Chapter 31 - New Connections
We needed to keep our distance to draw out the assassin.
Tom Foley wasn't on board with this plan from the start.
It took some convincing.
I spoke to him myself.
"At times like this, it's important to let potential attackers know that you're being protected—even when they can't see it. That way, any thoughts of an assassination attempt won't even cross their minds."
This, of course, assumes there will be more attempts on his life in the future.
In fact, Tom Foley had walked around with bodyguards several times before.
Not to flaunt his power, but as proof that he was genuinely nervous.
It's not like there are only a handful of people who have a grudge against corrupt politicians.
It could be someone pushed out of a profitable deal, a gang the boss he has discarded, or even a hitman sent by a rival politician.
I'd bet a dollar Tom Foley himself doesn't even know exactly who's trying to kill him.
Anyway, I used my knowledge to persuade him.
"In exchange for keeping some distance, we'll map out your routes, arrangements, and positions ahead of time, setting up a thorough schedule for each time of day. No improvising on the spot—"
That's basic VIP protection protocol that any mercenary would know—plus, it was how I'd done it myself in the past.
Tom Foley, apparently reassured by how professional it sounded, agreed to the plan.
On the second day after we changed up our security arrangement,
Tom Foley walked the street alone while we guarded him from a set distance.
I sensed something was off as we passed near 45th Street and 6th Avenue.
A man came into view, pulling his hat down low and buttoning up his coat as he approached.
He blended in with the other pedestrians—nothing about his appearance really stood out.
But when you're about to take out an assassination target, your eyes inevitably lock onto them.
To avoid mistakes and ensure everything goes perfectly, you focus every nerve on your mark.
The man's grim and piercing gaze was locked onto Tom Foley, and even his movements were directed at him.
There was another reason my instincts flagged him as a threat.
I've seen that look before in a previous life.
Someone with unwavering conviction.
It was the same look I'd seen in the eyes of Middle Eastern terrorists.
I slipped my hand inside my coat and gripped my gun.
The distance between the man and Tom Foley narrowed to less than ten meters; just as I drew my weapon—
"Власть народу! Death to Tammany's dogs!"
The man shouted and pulled out a pistol.
But at the exact same moment, the same cry rang out from another direction.
It wasn't just one.
I fired at the first man's head.
Bang!
I immediately swung my gun toward the second man.
Bang!
Bang!
Two bullets hit him square in the chest.
The second man fired into the air as he fell to the ground.
Patrick, Gavin, and Cory rushed over in a panic and shielded Tom Foley.
I looked from one fallen man to the other.
The first had shouted something in Russian I couldn't understand.
The second half was in English: "Death to Tammany's dogs!"
I was now certain—they were anarchists.
For over a decade, they'd been carrying out bomb attacks in America.
The most recent had been just a year ago, the San Francisco bombing.
It happened during a parade; ten people were killed, forty wounded.
I stared down at the bodies lying in the street.
The madness of anarchists and communists would stain the world red, just as blood from their corpses spilled across the pavement.
Knowing how this would all end left a bitter taste in my mouth.
"You just saved my life! What was your name again?" Tom Foley asked.
Tom Foley came over and grabbed my hand.
It wasn't that he'd forgotten my name—he'd never asked in the first place.
"Ciaran Graves."
The Irish Brotherhood, who support the IRA for Ireland's independence.
The Russian Anarchists, who plot to overthrow capitalism and advocate anarchy.
Faced with both incidents, I had now become both an assassin and the man who killed assassins.
And at this moment, I was not Nox, but Ciaran.
"I'll never forget what you did today!"
Tom Foley, a prominent Tammany Hall politician—corrupt, and all the more valuable for it.
I'd just added a new connection to my network.
And I found myself looking forward to all the new encounters he might bring.
A crowd quickly gathered around us.
When the police arrived, their first priority was making sure Tom Foley was safe—only then did they turn their attention to me.
The police investigation centered on how I'd managed to shoot the assailants.
Meanwhile, Patrick kept his eyes on me as he talked quietly with Gavin and Cory.
Once the situation was over and we were heading home, Gavin and Cory couldn't stop praising me.
"That was insane. How did you realize both of them were assailants and shoot so quickly? And with such perfect aim?"
"Honestly, I only realized what was happening when I heard the gunshots. By the time I turned my head, they were already on the ground."
Patrick, lost in his own thoughts, asked about Tom Foley.
"Did you see his face? He looked completely stunned when he realized they were Russians."
"I'd never seen either of them before, so it probably wasn't personal."
The Tenderloin—the playground of pleasure where capitalists who feed off the blood of laborers come together.
A place where shaking the world means assassinating a corrupt politician.
This kind of conviction is also related to the Russian Revolution.
Back in February this year, there was an incident that set the anarchists' blood on fire.
The Russian Revolution saw the emperor dethroned and a coalition government of bourgeois and socialists take power.
Drunk on this turn of events, the anarchists set their sights on revolution in America as well, hoping to bring down the country.
They're not the same as the communists.
Anarchists oppose any system that oppresses humanity, while communists dream of a dictatorship of the proletariat.
Within the Russian immigrant community in the US, these two camps not only coexisted but were sometimes intermingled.
"At any rate, I think it all comes from their belief that they can change the world."
"...I really can't figure you out. You talk and think like a Harvard student, but you shoot like a seasoned soldier. What are you, anyway?"
"I'm a rookie."
Patrick, his eyes half-closed, let out a dry laugh.
"Whatever you are. Today was something else."
[Tom Foley Survives Anarchist Assassination Attempt]
[Why Did the Anarchists Target Tammany Hall?]
Every newspaper headline was plastered with the story of the failed assassination attempt on Tom Foley.
Of all the incidents I'd ever been involved in, none had drawn this much attention.
While I was holed up in the corner of the basement factory reading the paper, Leo asked me,
"But seriously, is this Ciaran really you?"
"Stopping an anarchist assassination attempt and saving Tom Foley—if that's really you, then you pulled off something huge."
Even Marcus, who's not easily surprised, couldn't keep his mouth shut.
Leo clicked his tongue as he read the article, sounding a little disappointed.
"'Bodyguard Ciaran.' That's too bland. If it had your last name, or if there'd at least been a photo, this whole neighborhood would've gone crazy."
"If they did that, the anarchists might target you. That's probably why."
Marcus was right.
There are over two million people in Manhattan alone.
Just having the name Ciaran doesn't point directly to me.
Even my mother is proof of that.
She doesn't read the newspaper much, but even if she did, would she ever guess that Ciaran was me?
"Break's over. Let's get back to work."
I carried a roll of fabric and went into the small office set up in the corner of the workshop.
My mother was seated at her desk, massaging her temples as she looked over the ledger.
"Is something wrong?"
"It's the overdue payments, what else. Orchard Street is always a headache."
"Which clients?"
"Klein and Levis. Both of them haven't paid for two weeks."
"Then I'll go there myself."
As soon as I said it, my mother, realizing my mistake, shook her head firmly.
"No, son! It's okay. Let's just wait a little longer!"
"If you do that, they'll get used to it. Write down the amount they owe you on a piece of paper."
"Oh, come on, I said let's wait."
Still, my mother wrote the amount down on a slip of paper.
"If you come on too strong, we'll lose all our clients, so just talk to them calmly and politely, okay?"
"Of course. I'll be back soon."
It was only about 500 meters from Hester, where I was, to Orchard Street.
That stretch, known as the 'Jewish Broadway,' was packed with street vendors and clothing shops.
The street vendors—called pushcart men or Cartmen—sold clothes from handcarts, usually cheap trousers, shirts, dresses, and underwear.
I went to see Mr. Klein, who was one of those Cartmen.
He had been putting off paying the $23 he owed for over two weeks. The worst part was, it wasn't like he said he'd pay on a specific day—he just kept pushing it off, like he was enjoying stringing us along. And he was doing it again now.
"Come on, I'll pay you tomorrow, all right? You're blocking business, so get going."
Mr. Klein, his bushy beard bristling, waved me away dismissively I didn't budge from where I stood.
"I'm not leaving until I get the money."
"Hey now, what's with this attitude? You think I'm gonna stiff you or something, huh?"
"If you keep putting it off for two weeks, what else am I supposed to think?"
"What did you say!?"
Mr. Klein, fuming, looked around.
Then he gestured for someone to come over.
So that's a signal, huh.
Two street toughs swaggered over, spitting on the ground as they walked.
Klein pointed at me, raising his voice as if tattling to them.
"This punk here's saying I'm not going to pay up. Can you believe it? Maybe I should just quit for good if people are gonna accuse me over being a few days late. What, is that how you wanna do business?"
"All right, all right, let us handle it," one of the toughs replied.
Like they'd just taken on an assignment, the thugs moved in close.
The one on the right, who was wearing a brass knuckle on his finger, launched a punch straight at me.
Whoosh
If there's one thing that's changed for me lately, it's that I have no reason left to hold back.
For the next several days, while the anarchist incident fades from people's minds, I might as well be invincible.
Before the gleaming brass knuckles filled my vision, I twisted out of the way and rammed my fist into the guy's solar plexus.
"Guh…!"
He wheezed for breath, clutching his chest. Seeing that, the other guy immediately lunged at me.
Crack.
I kicked him in the face. The blow landed square, and he went sprawling on the ground.
I walked over to the first guy, still rubbing his chest, grabbed him by the hair, and dragged him in front of Mr. Klein.
Staring Klein down, I slapped the guy whose hair I was holding across the face.
Smack!
"When are you going to pay me?"
...
Smack!
His cheek swelled up, blood vessels bursting so his face turned bright red like a roasted potato. Klein, clearly shaken by the sight, hurriedly pulled some cash out of the small pouch at his belt.
The moment I let go of the guy's hair to take the money, his body collapsed to the ground.
I counted it—a full twenty-three dollars.
As I turned my back to leave, Mr. Klein's feeble shout came from behind me.
"I'm never doing business with you again, so don't ever come back here."
I snorted and headed to my next stop: Mr. Levis, whose stall was a few down from Klein's.
"I was planning to pay you today anyway. Good timing, really."
He handed over the prepared eighteen dollars.
With that, I'd neatly collected the overdue payments from both accounts and returned to the factory.
My mother was delighted—at least, until she realized I'd lost two clients in one go. Then she smacked me on the back.
"You idiot, you really are something!"
It's hard enough to land one new client, so what the hell was I doing losing two at once? She scolded me over and over, saying things like, "Do you think clients just grow out of the ground?" until my ears were practically bleeding.
Man, when do I get to clock out? Then again, even if I went home, I'd just get an earful there too.
Just as I was letting out a sigh, a savior appeared—it was Gavin from the Marginals.
"Tom Foley wants you to guard him again today."
Anarchists are everywhere. There's the constant fear that they might make an even bolder assassination attempt just to make up for their earlier failure.
That's why they keep coming back to me. But it wasn't just Tom Foley this time.
"They've handed over the whole job of security for the Tammany Hall Convention Center. Patrick and Cory are already there."
Tammany Hall is near Union Square, where my mother first joined a picket line.
As we headed in that direction, Gavin passed along a message from Tanner.
"Boss says that thanks to you, his own value has gone up too, and he'll make sure to thank you properly soon."
"Think he'll give me a few thousand dollars?"
"That's pushing it."
"Anyway, I'm personally grateful to you, Gavin."
"Me? What did I do?"
I patted Gavin on the shoulder with a bright smile.
"I almost coughed up blood from listening to my mom nag me. You saved my life, Gavin."
"What, just for that?"
"I lost two clients."
"Then you kind of deserved it. Anyway—"
Gavin joked that he'd rescue me again in the future.
We hopped on a streetcar on Broadway, got off at Union Square, and walked along East 13th Street.
And the place we arrived at was a powerful political organization that had dominated New York City politics since its founding in 1789.
It was Tammany Hall, the notoriously corrupt political machine that abused money and power under the guise of legality.
A large banner above the entrance offered information about the convention hall gathering.
SOCIETY OF TAMMANY OR COLUMBIAN ORDER
Est. 1789
Event: New York City Clothing Merchants' General Assembly
Sponsored by: Charles Francis Murphy, Tom Foley
Location: Assembly Hall, Grand Underground Ballroom
(Please use the main entrance stairs to proceed downstairs)
Date: June 25, 1917
Time: Evening Session – 6:00 PM
*Formal attire required
*Fully electric lighting
*Admission for members and invited guests only
Society of Tammany
14 East 14th Street
Manhattan, New York City
It looks like we might be able to secure new clients to replace the two we lost.