A deal you can't refuse

John McKinley stood before the shimmering fish pond of his luxurious estate, a picture of refined power, holding a handful of fish food, periodically scattering it into the pond with a casual flick of his wrist.

The fish pond was crystal clear, its depths revealing vibrant koi of various colors swimming back and forth, their graceful movements a dance of hunger, vying desperately for the scattered food. This hypnotic spectacle also gave John McKinley a profound sense and feeling of control and absolute power, watching the life he commanded.

"Hmph," he chuckled, a low, cynical sound, his lips curling into a sneer, "isn't this the very essence of society, the brutal truth? The one holding the fish food casually scatters a little food residue, barely a morsel, and the poor fish in the pond will swim desperately, fighting for survival. If you don't sit at the very top, if you don't hold the power, you're just a fish in the damn pond, scrambling for scraps."

It was quite rare, indeed almost idiotic, for him to have this profound realization in his late thirties; it spoke to a sheltered life.

Of course, the main reason was that his family's immense wealth and influence had protected him too well, shielded him from the harsh realities of the world. Or rather, he had always been the one holding the fish food, never experiencing the raw, desperate life of a fish, never understanding their struggle.

"Mr. McKinley, two Pinkerton Detectives have arrived," the beautiful maid in a pristine maid's uniform respectfully and charmingly addressed Mr. McKinley, who stood motionless in front of the fish pond, her voice soft as silk.

The top button of her dress was strategically undone at the chest, revealing a tantalizing hint of fair, alabaster skin.

It was a common, age-old tactic of subtle seduction, but unfortunately, she met Mr. McKinley. He disliked this blatant display; he only liked ordinary, respectable women from ordinary families. Even if they weren't conventionally good-looking, the perverse feeling of oppressing and breaking respectable women stimulated him greatly, thrilling him to his core.

For example, like the unfortunate Mrs. Downs, who hadn't yet been 'sold' to the brothels.

He not only enjoyed 'walking' fish, observing their desperate struggles, but also enjoyed actively tormenting them, breaking their spirit.

This was what made him feel the profound beauty of the absolute power in his hands, its intoxicating allure.

"Call them in," Mr. McKinley said indifferently, his voice devoid of emotion. He then tossed the last of the fish food in his hand into the pond, a final, dismissive gesture, and leisurely sat back on the plush sofa placed beside the pond, a picture of indolence.

He reached out and took a cigar from the table next to him, its rich aroma already filling the air, and the beautiful maid immediately came over, leaning in suggestively, to light it with a delicate silver lighter.

Indeed, lighters existed in this era, but they were rare, expensive commodities, symbols of wealth. Kerosene lighters also needed frequent, annoying refilling, and so, naturally, only the upper class generally used them, a small luxury.

As soon as the cigar was lit, its tip glowing, footsteps sounded nearby, crisp and precise, and then Mr. Milton, his face a landscape of old acne scars, walked in wearing a perfectly tailored suit, his posture stiff, accompanied by his equally stoic partner, Mr. Ross.

"Mr. McKinley, it's an honor to meet you!" Mr. Milton nodded slightly, a curt, respectful gesture, respectfully greeting Mr. McKinley, who was indolently seated on the sofa, radiating disdain.

"Hmph!" Mr. McKinley snorted lightly, a dismissive sound escaping his lips. He did not rise from the sofa, showing no hint of enthusiasm for his visitors, and not even bothering to look directly at Mr. Milton, who had come all this way from the turbulent West. He merely snorted, a clear indication that he was aware of their presence, his attitude one of extreme, almost insulting, arrogance.

Mr. Milton was unconcerned, his face betraying no emotion; he had seen too much of the petty arrogance and underlying helplessness of these high-ranking Federal Government officials, their bloated egos and crippling ineptitude.

Speaking of which, he mused with a flicker of irony, Dutch Van der Linde, a man who now controlled two burgeoning states, always greeted him with a wide, genuine smile whenever they met, and he could feel, truly feel, that Dutch placed him on an equal footing, treating him as a peer.

Oh no, Milton corrected himself inwardly, a wry smile almost touching his lips, it should be said that Dutch always placed others on an equal footing with himself, a true egalitarian, however ruthless.

But now was certainly not the time to think about such unsettling comparisons.

Seeing that Mr. McKinley did not seem inclined to speak first, his silence a deliberate power play, Mr. Milton, standing rigidly in place, had no choice but to break the awkward silence. "I wonder, Mr. McKinley, why you called us here, to your esteemed estate? Is there something you need to tell us, some urgent matter?"

With Mr. Milton's renewed, polite inquiry, Mr. McKinley finally showed some reaction, stirring from his indolence.

His gaze, which had been fixed on the dancing koi, shifted slowly from the fish pond, then he looked directly at Mr. Milton and Mr. Ross, who stood like obedient lackeys not far away, their postures stiff, with an indifferent, almost bored air, and chuckled, a low, contemptuous sound:

"Andrew Milton. Mr. Milton, I know you. A senior Pinkerton Detective who, by some stroke of luck, stood out from within Pinkerton Detective two years ago, a man with a surprising knack for trouble, becoming the general manager of Pinkerton Detective West in one fell swoop. But, alas, due to ideological differences with the upper management of Pinkerton, he remains a mere senior detective to this day, his ambitions thwarted." McKinley's voice dripped with condescension.

Mr. Milton remained silent, his face a carefully constructed mask of impassivity. And seeing his unchanging demeanor, Mr. McKinley couldn't help but sneer, a cruel twist of his lips. "As early as three months ago, Mr. Milton, who had been foolishly staying in the West, returned to the East, abandoning his post, seeking to meet Federal Government personnel everywhere, begging for an audience."

He leaned forward, a predatory glint in his eye. "If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Milton, your current situation must be quite difficult, mustn't it? You're desperate. How about it, do you still maintain your stubborn persistence now, clinging to your antiquated ideals?"

"Perhaps, Mr. McKinley. If you have nothing else of importance, then we will leave," Mr. Milton said after a slight pause, his voice calm, betraying not the slightest displeasure, merely a detached professionalism.

Ross, standing rigidly behind him, looked at Mr. McKinley, who radiated such contempt, and felt a profound, chilling dread. He knew then, with a sinking certainty, that it would be far better for him to return to live in the desolate West in the future, even if that place was remote and barren, than to endure this gilded cage of condescension.

"Hmph, Mr. Milton, you can't even afford to eat, you're practically starving, and you're still maintaining your ridiculous persistence?" McKinley sneered, rising from the sofa, his voice cutting like a whip. He slowly walked closer to Mr. Milton, circling him like a predator. "Even if you don't consider yourself, you should consider the entire Pinkerton Detective Agency, shouldn't you? You won't live much longer, I'm telling you honestly, your agency is doomed."

"And now," McKinley continued, extending a hand in a theatrical, magnanimous gesture, a false beneficence, "I can give you an opportunity, a lifeline."

He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper, full of persuasive power. "Work for me, and I will personally propose a bill on Capitol Hill for the Pinkerton Detective agency to be officially incorporated into a legitimate government department, allowing you people to truly join the United States Government and become genuine Federal Government personnel, with all the power and prestige that entails!"

Mr. McKinley's gaze was fixed on Mr. Milton's acne-scarred face, lingering there for a couple of seconds. He then recoiled almost imperceptibly, probably feeling too disgusted by its appearance, and turned his head away, a subtle gesture of repulsion.

In reality, what he said was entirely a pretense, a cunning manipulation; the United States Government was already quietly planning to establish a dedicated government police force or investigative agency, a new federal arm, to significantly strengthen the Federal Government's power, centralizing control.

Only by possessing a team directly belonging to the government, a loyal, official force, could it truly deter the entire United States, ensuring unwavering compliance. So, even if he didn't propose it, incorporating Pinkerton Detectives into the nascent Federal Bureau of Investigation was a foregone conclusion, an inevitable destiny.

But politicians are all like this; they are masters of manipulation, able to control people with carefully leaked information, without even having to exert personal effort, and can even profit handsomely from both sides, playing all angles.

He could benefit immensely from Mr. Milton this time, gaining a powerful, dedicated force, and also gain significant merit by proposing this motion in Congress, basking in the glory.

Mr. Milton's eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of suspicion in their depths. His gaze fixed on Mr. McKinley, who had leisurely walked back to the sofa, resuming his comfortable position. Finally, Milton spoke, his voice calm, measured: "What is the price for this… opportunity? What do you want?"

"The Veteran Club. Mr. Milton, that damn Veteran Club in the West!" Mr. McKinley roared, his face suddenly contorted with anger. He smashed the wine glass in his hand, a delicate crystal, directly into the fish pond, sending koi scattering and fragments of glass flying. His voice was tinged with bitter rage.

"Those damn Westerners, those insolent brutes, they created such a damned, subversive thing! Do you know what the situation is like for the soldiers in the Eastern army now, thanks to them?! They're becoming uppity!"

He slammed his fist on the table. "Damn it, they're not even satisfied with free food and lodging, barely enough to keep them alive, and they still demand better pay, more benefits! This is simply unreasonable! It's an outrage!" Mr. McKinley roared in fury, his face purpling.

Milton's pupils suddenly constricted, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement.

Damn Dutch Van der Linde, he thought, a cold dread creeping into his stomach, he never expected that even here in the East, even so far away, he would still have problems with that man. Dutch's influence was a plague! Damn it, Mr. Milton was definitely going to have to choose sides now! There was no longer any neutrality.

Mr. Milton realized this almost immediately, the cold, hard truth crashing down on him.

If he were to reveal Dutch Van der Linde's actions in the West now, expose his burgeoning empire, he would not gain any credit, no immediate reward, but he would not be at fault either, avoiding blame.

However, if he were to cunningly conceal Dutch Van der Linde's actions in the West now, and even if he needed to handle this matter later, then he would definitely, irrevocably, be labeled as associated with Dutch Van der Linde, forever tainted by the outlaw's brush.

No, not just him, Milton thought, his mind racing frantically, but also Mr. Ross, and the entire Pinkerton Detective Agency, their reputation irrevocably linked to an outlaw. His career, their future, would be shattered.

Therefore, he would probably have to make a choice, a momentous decision for himself, or rather, on behalf of everyone he represented.

So, who would he choose? The established, corrupt power of the East, or the radical, yet strangely appealing, new order of the West?

Mr. Milton felt a little panicked, his palms growing clammy.

As expected, no sooner had McKinley finished speaking than questions came thick and fast, like bullets from a Gatling gun.

"So, Mr. Milton, you spent so much time in the West, observing everything, I wonder if you've heard any news about this… 'Veteran Club'?" McKinley's voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp, scrutinizing Milton's face.

Mr. Milton's face tightened, a barely perceptible tremor in his jaw.

It came, the goddamn question indeed came! The moment of truth.

He, Milton, was actually fortunate enough to be able to choose a side, a rare privilege in this game of power!

So, would he side with Dutch Van der Linde, the enigmatic outlaw who only controlled two flourishing states, a man who, despite his criminal past, offered a vision of true freedom? Or with the legitimate, yet deeply corrupt, United States Government, a system he increasingly loathed?

"So, you like being toys for the upper class, do you?"

For some inexplicable reason, a hoarse yet strangely familiar voice, laced with dry sarcasm, suddenly echoed in his mind, piercing through his thoughts.

Arthur Morgan. This crude, yet surprisingly perceptive, outlaw, whom he had only met two or three times, and Dutch Van der Linde's most trusted companion, his right-hand man—Arthur's voice, full of cutting disdain for their profession, surfaced in Mr. Milton's mind, clear as a bell.

Immediately after, a kaleidoscope of images flashed, vivid and unsettling: the joyous cheers of the Annesburg miners seeing Mr. Van der Linde arrive, their faces alight with hope; the vibrant, bustling city atmosphere of Saint Denis when they left the West, a hub of prosperity and innovation; along with the rosy-cheeked, smiling, and hopeful poor people, despite their simple clothing, their lives clearly transformed.

Finally, the grim, brutal reality: he thought of the wretched refugees they had seen in the Washington slums, starving, pale-faced, and like mere beggars, their bodies skeletal, their eyes vacant. The stark contrast was unbearable.

Mr. Milton used to like this flawed world, this brutal system, because even though it was flawed, even though it was filled with injustice, he believed it was still prospering, its gears turning, creating wealth.

He originally believed that even if people in America couldn't eat or afford housing, it was simply due to lagging development, a temporary setback, and that America was actually thriving, moving forward.

But after touring Saint Denis, after witnessing Dutch's transformed world, he became utterly confused, his worldview shattered.

Saint Denis, despite its initial poverty, was less developed, less industrialized than the Eastern cities. But ever since Dutch Van der Linde took over Saint Denis, there were no longer any poor people in Saint Denis, no beggars, no starving masses.

So, was the inability of those poor people to eat or wear clothes truly due to the slow development of the times, a natural progression? Or something far more insidious?

Perhaps the very development, the very root, was wrong from the beginning!

The so-called American development, he realized with a chilling clarity, was nothing more than the rapacious development of American capital; this was not a stage of historical development, this was the damn process of capital rising, consuming everything in its path, like a hungry leviathan!

Mr. Milton let out a long, shuddering breath, a profound sigh of internal struggle, then turned his head slightly, looking at Mr. Ross beside him, his gaze seeking affirmation.

Mr. Ross, his face carefully blank, winked subtly at him, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture of complicity.

Mr. Milton finally made up his mind, his decision hardening like steel, then looked at Mr. McKinley, his hand trembling slightly, but his voice calm, steady, unwavering as he said: "I haven't heard of any Veteran Club, Mr. McKinley. No such organization is officially known. We have been diligently occupied in West Elizabeth, combating the ruthless Skinners Brothers Gang that has been moving through the territories, a constant threat. I think this 'Veteran Club' might just be a localized phenomenon, formed by some disgruntled veterans, perhaps, widely spread among the military and soldiers, but not well-known in general society, not officially sanctioned."

"Is that so? I see, that does somewhat fit the current situation, I suppose." Mr. McKinley was slightly taken aback, a flicker of surprise in his eyes; he thought about the reports he had received on the Veteran Club, and indeed, they had come primarily from military camps.

If that's the case, if there was no mastermind behind it, no grand conspiracy, it should be easy to resolve, a minor nuisance to be swept away.

However, he immediately thought of another, more pressing problem.

Mr. McKinley pondered for a moment, stroking his chin, then spoke again, his voice casual, yet probing: "Dutch Van der Linde, do you know this fellow? The Governor of New Hanover recently, and privately, approached me and whispered that Dutch Van der Linde wants to threaten the administration of New Hanover, and has even taken effective control of a small town under his command called Valentine. A rather audacious claim."

He chuckled, a dismissive sound. "Damn it, what kind of person is he? Is he some so-called Western magnate, a cunning businessman, or a damn outlaw? Or, does he have some deeper conspiracy, some hidden agenda?"

Mr. Milton's heart tightened, a painful lurch, but a subtle hint of disdain, a faint sneer, appeared on his face as he said, his voice flat, dismissive: "Dutch Van der Linde, I am very familiar with him, Mr. McKinley, unfortunately.

I was also personally responsible for handling his issues in West Elizabeth, a prolonged headache. He is nothing more than a common outlaw who robbed fifteen thousand dollars from a steamboat in Blackwater, West Elizabeth! His petty story has even spread throughout America in the newspapers, a fleeting notoriety.

However, we are close to catching him; once we figure out where they hid those fifteen thousand dollars, once we recover the stolen funds, we will truly close in on him, bring him to justice.

As for him controlling Valentine, to put it bluntly, Mr. McKinley, Dutch Van der Linde only has a little over twenty people under him, a mere handful of ruffians, while Valentine has at least three to four thousand people. How could such a small gang possibly control Valentine Town, a population so vast? It's absurd."

"Hmph! A town of three to four thousand people?" Mr. McKinley snorted again, a loud, contemptuous sound. He waved a dismissive hand. "Does that even qualify for a Governor? A mere village! What a joke."

He leaned back, his lips curled into a cold, cruel sneer. "Alright, this damned wild West is indeed rampant with bandits, a lawless wasteland, and these bandits should be torn to pieces, eradicated without mercy! They are a disease!"

"The Governor of New Hanover is also useless, damn it, a spineless fool! I think this 'Veteran Club' is most likely an organization initiated by the New Hanover state militia, a petty rebellion, only then would that damned Governor be unable to contact the New Hanover army, losing his control! Heh, but what kind of significant development can a state with only one small town, a mere village, truly have? It's laughable."

A cold, dismissive sneer curled at the corner of Mr. McKinley's mouth, a testament to his disdain.

He looked down on the entire West and officials like the Governor of New Hanover, seeing them as utterly beneath his notice. The main problem, he believed, was that compared to the bustling East, which often had millions of people in its cities, a state in the West mostly only had a small town of four or five thousand people, a rural backwater. Some more remote ones didn't even have towns that could be officially recognized by the Federal Government, mere shacks in the wilderness.

Think about it, he mused, what good is a small town of four or five thousand people? It's a trifle, insignificant.

If the Lemoyne State Government in Saint Denis rebelled now, that would be taken seriously, a genuine threat, after all, it had a population of five or six hundred thousand people, a significant force.

And the Governor of New Hanover had the audacity to claim that Valentine was being ruled by some outlaw.

To be honest, the very cost of sending an army there, the round-trip travel expenses, wouldn't even be covered by the value of the town! It was a waste of resources.

Mr. McKinley completely relaxed, his posture easing, his gaze turning to Mr. Milton, now free of any suspicion. He said, his voice firm, authoritative: "Alright, Mr. Milton, let's talk business, actual business.

The Federal Government is very angry, deeply displeased, because the existence of this Western 'Veteran Club' has caused quite a stir in the army, unsettling our loyal soldiers, poisoning their minds."

He leaned forward, his voice low and menacing. "And I need you to take your people, your Pinkerton agents, to the West and use every means at your disposal, fair or foul, to take down this Veteran Club! Eradicate it!"

"That's impossible, Mr. McKinley! We no longer have law enforcement authority in the West, and the Veteran Club hasn't broken any laws, not officially!" Mr. Milton's heart skipped a beat, a sudden, frantic rhythm, and he quickly, almost instinctively, refused, his face pale.

Damn it, he thought, he had guessed right after all. This was the trap.

Listening to his refusal, Mr. McKinley laughed heartily, a cruel, mocking sound: "Breaking the law? Mr. Milton, you are also people who deal with laws, who twist them to your will, so there's no need to use such a flimsy excuse to refuse me. It's transparent."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper, a chilling confession. "You and I both know, Mr. Milton, whether something is against the law is just a matter of my word, a decree from on high! I am the law."

"Moreover, this time I want you to break the law, to commit illegal acts, otherwise how can the Pinkerton Detective Agency be legally disbanded, its power broken? Only by disbanding you, by publicly discrediting you, can my proposal to establish a Federal Government Investigation Bureau, a truly centralized force, be approved! You are merely a stepping stone."

McKinley's smile widened, a cruel, predatory grin. "There needs to be an agency to replace you, Mr. Milton, an official body, this is an irreversible trend, the march of progress! And it must be a Federal Government agency. And by cooperating with me, after you are disbanded, after your sacrifice, I will ensure that you can join the new investigation bureau, that you, personally, can find a place in the new order, so as to give all of you a way out! A golden parachute!"

He spread his hands wide, a gesture of undeniable power. "This is a deal, Mr. Milton, a deal you cannot refuse, a pact with the devil!"