I never imagined myself working with anyone but Freedom's Cause.

I had always imagined myself working my way up the hierarchy. Scrabbling and scraping my way to the top of the pile; to attain my rightful place at the inner circle. I had thought about the years of dedication and slaving required to even get to the position of contract man, and yet I had risen to the title in half the time expected. 

Just two months ago, I never dreamed of meeting the people Dianne reported in-person to, and yet I had sat with them. Discussed the fate of a hundred souls, in the name of Freedom's Cause.

I had imagined it to be nothing less of euphoric.

I had been wrong.

As I sat down in my stool in front of a window that overlooked Pier 54, I wondered how things would have been different if I hadn't accepted that second contract from Dianne. What if I hadn't gone that stormy, snowy night and gone to that apartment? What if I hadn't stolen those blueprints and brought them to Freedom's Cause? Would I still be here? Would this still be happening, right now? 

Thinking about 'what could have been' released other nagging questions that filtered into my mind.

What if I hadn't killed Davis Underwood?

What if I hadn't killed Arthur Dempsey?

No. 'Killed' wasn't the right word for it.

Murdered.

What if I wasn't a murderer?

To my left, I sensed Agent Michael Dantino shuffle up next to me, gripping a similar stool to mine. He set it down and sat next to me, withdrawing a silver flask from his waist. He unscrewed the top, took a swig, and looked sideways at me.

"Seen anything yet?"

Even though we were two stories up in a brick and mortar building with the pier more than two hundred feet away, Dantino's voice was hushed as if someone was listening in.

I replied. "Nothing so far. It's sort of hard to see through the haze."

I nodded out at the Hudson River.

Dantino snorted. "Me and the boys haven't seen a thing since sundown." He gestured with his flask at the other twenty men dressed in suits sitting in their interval positions along the windows overlooking the entirety of Piers 53 and 54.

Dantino growled. "Either we've missed them, or they aren't going to hit it tonight, or somebody must be blind as a bat."

"No, they'll show up," I muttered, feeling the still healing wounds on my chest with my fingers. "They have to. There won't be enough time for tomorrow, because that's when the ship's staff and stewards board. It's easiest to be there first than to sneak in later."

Dantino huffed. "If you're wrong about this-"

I finished his sentence, "If I'm wrong, hundreds will die. I understand." 

I sighed, looking through the musty, cobwebbed pane of glass and out into the Hudson River. It flowed and rippled in the darkness. Each crease and wrinkle along the black expanse of water slapped against the pier and the broad iron hull of the TRIUMPHANT. It truly was a sight to behold. The biggest passenger ocean liner to date. By a foot, of course. It was like a slumbering giant; an untamed creature of the wild unable to be unconquered. 

Three giant smokestacks jutted out and were silhouetted against the backdrop of the Hudson River and New Jersey skyline. The passenger liner was magnificent. It was hard to imagine that Freedom's Cause wanted to send it to the bottom of the ocean. 

But I didn't have to imagine it. I had sat in their midst, in the planning room. I had heard what they wanted to do. And nothing was going to stop them from doing so. Beside me, Agent Dantino screwed the cap back on his flask and put it back in the holster at his side.

He said. "What I wouldn't give to have you on our side, Emerson."

"What did you just say?" I turned sideways in my seat and looked at him, perplexed. "Just a few weeks ago, you said I was public enemy number one. I was one of, if not the most hated person by the Night Watchmen."

"Yes, I did say those things," Dantino stared off into the middle distance and picked at his teeth with a pinky fingernail. "I'm mentioning this because you are good at what you do. Not many people could do what you do, you know. Sure, you're about as sneaky as a walrus on land when it comes to trying to cover your tracks, but that's not what I'm talking about. Maybe you get lucky, once or twice during your contracts. But it's the killing part of the contract. That's what you're good at. That's real art for you."

Dantino sniffed, putting a hand on his right hip. I looked down and saw that the palm of his hand rested on the butt of his service pistol that was tucked into its holster.

The FBI agent sighed, "There are people in Washington that would love to get a hold of a person like you. You, lacking all those inhibitions most people would have when presented with the job of driving a knife into another man's chest. That's what makes you so good, Emerson. You never saw your opposition as a threat; just a blockage against progress. Against the people, or freedom and whatnot." 

Dantino waved his hand dismissively. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"I don't sleep," I replied. "At least, not after I finish my contracts."

"And yet you stayed in the game."

"It wasn't because I wanted to."

"Oh, I highly doubt that." Dantino turned his head, staring at me. 

The numerous scars on his face were more accentuated in the moonlight piercing through the open windows. Then I stood. The bar stool underneath me kicked back, making a screeching noise that wailed and echoed throughout the warehouse. I pointed with an outstretched finger towards the docks. In the dim street lamps, there wasn't much to see except for the occasional Night Watchman making his patrols. 

Agent Dantino had specifically requested that the docks not be under heavy scrutiny from the Watchmen that particular night. To make sure Freedom's Cause would know about it, Dantino had ordered documents and phone calls to go back and forth between the West Manhattan Watchmen station and the outpost along Hudson River Park saying that there would be less guard exchange during the night. Specifically, the following nights leading up to the launching of the TRIUMPHANT.

All that needed to happen then was for some sympathizer or spy in the Night Watchman ranks to leak the information to the heads of Freedom's Cause. Dantino mentioned he knew of the presence of a mole in the Night Watchman departments of lower Manhattan, so there was no doubt that Freedom's Cause would get the message. It was a matter of whether they would take the bait. Dantino and two other men who had rushed up alongside us and looked at where I was pointing. 

The words CUNARD LINE were painted in large white letters above the entrance to Pier 54. The two gates of the pier were darkened in shadow from the street lamps, looking like portals to an ethereal realm. A single Night Watchman was standing in between the gates, his hands in his pockets, and his feet submerged in fallen snow. Through the glass, it was difficult to make out, but one could see it clearly if they focused hard.

Three tiny specks of black dove in between the lengthy shadows drawn by the intermittent street lamps, avoiding the rays of the moon in the cloudless night. Swerving in and out of the darkness, the Night Watchman standing guard never spotted anything whenever he randomly looked up and swept his gaze across 11th Avenue. 

The streets were barren as usual during this time, so he never expected the three figures descending upon him in such swift, yet quiet ferocity. The FBI agents, Dantino, and I all watched as the lone Night Watchman was dragged by the figures into the shadow of one of the gates.

Dantino cursed, and then shouted at his men. "Alright boys, let's get to work!"

Several men nodded, others replied with "Yes sirs" as the vast majority of the FBI began heading towards the stairwell. I began moving as well, but I was stopped in my tracks by Agent Dantino. I looked down and in the subtle lighting, I saw that he had pulled out his service revolver. It wasn't pointed at me, but I knew he wasn't brandishing it because he wanted to shine the barrel. It was hard to make out his expression, but I saw that his eyebrows hung low down over his eyes.

I cleared my throat. "I'm guessing this is as far as I get, isn't it?"

Dantino nodded, staring me down, "As I said before, I'm not giving you a gun. And I'm certainly not going to be babysitting you outside while we catch these guys. Gentlemen." Dantino whistled, and then suddenly hands gripped at my elbows and pinned them to my sides. Two FBI agents stood on either side, looking at Dantino.

"Thanks for your service, kid." Agent Dantino nodded, holstering his pistol. "I hope we never have to meet again."

I sighed. "Goodbye to you too."

Dantino turned around and strode towards the staircase. He called out to the two FBI agents holding me, "I don't have to remind you of who he is, boys." And then he was gone, the sound of his shoes clattering on the staircase as he hustled down to the first floor. The men restraining me looked at each other.

The one on my right said. "Handcuffs?"

The one on my left replied. "Thought you had them."

"Oh, right," the man on my right chuckled, and I heard the clicking of metal. The sound of handcuffs ratcheting. I looked down at my waist, and in front of me, I saw those two small circlets of metal pinning my hands together. My heart sank. I was going nowhere soon. After this night was over, I would be lucky if I survived two weeks in prison.

I sighed. "I don't suppose you guys will let me sit down on the stool and watch, will you?"

I sensed the exchanging of glances. A nod.

The guy on my right said, "I don't see why not."

"But try anything funny. . ." the guy on my left stepped back, a hand tapping the armpit holster hanging at his side, the butt of a derringer pistol sticking out. 

I nodded, getting the hint, and sat down on the stool. Squinting out the musty and clouded window, I saw the gates of Pier 54 illuminated by two floodlights, previously set up by the FBI agents on top of the adjacent warehouses facing the pier. Night turned into day, thanks to the spotlights. Everything could be clearly seen on the street facing the pier's entrance. Night Watchmen and Dantino's agents slowly approached the pier gates in a loose semicircle. 

Every man down there was brandishing a pistol or baton, each man stepping lightly, their gazes fixated on the gate to the right. I stepped off the stool and got closer to the window, squinting through the dust and grime. I could make out two individuals, fully exposed by the spotlights. One figure was tall and large. With his hands up in the air, it was hard not to recognize the unmistakable frame of Mr. Thomas. 

The person standing next to him with their hands up had a hood on. They were notably shorter and slimmer than Mr. Thomas. Then the figure took off the hood, letting out her long flowing locks of hair spill over her shoulder.

With my face pressed against the window, I whispered, "Dianne?"

A voice from behind me said, "Jacob?"

I spun around. Standing over the slumped bodies of the two FBI agents was Dianne Whitfield. Large puddles of blood began to pool around the two men laying on the floor, large ragged gashes left by the switchblade that Dianne was now cleaning on the thigh of her pant leg. She wore a snug, custom-fitted clothing; specially made for sneaking in and out of alleyways and shadows at night. 

Covering most of her shoulders and head was a wool scarf, Dianne's hair was wrapped in a twisted braid that reflected what looked like a dark brown halo on her head. Her brilliant green eyes made contact with me. They stared at me behind a face covered in smeared charcoal, an age-old technique to prevent the sweat of the brow or cheeks to be seen at night. Her full lips parted, revealing a Cheshire smile.

"It's you," whispered Dianne as she padded closer towards me. "It's really you."

I didn't say anything, for fear of my voice breaking. I looked over my shoulder at the window and the two people being surrounded down by the pier gates.

"Is that Thomas and Emily?" I asked. Dianne nodded slowly, her eyes inspecting every inch of me as if I were some kind of apparition.

She said. "We thought you were dead. What happened? How are you still alive?"

"Well, you see," I started, my hands jingling in their metal restraints. "Oh, you wouldn't believe me if I told you what happened."

"Try me." Dianne's viridescent eyes flashed in the dim warehouse lights.

I gulped, feeling the back of my throat creep all the way up into my nose. I said, "George left me for dead at Throgs Point, Dianne. I suppose he told you whatever story to make you believe that I died, but clearly, I didn't."

I searched Dianne's eyes, looking for any trace of doubt or perplexion. Any sign that my words reached her, that it meant anything to her. If it made any sense to her. I wanted to see belief in those eyes, those beautiful green emerald eyes.

But I saw nothing. Not a single notion of quandary registered in Dianne's eyes.

Instead, she turned away her gaze, looking over her shoulder at a figure. It walked closer, stepping in and out of the shadows. It was hard to identify the man's face, but my gut told me who it was before I recognized him. It was from George Garza. He was dressed in a similar fashion to Dianne. Tight fitted wool clothing, scarf draped around his shoulders, soot smudged across his cheeks and forehead. 

What completed the image was the suppressed Webley revolver hanging at his side, attached to a thin leather strap wound across his shoulder. It swung back and forth as George silently crossed over to where we were standing. He was a towering monolith compared to Dianne's medium stature as he stepped over the bodies of the FBI agents and into the light. He smiled a wide smile that creased the corners of his mouth. 

He gave me that familiar, bone-chilling stare. The stare I had run away from. 

The stare I wished I could forget.

"Hello, Jacob," said George. His voice was low and ominous, almost to the point of a growl. "Imagine my surprise to find you here, tonight. In the presence of federal agents. On the very eve we were meant to steal aboard the TRIUMPHANT."

"Excuse me if I don't shake your hand," I interjected, holding up my wrists.

George looked me over, his gaze centering on my chest. "It's nice to see that you've gained a sense of humor along with your health since last we saw each other. When the Watchmen took you and Jackson, I thought I would never see you again."

"And yet, here I am." I chuckled, smiling.

"Yes, here you are," George smirked, his hand reaching down to his hip where the suppressed revolver hung. "Tied to the post like the good dog you are."

"Wait!" I yelped, holding up both of my hands, my fingers splayed out as if to prevent George from gripping his sidearm. I said. "Dianne, George shot me that night. He left me for dead. He was going to kill me, Dianne."

I looked at her. Dianne's face was unreadable, her expression hidden behind her facemask of smeared charcoal. Only her eyes stared back at me. And that was when I understood.

"You aren't here to get on the TRIUMPHANT," I surmised, lowering my hands slowly. "You're here to kill me."

"I'm not really great at goodbyes," George grinned, raising the customized revolver and pointing the front heavy barrel at my head. "But I always love tying up loose ends."

I could tell through George's gaze that he was beyond elated, now that this moment had come. He was brimming over with a kind of sadistic euphoria only George was familiar with. I imagined he had been dreaming of this exact moment for weeks and weeks on end. And now that he was finally here, he was savoring every second. 

George leveled the pistol at the center of my head. I stared headlong at the pinprick mouth of the gaping barrel. It was barely three feet away from my forehead. The only way this was going to end was George killing me. He had tried before and failed. Now, he was simply finishing the job. Dianne wouldn't help me. She hung on George's every word and whim, like everyone else in Freedom's Cause. She was going to let me die. 

Unless she stepped forward two more feet. 

I cleared my throat, my eyes still centered on George's manic gaze.

I said, "Dianne. If you have a shred of humanity still left in you, please-" I chanced a step forward, knowing it could be my last. 

The revolver barrel was two feet away. Dianne, barely a foot in front of me. The three of us were like an obtuse triangle, me and George being the farthest points. His hand was outstretched now. I could almost hear the creaking sound of the double-action trigger mechanism being cocked, the hammer bending back, ready to deliver its deadly blow.

My gaze flicked over to Dianne, and in an instant, I flung my hands up and over her head. Wrenching my cuffed hands back, the metal links slammed against Dianne's neck as I pulled her and myself away from where George was standing. Dianne's head was right in front of me, I hunched down to where my eye was level with her ear, effectively protecting my center of mass. George's handle on the gun wavered, but he quickly steadied his grip, a new expression clouding his face.

"Do you really expect that to work?" George growled, taking a step forward. I took a step back, pulling Dianne with me. The links to the handcuffs digging further into her neck. I heard her gurgle and fight, and I suddenly felt a sharp pang of guilt. But I wiped it away, the overwhelming instinct of self-preservation taking center stage in my mind.

"In what world do you see yourself walking away from here?" George said. "No. Not after all that we've been through. I said it before, Emerson. You fascinated me. I meant it, I really did. But now, it's time for us to part ways. This is where I leave, and Freedom's Cause lives another day. But you? You're staying here."

"Dianne," I whispered into her ear. Dianne wasn't fighting back, which caused the sinking feeling in my gut even worse. 

I continued, but my voice sounded far and distant and muffled, as if someone else were speaking, "Dianne. You can't seriously agree with this maniac. He's crazy. He's always been crazy. George has been lying from the start, he doesn't care about anyone but himself. He doesn't care about the Cause."

"She doesn't believe you, Jacob," George's voice cut the air like a hot knife through butter. "She does believe me though. Because I'm trustworthy. I'm the one who gave my life--my all--for Freedom's Cause. What have you done?"

"I've sacrificed my life for the Cause. I've killed people."

George scoffed, "So what? Talk to anyone in Freedom's Cause, they'll tell you how many years they've sacrificed. You think the people who join Freedom's Cause come to us to have a simple life? Simply being a contract man doesn't make you special. You're no different than Jackson or those other pissants that shine my shoes and fold my laundry. The most you've ever done to contribute to Freedom's Cause is get some rolled up pieces of paper from a defenseless old man."

I shook my head. "I don't care what I've done for Freedom's Cause. None of that matters anymore. I couldn't care less what you think of me anymore. What you fight for is anarchy, and I can't believe I let myself think you actually cared about the people."

It was George's turn to shake his head. A leering smile parted his lips.

He said, "The people are the least of our problems. It's the Night Watchmen that we're sending the message to."

"Then why the TRIUMPHANT?" I shouted. I felt Dianne flinch, and the pang of guilt grew into a knife that drove itself deeper into my gut. But I resisted the pain, even though it was crippling. Even though it threatened to collapse my lungs and crush my chest, I stood as tall as I could manage. I stared George in the eye, his gun hand unwavering.

George growled. "Why the TRIUMPHANT? You know why! You were at the meetings, we spent hours planning this, and you ask why?"

"Yes! I was there, I heard what you said. What you failed to mention was the hundreds of men and women and children that would be on the ship too!"

George's smile wavered just for a split second, but I caught the moment before he recovered his broad grin.

Readjusting his grip on the pistol, George scoffed, "Jacob. My boy. Despite everything Dianne and Freedom's Cause has taught you, in the grand scheme of things. . ."

". . .The sacrifice of a few benefits many." Dianne finished the mantra, her voice no louder than a hoarse whisper.

I said. "Freedom's Cause can rot in hell for all I care. I am not one of you anymore, so you can stop hiding behind your asinine platitudes."

"Says the man hiding," George gestured with his free hand at me and Dianne. I felt Dianne try to step over to the side, but I moved with her.

She said, "Jacob. If you won't listen to George, then listen to me. George is right. You have to see that what you're doing right now won't stop us. No amount of heroism can stop this."

"I'm not being a hero, Dianne," I replied, my throat beginning to constrict involuntarily. I cleared it with a grunt and began slowly edging backward and to the side, making my way to the stairwell. I kept my eyes fixated on George and the pistol in his hand as the barrel followed us creeping out of the light. I called out, "I'm only doing what I have to."

"See? Don't you see it, Emerson?" George's smile grew a half-inch wider, his voice rising in pitch. It was staring down a hyena that was inspecting a meal. 

George's smooth voice carried throughout the warehouse, his timbre booming. "We do have something in common after all. You're doing what you have to. I'm doing what I have to. And Dianne-" 

George's gaze flicked to Dianne. 

I felt her nod her head in some kind of silent agreement, and then George said, "-Dianne knows what she must do."

I cried out, "Dianne, no!"

I didn't have time to think. Only act. I threw up my wrists, releasing my hold over Dianne. With my arms out, wrists apart, the small three-inch chain snapping taught. I didn't know what to think at that moment; my brain had thrown out all forms of logical reason except for one thought:

Survive.