The coffee was astoundingly good. I had enjoyed all kinds of roasted brews in my life but never had I tasted the coffee that Emily had prepared. It was the smell that first interested me, but after taking a sip of the hot beverage, I was surprised at how much flavor there was in that one sip. Usually, the coffee that I made or bought from other cafes tasted either burnt or watery. But this was good. 

It was very good. Perhaps it was the events of the past few days, or that I hadn't had a good pot of coffee in a long while, but whatever it was, that one sip of coffee seemed to clear my head. I could even feel the knot in my stomach recede an inch. It remained, a large ache in my side that wouldn't go away. But it was smaller now, nonetheless. I took another sip of my cup and sighed. I heard Emily stifle a laugh, causing me to look up at her. 

She held a cup up to her mouth, about to drink it. My eyes wandered down to the scar that wound down the length of her jaw. It looked like a sliver of ice on her pale skin, almost matching the same pallor of her blue eyes. I quickly looked back up at her staring at me. I felt myself blush.

"Enjoying your coffee?" Emily said, blowing over the top of her coffee. 

Even in the warmth of the cabin, wisps of steam floated off the surface of her drink. 

I shook my head in amazement and said, "I don't know what is about this coffee, but it's absolutely grand."

Both of us stared at each other for a long second. Both of us holding our cups of steaming coffee, fully immersed in the blissful aroma of what was the Ethiopian brew. Then the fragile moment passed, just like the tendrils of steam that evaporated from our cups of coffee. Emily looked around the living area of the log cabin. Much bigger than any living area I had ever seen, the cabin seemed to look like a ski lodge. 

Animal heads hanging over the front entrance, magnificently framed paintings, and antique vases propped up on cabinets all attributed to the cozy warmth of the cabin. It felt much bigger on the outside than it had looked on the outside, despite the structure being built entirely out of logs.

Emily looked back at me and took a sip of her coffee. Then she set it down, saying, "You asked me how I wound up with Freedom's Cause. I think that I could ask you the very same question, but then that would just be boring, I would think. Wouldn't you?"

I stopped blowing on my coffee, holding the cup up to my lips but not drinking. I nodded, replying, "You can ask me anything if that's what you're getting at."

"Anything?"

"Sure," I said. I took a sip of my coffee, feeling the warm ichor that was the Ethiopian brew slide past my tongue and down my throat. Emily rotated her cup slowly, her eyes fixated on the handle turning around and around.

She spoke carefully, her words even and precise. "What is it like to kill another man?"

The warm ichor in my throat turned rancid, a bitter aftertaste accumulating in the back of my throat. I cleared my throat and set down my cup on the table.

"It's just that, you know" Emily cocked her head to one side, circling the lip of her cup with a finger. "You're a contract man. I know that Dianne is head of contracts, and in the time I've known her, she's always been mysterious. You are not unlike her."

I asked. "What did she tell you about what we do?"

"Everything that she needed to," Emily replied nonchalantly. She stopped caressing the lip of her cup and picked up, taking a sip. "She didn't say it upfront, but I got the gist."

I pursed my lips, looking away from Emily and then down at my cup of coffee. It looked so small now, practically the size of a teacup. I went in for another sip. The heat was all but gone from the drink. It tasted lukewarm on the roof of my mouth. The flavor was still there, but it was perverted by its loss of heat. I swallowed and looked Emily in the eyes.

I said. "It's hard to say."

"What do you mean?"

"Carrying out a contract." 

I stared past Emily, my vision of the living area slowly decreasing further and further into a black vignette. Emily was now in the center, but she was blurred. The more I talked, the more she became out of focus, the tunnel of blackness increasing until the only thing in my periphery was harshly muted.

I continued, "It was something I realized I could do ever since I took on my first contract. There's not a lot of money involved, so there's no real monetary gain. Freedom's Cause gives out what it can afford, and I get what I need to survive for the month and the month after that. I get my reward in another way."

"What other way is that?"

"My reward is seeing this establishment being slowly dismantled from the inside. With every great fall of a nation, there is something that rises from the ashes. Freedom's Cause will rise. And freedom will reign." I sniffed, rubbing my upper lip with a finger. Emily started to come back into the focus. The harsh vignette began to lessen. I continued, my voice sounding even and calm coming out of my mouth. It was as if someone else was speaking, taking control of my mind, and writing out the words that rolled off my tongue.

"We have tolerated this injustice for far too long. The people I talk to, the people I see on the street. They're not really happy. I know that they secretly want the Night Watchmen out of their neighborhoods, out of their streets, out of their lives. They were never supposed to be here in the first place. They're the cancer, and we're the cure. And the cure strikes the cancer at its weakest points, driving the disease out of the body and making sure it never comes back. So whenever I go out there, whenever I take on a contract, I don't see it as killing men. I don't see that way at all." I leaned forward in my seat and stared at Emily. She stared back at me, her eyes full of wonder and bridled excitement.

"I don't kill men. I kill the disease."

I saw a spark release in Emily's eyes, her once soft gaze now radiant in the dim light of the room. The ambiance of the log cabin faded away, all I could look at was Emily's intense gaze. It was as intense as a forest fire but as calm and soothing as a lit candle. The energy that emanated from her stare invigorated something within me. It ignited the flame of a memory that had long since burnt out many years ago. 

A memory of me, kneeling in front of a still water lake and looking back at my own reflection. My face. The look of simmering, unbridled rage in my eyes. It was the same with Emily's expression now. That look. I felt my skin crawl, my hairs standing on end. Something deep down near the recesses of my gut, I felt something fall away, like the petal of a flower detaching from the stem. 

Her eyes were shining, and a minuscule tear climbed down the inner corner of her eye and slid down the length of her cheek. She did not wipe at it, instead, it fell from the point of her chin and onto the table next to her cup of coffee. She broke her gaze at me, looking up past me and to my left.

I turned around and saw George leaning against a wooden pillar behind the couch I was sitting on. He grinned, nodding at us.

"Sorry, was I interrupting something?" There was something in George's face that seemed less like the man I had met barely five hours ago. Something in his grin. It wasn't quite a smile, and there was an unusual lack of mirth behind his dark brown eyes. 

There were no twinkling stars behind the canvas of his irises this time. Just two pinpoints of black staring back at me. Staring into me. The same kind of stare Mr. Thomas had.

"We were just passing the time," I mentioned, glancing back at Emily. The intense gaze she had worn moments before had vanished, replaced now by a tranquil look.

"I was just having Mr. Emerson taste a sample of the Ethiopian coffee," Emily held up her cup, taking a sip. "You know, the one I told you about?"

"Yes, yes, I remember." George waved his hand in the air. "I've helped Dianne retire for the night. I suggest we all do the same."

Emily pouted. "But George-"

"I won't argue with you." George looked down at me and tilted his head. "Come, Mr. Emerson. I believe you and I need to talk. Miss Emily?"

Em sighed, nodding in acquiescence as she stood from her seat on the couch. The three of us exited the living area portion of the cabin and headed upstairs. They hugged the far right corner of the house near the entrance. It ascended alongside the wall, paused at a landing, and then made a ninety-degree turn and climbed further up into the rest of the second floor. 

We scaled the stairs, George and Emily leading while I lagged a few steps behind. I stared at the paintings adorning the wall beside me as I walked up the stairs, each of them getting progressively bigger and bigger the farther up we went. 

The paintings were evenly spaced out and staggered as they followed the trajectory of the stairs. Each painting was a portrait of a man, at the bottom of each portrait was a name gilded in elegant gold type.

"Ah, yes." George looked over his shoulder at me. "I see your eye has caught these paintings. Rightly so, Mr. Emerson. These are the faces of the past that have donated from their present to invigorate the future."

"'Invigorate'?" I said. George nodded, stopping on the halfway landing stairway and eyeing a portrait of a sullen and drained looking figure. It was a man whose face was the color of paper. His mouth was a solid line devoid of lips and color, his eyes the only dash of color on his face. 

His eyes were sunken deep into his head, two pinpricks of faded blue nearly hidden behind large bags of flesh underneath. With hair that was silvery-white and neatly combed, the man looked like he was a dead man walking.

George patted a hand on my shoulder, and pulled me in close, putting his arm around my shoulder. He asked, "Ever heard of Wilhelm Schwartz, Mr. Emerson?"

"Can't say that I have," I said, thinking for a long second. "What did he do?"

"It's not what he did," George replied, smiling. "It's what he empowered other brave men to do. He was one of the greatest philanthropists of this age, a very rich man."

"But," I stuttered, looking up at George's close twinkling brown eyes. "Why would a rich man be with the rest of these paintings?"

"My boy," George chuckled, keeping his voice low. "Not all rich men are terrible. At least, not these ones anyways. These men were the ones that chose to be on the right side of history. You see," George gestured with an open hand at all the men in the portraits hanging in the staggered chain ascending the stairway walls. 

He said. "All of these men dedicated their lives to make sure movements like ours survived. And you standing here, right here this very moment, is obvious proof of that. Because of these generous benefactors, we've been able to keep Freedom's Cause from going extinct and disappearing. Although they may be dead, many of them have donated to the cause of freedom. Our freedom."

"Were all of them filthy rich?" I asked.

George shook his head. "No. Not all of these men were financial philanthropists. Most of these men were in fact philosophers. They donated their wisdom. Their ideologies live on through us. 'Without peace, there is no justice, and without liberty, there is no freedom'. You know the sayings."

I nodded, taking a sweeping glance at all the forlorn-looking expressions of the men hanging on the walls. George released his hold of my shoulder and let out a chuckle. The three of us proceeded to climb the rest of the stairs. The second floor was much like the first. The ambiance paralleled that of downstairs, except there were more skiing and hunting accents stationed up on shelves and displays. 

On the landing of the top of the stairs, two corridors diverged into two hallways that split out in a 'V' shape, an animal head positioned above the mouth of both hallways. A boar's head above the right doorway, a deer above the left; both beasts staring far into the distance with a frozen stare.

Emily split away from me and George, sidling off towards the right hallway. She stated, "Gentlemen, it's been a long, yet productive night. I shall see you all in the morning." 

Then she bowed her head slightly in my direction. "And thank you for answering my question, Mr. Emerson. Good night."

"Good night, Em," George replied, lifting a hand to give a small wave. I watched as Emily's slim figure strolled down the hallway. She brought up her hand to take off her maroon felt beret. She shook her head, a cascade of black hair rippling down to the edge of her nape. 

She turned her eyes in my direction, and I swore she gave me a wink as she opened the door. Emily disappeared into the room, shutting the door behind her.

"She fancies you," George patted me on the back. "The same way you are with Dianne."

"I'm sorry, what?" I coughed, looking over at the Lion of Queens. His smile was as white as the ivory tusks of the boar that hung on the opposite wall.

"Come on now, don't act coy," George chuckled, walking towards the hallway to the left. I followed, looking up at the deer head staring down at me as I passed underneath.

"I'm not acting coy," I replied.

"Sure, sure," George nodded listlessly, staring ahead. We kept walking down the hallway. Doors to rooms were on both our left and right. On my left, George chuckled and looked sideways at me.

The Lion of Queens said. "So, kid. I overheard you and Emily sharing your life stories." He winked at me, almost mockingly. "From what I hear, both of you have had rough childhoods. And I mean, wow, rough childhoods."

"Yes," I agreed, frowning. "You could say that."

George tilted his head back and forth, the muted sound of snapping coming from his neck. He said, "Jacob Emerson. Mr. Jacob Emerson. You're an anomaly. And, tell me if I'm wrong, but you know that too. Dianne has taken a liking to you. Emmy has too. Same with Thomas and Alice. You've all got them so impressed, haven't you?"

"I've only done what was required of me, sir," I said, stopping. George stepped forward, noticed I had stopped, and then looked at me. His eyes sized me up, looking at the top of my head and down to my shoes. He grinned and waved for me to follow.

"Come on, your room's this way," George said. I followed, only gingerly, keeping a good three feet away from the tall man.

George Garza tapped the side of the wall with his left hand as we padded down the hall. I noticed that on his left hand, he was missing two fingers. His pinky and ring fingers were gone, only stubs left on his formidable hands. 

George suddenly turned on his heel and stopped, his back straightening, his nose turned down at me. I could see his eyes had abandoned their starry countenance. I felt my skin crawl, the hairs on my arms rising.

"What are you playing at, Mr. Emerson?" George's smile turned sour, the edges of his lips curling. He lowered his voice into a growl. "Who are you working for?"

"What? I don't know what you mean." I shakily said, feeling myself shrink back from the looming figure of the man in front of me. George's hands lashed out, his fingers grabbing my shirt collar. 

He pulled me in close to his face, and I felt my feet dangle a few inches over the wooden flooring below. His smile grew wider, the smell of brandy reeking from his open mouth. His eyes were no longer amicable, an intense flame burning within the canvas of his deep dark brown eyes.

He snarled. "You know exactly what I mean. You little impostor! You're a spy, I know the game you're playing."

"What are you talking about? I'm not spying for anyone!" I grabbed at the other man's hands and shook vigorously, trying to break out of his grip. I raised my arm and brought my elbow down on his wrists. His hold loosened, and I raised my other arm and slammed it down hard on George's grip on my collar. 

His clenched fingers let go and he stepped back, staring at me with wide eyes. The look of surprise clouded his eyes, a twinge of a smirk surfaced on his face. He ran both hands through his mussed up hair, breathing heavily as he took a few steps back. Both of us were several feet apart, both of us staring the other one down.

I spoke slowly, putting a hand out to George. "You don't know what you're saying. I'm not working for anyone. I'm not a spy, I'm not whatever you think I am. I'm as loyal to Freedom's Cause as you are." 

I looked into his eyes, half expecting him to lunge out at me again. But he slicked back his hair with one hand, standing straight as if nothing was wrong. The twinkle in his eyes returned, and a broad smile parted his lips. George patted down and smoothed the wrinkles on his suit jacket and chuckled.

"You know, no matter how long you've been in this business, it never hurts to make sure."

I stared at him, my mouth half-open. I held a finger to point at him, but he just held up both his hands.

"Please. Don't take that whole bit personally. I had to be sure you were who you said you were.. In my experience, traitors are everywhere." George cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. My hand strayed to my collar. It was frayed and unraveled.

"Why would you do that?" I cried out. "That doesn't make any sense. How could you possibly know if I would be a spy by shaking me down like that? What evidence do you have to do such a thing?"

"I don't need evidence," George gave me a facetious wink. "I would know."

I stared back at him, disgusted. I shook my head and walked past him.

"Just take me to my room."