Guarma

"Alright, Mac, leave them to their misery for now. I've got a little errand for you."

Dutch crooked a finger, beckoning Mac over with a glint in his eye.

"A task, Dutch? A task?!" Mac practically bounced, his eyes wide and gleaming with an almost unholy delight. He scrubbed his knuckles together, a manic grin splitting his face. "I'm buzzing with strength! Oh, the sheer joy of purging these gangland guttersnipes!"

He practically skipped towards Dutch, a faint, unsettling hum emanating from him.

Mac, bless his twisted heart, was pure, unadulterated psycho. Compared to Bill, who was merely a sniveling coward with a personality made of sour milk and a penchant for kicking puppies, Mac was a connoisseur of carnage, a true aficionado of violence and bloodshed. When Mac was around, Bill wouldn't even think of trying him; Mac's brutality was a chilling, heart-stopping force of nature.

"Hahahaha, that's my boy! And this little chore I'm handing you, well, it's tailor-made for your... enthusiasms!" Dutch's laughter boomed, a hearty sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. He clapped Mac on the back, then draped an arm around his shoulders, steering him with a conspiratorial lean towards where Arthur and the others stood.

As they strolled further, Dutch's jovial smile melted away, replaced by a scowl so dark it could curdle milk. His eyes, usually dancing with grand ideas, narrowed into icy slits of pure, distilled fury.

"Son," Dutch began, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, "we've been... slighted."

A single, loaded word. And just like that, Mac's entire frame stiffened. His jaw locked, and a low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, rising steadily until it erupted into a roar.

"OH, SHT! SLIGHTED?!** Who, by God, dares?!" Mac shrieked, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unbridled fury. He threw his hands up, clenching them into fists that trembled with contained violence.

"Dutch, for the love of all that's unholy, tell me! Tell me who spat in our coffee! Damn it, I'll flay 'em alive! I'll rip out their tongues, I'll gouge out their goddamn eyeballs, and I'll string 'em up from the highest trees to dry into human jerky! Someone actually had the unmitigated gall to bully us?!" He was practically vibrating, his eyes bloodshot, veins throbbing in his neck.

Mac was absolutely apoplectic. Under Dutch's increasingly glorious leadership, the gang had swelled with an arrogance that bordered on divine right. Even Hosea, usually the voice of reason, was now prattling about using public sentiment to take on the United States Government.

The rest? Well, their hubris was a thing of terrifying beauty. These desperadoes, after all, were just that: desperate, and utterly lacking the grounded foundation to navigate their rapidly shifting fortunes. So, the mere whisper that the noble Van der Linde Gang had been bullied sent Mac into an incandescent rage.

"Indeed, son, indeed! Revenge isn't just necessary, it's a moral imperative! We must retaliate, and we must make these utterly damned bastards understand the profound error of their ways!" Dutch snarled, his face a grim, stony mask.

He punctuated his words with sharp, chopping gestures.

However, as the words spilled from his lips, Arthur, who'd been idly polishing a silver dollar nearby, couldn't help but interject. "Oh, Dutch," he drawled, looking up with a weary sigh and a roll of his eyes that could be heard across the plains, "didn't you just say last week that 'revenge is the most foolish act'?"

"SHIT, ARTHUR!**" Dutch snapped, spinning around to glare at him, a vein throbbing dangerously in his temple. "We didn't advocate for revenge before because we were weak! A single misstep, and we'd be dust! But now, our strength is ample! If a mosquito bites your ear, do you politely ask it to leave, or do you just crush the damn thing?!"

Arthur rubbed his nose, a faint, exasperated chuckle escaping him. He threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Alright, alright, Dutch," he conceded, a wry smirk playing on his lips. "You're always right. Wouldn't have it any other way."

Dutch's fiery gaze swung back to Mac, his expression softening slightly. He clapped Mac's shoulder, his grip firm. "Mac, our enterprise is flourishing, but that means more vultures are circling, eyeing our spoils. Lately, a whole swarm of small-time troublemakers has been buzzing around, causing us damned problems."

He shook his head, a look of profound disgust washing over his features. "Oh, their actions are a direct provocation! A slap in the face! And if we don't strike back with the most severe, undeniable force, they'll not only shirk responsibility but embolden themselves, convinced of our weakness, and further chip away at our interests! This, son, is simply intolerable!"

Dutch's voice grew colder, his words dripping with venom. "These damned troublemakers deserve to be strung up from the nearest gallows, not prancing about, offending our sensibilities! That despicable Alberto Fussar actually dared to hijack the ships and goods we sent at sea! That's not just a provocation, it's him standing right in front of the Van der Linde Gang and slapping us with a wet fish!"

His voice rose to a near shout. "Damn it, I'm going to make him comprehend, down to his very bones, the agonizing consequences of offending us! I've decided: in precisely one month, we will formally dispatch our forces to Guarma! We will encircle that entire island!

We will annihilate those damned Spanish interlopers and begin the glorious construction of our Guarma arms base! And you, Mac, my most ferocious son, I need you to gather a select few and secretly infiltrate Guarma. You are to clear out a pristine, safe environment on the outskirts for our subsequent landing! Do you have the necessary... ferocity for this task?"

Dutch gripped Mac's shoulders with both hands, his eyes burning with an almost messianic hope for Mac, a hope that made Mac practically vibrate with unholy glee.

"YES! I HAVE CONFIDENCE, DUTCH! UNSHAKEABLE CONFIDENCE!" Mac roared, his face splitting into a wide, toothy grin. He practically salivated at the thought of returning to battle so soon. "I will make Fusal regret his damned provocation so thoroughly, he'll wish he'd never been born!"

Dutch nodded, a deep, satisfied rumble escaping his chest. "Very good, Mac, that's the spirit I seek! This Guarma landing must be executed with absolute discretion; not a soul must know the Van der Linde Gang is behind it. So, you can't take an army—fifty, no more, is best. Once you're on that island and have carved out our little slice of paradise, our main force will begin pouring ashore! Damn it, I'm going to break Mr. Fusal until he bays at the moon like a whipped cur!"

Dutch beamed, pleased as punch. His gaze then swept over Arthur and the others who had gathered around, their expressions a mix of grim determination and barely concealed amusement.

"John, Charles, Flying Eagle, you all accompany Mac. With your combined talents, I believe this operation will be utterly foolproof!"

The Spanish-American War had only just concluded in 1899. On the surface, Cuba was now an American possession, though its true integration wouldn't happen until 1901, when the United States Congress passed the Platt Amendment, effectively revoking Cuba's sovereignty and reducing it to a U.S. protectorate.

At this very moment, Cuba was nominally under United States control, but in reality, its internal situation was a simmering cauldron of chaos.

For instance, a significant Spanish presence lingered; though cleared from central Cuba, some armed forces stubbornly clung to various peripheral locations. Case in point: Mr. Fusal, who had carved out his own little fiefdom on Guarma, running a lucrative sugarcane business.

Internally, Cuba was a free-for-all, with various revolutionary armies, its own fledgling military, and even remnants of British colonies, making the situation as bafflingly complex as a map of the current Middle East.

In the game, the warships Mr. Fusal brought to bear were the Cuban navy, not American or Spanish forces. Cuba, even at this stage, possessed a modicum of military power, albeit a rather pathetic one. Mr. Fusal himself wasn't a military dignitary; he was, to put it plainly, a warlord.

His cozy arrangement with Mr. Cornwall over the sugarcane business was the only thing keeping him from being unceremoniously evicted from Guarma by the Americans or even the Cubans themselves.

And this, Dutch realized with a predatory gleam in his eye, presented the Van der Linde Gang with the perfect, golden opportunity to snatch Guarma. Fusal had no legal claim. As long as the Van der Linde Gang could replace him with superior force and influence, and exert greater negotiating pressure than Mr. Cornwall, then Dutch Van der Linde could simply step into Fusal's shoes and become the de facto warlord of Guarma!

Dutch now possessed the military might. For the crucial political status, he needed Mr. Rhodes Brown, a man currently residing in Saint Denis, a member of the illustrious Morgan Family. Mr. Cornwall was undoubtedly a titan of the West, a man of immense power, with politicians and military brass throughout the region practically bending to his will. He seemed utterly formidable, yet compared to the vast, shadowy influence of the Morgan Family?

There was simply no comparison. The world's creditor, J.P. Morgan, was at this very moment poised to exert his colossal influence.

"Okay, Dutch! Oh, SHT!**" John exclaimed, his jaw dropping slightly. "We were just dreaming about cracking into Guarma for arms back in those snow-covered mountains, and here we are, just five months later, making it a reality! Damn it, I feel like I've been sleepwalking through a dream this whole time!" He had absolutely no objection to Dutch's orders and immediately snapped to attention.

The Dutch of old, the one no one truly believed in, had undergone a metamorphosis. His words were now akin to sacred decree within the gang; no one dared voice an objection to his plans, no matter how audacious.

"Excellent, John! I reckon by the time you return, little Jack should be firmly enrolled in school." Dutch clapped his hands together, his gaze distant, already planning the next chess move.

"But next, we have another vital piece to move. Arthur, my boy, come with me. It's high time we had a little chat with Mr. Rhodes Brown in Saint Denis."

Under Dutch's resolute orders, the gang dispersed, each member embracing their new responsibilities, the gears of their grand scheme grinding into motion. With the sun beating down, bright and unforgiving, it was also the undeniable dawn of the Van der Linde Gang's bright future.