The cold, unforgiving barrel of the Webley revolver pressed firmly against the man's forehead. The second brother, breathing heavily, locked eyes with Ivan, searching for a hint of mercy. There was none.
"Bang."
The crack of the gunshot echoed briefly, followed by the soft wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air. The second brother's body went limp and crumpled to the ground.
Ivan didn't flinch.
Old dog was spineless and awkward, Philip slippery and full of self-preservation. Neither of them posed any long-term threat, they valued survival above all else and wouldn't dare cross him later. But the second man? He was a different story. Ivan could read men like a book, and this one was the type who would never let a grudge die. Impulsive, vindictive, and reckless; traits that made him a walking time bomb. Even if Ivan forced him to grovel and swear allegiance here, it would only sow a deeper hatred.
Ivan had no time for risks. "Character determines destiny, pretty boy," he muttered, the words hanging in the air as the final judgment. They were the last the second brother would ever hear.
---
Ivan crouched down, rummaging through the second brother's belongings. He pocketed a worn leather wallet and a set of keys, then stood and turned to the group of Immigrant workers still shackled.
"Hold still," he instructed as he worked quickly to free them from their restraints.
Once the cuffs clattered to the ground, Ivan glanced at the lifeless body of the second brother. He wasn't about to use his abilities here; not in public, not with so many witnesses. Instead, he enlisted the help of one of the freed workers. Together, they hefted the body, tied it to a heavy stone, and with a coordinated heave, sent it plunging into the sea below.
The splash echoed softly against the jagged rocks. It was quick, clean, and discreet. The three human traffickers had chosen an isolated location for their dealings, and that decision worked in Ivan's favor. There was no one around to question what had just occurred.
When it was done, Ivan dusted his hands off and turned to face the Immigrant workers.
"Alright," he said briskly. "You're free. Go."
For a moment, there was silence, just the sound of the waves lapping against the shore. Then, murmurs rippled through the group until one man finally stepped forward, wringing his hands nervously.
"Mister," he began, his voice trembling, "we… we want to leave, but where would we go? We have no work."
Another man chimed in, his tone heavy with frustration. "The big man in the City won't hire us. They say we're illiterate, and if we try to earn a living pulling carts or opening a tailor shop, the Mutual Aid Association shuts us down. They smash our carts, destroy our shops, and if we resist, they beat us."
"We heard there were opportunities in Oakland," another worker added, his eyes pleading. "But even there…"
"Master, does your boss need workers?" someone else interjected. "We're strong, willing to work for little. Just enough for food and a ticket home…"
"Please, sir," the voices began to pile on, one after another, desperate and full of hope. "Help us. Anything…"
Ivan listened silently, his face unreadable. Their desperation was palpable, and he could see how life had battered them into submission. But he wasn't in a position to solve their problems, nor did he have the resources to employ a small army of laborers. After a long pause, he finally shook his head.
"You'll have to figure it out yourselves," he said simply, his tone firm but not unkind.
The workers didn't seem to hear him. Their voices rose again, overlapping in a chorus of pleas and prayers. Ivan didn't linger. He turned on his heel and walked through them, the weight of their desperation pressing on his back as he left them behind.
---
As Ivan exited the area, the reality of his situation sank in. Going to Oakland tonight was out of the question. Even if he managed to keep the incident with the second brother quiet, the ripples of chaos it would create in the local underworld would make his presence too conspicuous. For now, he needed to stay out of sight and recalibrate.
He considered stealing Philip's boat to sneak across the bay, but even that posed risks. Once in Oakland, he'd have nowhere to stay, no cover to work under. A stranger in a city like Oakland, especially one with its reputation for danger, was a guaranteed target.
As he walked, Ivan reflected on his failure. He had been too low-key, too passive. In a city like this; chaotic and violent, where problems were solved with fists and firearms; being subtle only made you a victim.
California. One of the most lawless states in the United States of America, and Oakland was its crown jewel of chaos. Gunfights were a daily occurrence here in the 21st century; what could he expect in a time like this, a hundred years earlier? This wasn't a place for meekness or restraint. If you wanted to survive, you had to stand out, be dangerous, and make it known.
Still, this trip wasn't a total loss. Ivan had gained valuable intel on both the ghetto and Oakland. The Mutual Aid Association, in particular, intrigued him; it was clearly a powerful player in the region, and he might be able to use that to his advantage.
It was time to change tactics. Plan B. This time, he wouldn't sneak in quietly. He'd go in loud, posing as a drug dealer looking to expand his business. He would meet with Mr. Howard directly, a high-profile approach that would force the city to acknowledge him.
But as he walked away, his mind circled back to a nagging question: Was there a B-level player in Oakland? Someone strong enough to pose a real threat?
Ivan smirked to himself. Well, if there was, he'd find out soon enough. As he disappeared into the distance, his mind worked steadily, crafting the next phase of his plan.
Another day rolled by faster than Ivan anticipated, and once again, he found himself stepping into the shabby little police station, an establishment that seemed perpetually out of its depth. Its peeling walls and dusty desks were a testament to its inefficiency, but this was Ivan's only lead. Sheriff Snowden, greeted him warmly, pouring a pot of fresh coffee with more flourish than necessary.
"Ivan," Snowden said with a wide grin, "you're back so soon. Do you have any leads for us?"
Ivan smirked, leaning back in the creaky chair across from the sheriff. "Leads? You wish. I haven't even set foot in Oakland yet."
He crossed his arms. "Actually, I'm here because I need your help. Can't you pull some strings and get me into Oakland? An official cover, maybe?"
At this, Snowden's smile faltered, and an awkward silence followed. He scratched the back of his head before answering, "It's not that we don't want to help. It's just… we really don't have the resources."
Ivan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean by that?"
Snowden sighed and leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, as if embarrassed by what he was about to admit. "Oakland is… difficult. They're fiercely territorial and incredibly xenophobic. We barely have any informants there, it's practically a no-man's-land for us."
Ivan let out a humorless chuckle. "What's even the point of this police station then?"
Snowden threw up his hands defensively. "Look, we're doing the best we can! We've got four officers and three guns between us, and our jurisdiction barely extends past a few streets in North Beach. Most of what we do is writing tickets for parking violations. The only reason we're even handling this case is because the Central Police Department dumped it on us while they chase down bigger fish in California. Do you think we wanted this?"
Ivan rubbed his temples. Clearly, relying on this outfit was a waste of time. The thousand dollars he'd been promised wasn't looking so easy to earn anymore. Now it seemed like he'd have to collect his own intel, infiltrate Oakland solo, and effectively become a full-fledged detective.
"Well," Ivan said with a resigned sigh, "you might as well give me a pay raise. A thousand dollars doesn't feel like enough for all this work." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Speaking of which; any new leads on the kangaroo thief?"
Snowden perked up at this, his tone becoming more animated. "Actually, yes. Based on the intelligence you gave us, we've uncovered some details."
He picked up a thin file from his desk and thumbed through it. "Her name is Martha Miramon Garcia. Nineteen years old. She entered the country illegally in October 1910 and was caught by Customs Police. She spent five days in detention before being released and sent to a children's welfare home."
Ivan frowned. "And then?"
"Well, when we checked with the orphanage, her name wasn't on file," Snowden said grimly. "The director claimed she ran away, and their records were conveniently destroyed by… bugs."
"Bugs," Ivan repeated flatly.
"Yeah, bugs," Snowden echoed, rolling his eyes. "Of course, the truth is simpler. She was sold. These kinds of things happen all the time. Illegal immigrants have no legal protections, and the welfare system often profits from trafficking them. Unfortunately, it's nearly impossible to gather enough evidence to prosecute."