fabric was a beacon.
His black cassock, however, blended perfectly with the night.
Preparations complete, Leo left his suitcase hidden under a bush, crouched low, and sprinted silently toward the station.
...
...
As he approached "The Paradise," Leo began to hear the thumping rhythm of music and the raucous laughter of men.
Jazz.
It was the heartbeat of the era. The music that defined the generation, beloved by the youth of every race and despised by the elders of every creed.
The loud, brassy notes were a godsend, masking the sound of Leo's footsteps and breathing.
Moments later, he slipped through an open window and entered the station.
Inside, he moved like a shadow, leaping and climbing through the dark, inching closer to the source of the light.
Finally, he reached the heart of the station—the main waiting hall.
It was a cavernous space, the largest room in the abandoned structure. The firelight, the music, and the noise all poured from here.
Leo crept into a corner of the hall, hiding behind a stack of rusted oil drums, keeping his body shrouded in the shadows where the firelight couldn't reach.
He peeked just the top of his head over the rim of a drum, scanning the room rapidly.
In the center of the hall, a dozen disheveled Mexican men were gathered around a burning oil drum, dancing awkwardly.
Next to the fire, an old gramophone scratched out the rough, energetic notes of a jazz record.
They laughed, they danced, and they shouted in Spanish—a language Leo didn't speak.
The firelight stretched their shadows long and thin against the peeling walls, swaying with their movements like a tribal ritual.
Leo calmly counted heads.
Twelve men. All young, all fit.
Nearly half of them had revolvers or semi-automatic pistols tucked into their waistbands.
The veteran's intel was solid. Los Lobos were indeed well-armed.
Fortunately, Leo didn't spot any heavy weaponry—no Chicago Typewriters, no shotguns, no rifles. Just sidearms.
Leo scanned their faces, ignoring the fodder. He was looking for one thing: a young white male with a red skull tattoo on his neck.
He narrowed his eyes, focusing.
Thanks to [One Man Army (Lv. B)], his vision was eagle-sharp even in low light.
He found a potential target—a bald man whose shiny scalp reflected the flames.
From this distance, Leo could faintly make out a red mark on the right side of the man's neck.
But the man's collar was popped, obscuring the design. Leo couldn't confirm if it was a skull.
Based on body language and positioning, Leo guessed this bald man was likely the leader of this particular cell.
Wait for them to sleep, Leo decided.
Rushing in now was suicide. Even if he won, the risk of taking a bullet was too high.
Patience. Let them party. Let them drink. When they pass out, I'll slit their throats one by one.
Just as Leo made up his mind, the sound of urgent, heavy footsteps approached from outside.
A moment later, another gang member burst into the hall carrying a rifle.
That makes thirteen.
Leo's eyes locked onto the weapon.
He wasn't a gun nut, but living in 1924 America, you learned to recognize the classics.
The rifle in the newcomer's hands was the legendary Winchester Model 1894. A lever-action icon. Magazine capacity: 5+1 rounds.
The "+1" being the round already in the chamber.
Since unlocking [Lever-Action Rifle Mastery (Lv. A)], Leo had been itching to get his hands on one. He needed a ranged option, and he wanted to test out his A-rank skill.
It seemed wasteful to have such a high-level proficiency and not use it.
Leo stared at the Winchester with intense desire.
The sudden arrival of the "Rifleman" stopped the party cold.
Facing the confused stares of his comrades, the Rifleman swallowed hard, then shouted in Spanish, his voice trembling with excitement:
"Chicos! Stop! Cut the music! We have a guest! There's a nun outside! And I bet my life you've never seen a nun this beautiful!"
Leo didn't understand the words, but the reaction was universal. The gang erupted into hooting and hollering.
Without hesitation, they killed the music, kicked dirt onto the fire, and grabbed their weapons—pistols, knives, machetes. They swarmed toward the exit like a pack of hungry wolves.
Leo didn't know what was said, but following them was the obvious move.
Hand resting on the hilt of [Vajra], he shadowed them, keeping a safe distance of about a hundred meters.
The gang members sprinted out of the station, racing each other, completely unaware of the grim reaper trailing in their wake.
They led him straight to the highway east of the station.
Soon, the straight line of the road, cutting through the wilderness like a scar, came into view.
At this hour, the road should have been pitch black. Instead, a small, solitary orange light bobbed in the distance—someone carrying a lantern, walking hurriedly along the asphalt.
Leo frowned in surprise.
A traveler? This late?
Everyone knew you couldn't trust the safety of a country flooded with guns.
Where everyone is armed, chaos reigns.
This was 1924. Just thirty years ago, this was the Wild West. Outlaws, train robbers, and rapists were practically part of the landscape.
Unless absolutely necessary, no one walked alone at night in the middle of nowhere.
Leo squinted, focusing his enhanced vision on the solitary figure illuminated by the lantern light.
When the face came into focus, Leo froze.
"A... nun?"
He had expected a destitute drifter with nothing to lose, or perhaps a heavily armed cowboy looking for trouble.
It was neither.
It was a young girl.
A young nun with golden hair and violet eyes.