It was settled.

George was erratic. Demented. He had reverted back to his normal self, the same Lion of Queens that I had met weeks ago. But it was different now. During our 'training session', George had given me an ultimatum. Either continue the course and stay with the group or defect immediately and be considered a traitor. 

I didn't have to imagine the negative after-effects that would come as a result of turning my back on Freedom's Cause, so I didn't bother in inquiring further details. As far as the training with the custom suppressed pistols went, George let off a few shots and then deemed them suitable. And then poof, just like that he was the charismatic figure everyone knew and loved. The problem was, I knew the other side of him. The manic, crazed side he kept private.

For whatever reason, George had shown that side of himself to me. But why? Was he so sure that I wouldn't tell anyone else? Would they even believe me if I told them? Was I the only one that knew? Was Mr. Thomas aware of George's instability? Did Dianne know? Did Emily? Only two days had passed since our last talk, and George was still acting as chipper as ever. 

The man's smile was contagious. Emily and Miss Alice were always smiling and laughing in their conversations with him. Mr. Thomas and George even exchanged some witty retorts once and awhile when the mood was jovial enough. George was the sun, and everyone around him fed off his energy.

It was unusual to watch. It was even worse to be part of it. I could feel my own awkwardness being magnified by George's flashy behavior. I felt out of place, paranoid even. Wherever I entered one location, there he would be also. I felt that if anyone in the group would so much as look at me while George was also in the room, it would be obvious. 

It would be obvious that I was the weird one. 

That I was the one acting strange. 

That I didn't belong. 

I had to pull myself away every time George was in the same vicinity that I was. It almost disgusted me at how Miss Alice would stare at him with her shiny blue eyes as he recollected his years of freedom fighting. He would regale Emily with his occasional anecdotes over breakfast. He would tell of his travels across the Eastern seaboard while chopping wood with Jackson. He seemed to be full of stories, all of them oriented around his years of working for Freedom's Cause. 

Each story he told, each anecdote spoken was filled with Freedom's Cause mantra. Nearly all his discussions which weren't day-to-day small talk encompassed the Cause. If we were all eating at the dinner table, George would have a scathing speech about the mayor. Sweeping the steps, a lengthy dialogue on why Freedom's Cause was right. Milking the cows, George would be right there, ready to explain the maxims and proverbs that built the Cause.

Each story sucked in his audience further and further. Except me. I had heard it all before. And I knew what the man was doing. He wanted to make it evident. Yes, he wanted to make it evident that I was a coward. A traitor. And he knew that each time he spoke of the Cause, the further it got into my skin. The more it unnerved me. 

I hated his stories. That romanticized fluff he sold to anyone that would lend an ear to listen. He made out the struggles of the people against the Night Watchmen as if it were poetry. The little man against the mighty oppressor. In reality, it was anything but. We weren't just he 'little man'. We were the ant stuck under the giant's boot. 

Even though George spoke of the Night Watchmen and how he had stood up against them in Queens peacefully, I didn't believe a word of it. He spoke of protests and peace marches, but he seemed to leave out crucial details. The Night Watchmen coming out in the early mornings. Taking away protesters. Taking them away in their vans. The beatings, the bludgeoning. The trampling of the masses. 

I had been one of those individuals in the masses. I had felt the weight of the Night Watchman's boot on my shoulder. I knew the hardships brought upon the people in the Bronx, in Brooklyn, in Queens, in all the boroughs. I had been there, for every tumultuous and chaotic moment. I knew the sting of totalitarian control. My family knew it full well. And that sting, that pain; I had used it to drive me every day. It had driven me to find Freedom's Cause. 

It had driven me here to City Island. 

I had stayed in the Cause for so long, the drive which I had so many years ago now felt distant. I had taken contracts for five years. I had almost been captured on numerous occasions for the most menial of tasks. I had been a street boy and a personal correspondent. I had worked my way here, to this very moment, to be surrounded by the innermost circle of Freedom's Cause. The Lion of Queens was in my presence nearly every day; the pride of Freedom's Cause. 

I was here now. I was going nowhere.

And yet, I wanted to run. I felt like a horse ready to bolt. Fear crippled me to my core and I felt like I couldn't breathe. As much as I wanted to run, I knew I couldn't.

The words George had spoken back at the range rattled in my mind like a can tumbling in an oil drum.

You were brought here to this island, and you are expected of much. Now, if you want to leave, I wholly understand. But understand this. Make any move, whether it be morning, noon, or night, I will know about it.

I will.

I remembered his leering stare at the range that day. It was hard to forget. His words, just like his expression, cut like steel. And now days later, I still couldn't believe that I was still here on City Island. It was like a weight the size of an anchor held me fast. I wrestled with it, but it only made the feeling worse. The weight was crushing me, and yet I still struggled against it. I struggled with the weight, with my thoughts, and with George's open threats. 

Was it wise to just sneak out at night? Was I really being watched? If so, the men in the frock coats would be the ones monitoring me. Could I take them on if I had to? If I had to escape, was I willing to bet I could escape with my life? George would make it almost certain that no word of Freedom's Cause's plot against the TRIUMPHANT would make it out of City Island. 

So what chance did I have if I tried escaping? Why not stay the course, and see what happens? What windows of opportunities would I be presented with? Certainly, most Night Watchmen could only dream of the position I was put in now.

But I wasn't a Night Watchmen.

I was a freedom fighter.

Wasn't I?

~~~

I opened my eyes.

It was a cloudy night. Flakes of pure white flitted down like doves around me as I lay still, hidden prone along the crest of a large dirt mound overlooking Hammond Cove. The moon's light cast an ethereal shadow across the face of the beach, the shadows of the silhouetted trees behind me extending far beyond the bumps and ridges of the water's edge. On any other night, one could see it as picturesque, perhaps even calm. 

But that would soon change in the next few minutes. I brought up the pair of binoculars to my face and breathed out, my breath being caught up in the small gust of wind that blew over the beach. I had been stationed on the edge of Locust Point, keeping watch of the entire northern side of Throgs Point. I could see every building and shack of the Night Watchman outpost that occupied the tip of the peninsula. 

There were guard posts mounted every two hundred feet along the outer perimeter of the Night Watchman base, each post outfitted with two men and a beacon that scanned the torpid waters. It was a regular night that was soon to be interrupted. I brought down the binoculars from my face and then felt the eyepieces. They came away wet and sticky. Some of the petroleum mix I had put on earlier had come off on the binoculars. 

I sighed and wiped the field glasses on the front of my jacket. Hopefully, I hadn't taken off too paste around my eyes. I had lost enough on my hands as it was.

I crawled backwards from the peak of the sand mound. I could feel fresh fallen snow in my hands, the sand and grit entering the open bottoms of my pants legs. I wormed my way down, changing direction so that I faced the treeline and crawled towards it. After several feet, I crossed over into the sandy grove. I slowly got to a kneeling position and propped my back against a rough birch tree. 

To my side, George was also leaning up against a tree. He wore all black, a diving mask hanging around his neck, and a leather waterproof sack at his feet. He picked it up and shouldered it as he spoke to two other men who also hid behind the trees. They were Jackson and Mr. Thomas, each man dressed similarly to George, each had similar leather satchels.

George hissed. "Tonight is the first step towards freedom, men."

No one said anything. Insstead, each of us exchanged knowing looks in the near pitch blackness. The tension in the air was so fragile; it felt as if one man even so much as whispered, the night would shatter like glass. I took one look at the men around me, knowing that at least one of us would not be coming back. I silently hoped it wouldn't be me. I picked up my satchel that was sitting up against the foot of the tree and I slung the wide leather strap over my shoulder. 

Under the subdued light of the moon, the four of us crouch-walked down to the beach. Mr. Thomas lead from the front while George took the rear. Being third in line, I could imagine how ridiculous we might have looked we were broad daylight. We were like a small group of crabs migrating into the loving embrace of the sea. But we weren't crabs. We were four men; four ludicrously dressed, rucksack-carrying men that were about to enter the clutches of the frigid waters ahead.

Once my toes dipped into the tide, I felt every fiber in my being recoil. But the further I traversed into the water, the more my lower body became numb. Even though I had smeared the special concoction of jelly all over my body, it had been several hours ago and I was now feeling the patches on my body where the paste had dissipated or dissolved. 

The spots on my elbows, knees, and thighs on where I had been crawling on were feeling most of the stinging cold of the water. But the majority of the heat lost was happening in my chest. I cursed myself for being so careless when spotting on that sandy mound. 

Most of the paste that was supposed to offer protection against the elements had been smeared off, leaving a less than minimal coverage on the most important area of my body. With every wave that crashed against me, I felt the heat in my chest become smaller and smaller.

I felt the relief of the rough hemp fibers brush against my face and I spluttered, snatching at it. Mr. Thomas was feeding the safety line down to us. In front of me, Jackson was feeding the rope behind him. I caught hold of it with both hands and held on tight. I almost forgot to pass the rest of the line down to George, but behind me I felt his hand slap against my heel. I passed down the rope, and he grabbed onto the line as well. 

Looking over my shoulder, I saw George, a veritable bulwark of a man. He might have been a foot shorter than Mr. Thomas, but George certainly knew his way around water. He seemed to thwart each buffet and cut through the waves; he was like a beast gliding through the water with ease. George nodded at me and then gestured with another nod of his head for me to face the front. 

I nodded in return, my neck muscles struggling to perform the simple movement. I was now thoroughly freezing, from the tips of my toes to the edges of my ears as I was treading water.

During the debrief hours before, George had mentioned it would be a grueling eight hundred feet swim through frigid ice water. It felt like we had been swimming for hours, but we were no closer to the shore of Throgs Neck than before. We had barely tread twenty feet. How much longer would it take us to traverse the rest of the distance? None of us were expert swimmers, really. I tended to avoid large bodies of water.

Only George and Mr. Thomas seemed to have the most experience, which was why they were on each end of the safety line. From the outset, I had noticed that Jackson had seemed hesitant about the idea, but he insisted he could pull his own weight. But the way he was floundering and gasping in front of me, it was clear that Jackson had overestimated his ability to swim. 

I could hear the faint shouting coming in front of me as Jackson pleaded for us to stop and turn back. But a harsh gale began to blow through the inlet of Hammond Creek, snuffing out Jackson's cries for help.

Seeing him struggle, I swam forward, ignoring the lack of feeling in my fingers and arms as I sidled up behind him. Without warning or hesitation, he suddenly latched onto me, his nails raking and digging into my head and face and arms. He snatched and clawed at my clothing, gripping and tugging as he splashed helplessly in the water. 

Moonlight tore through a crack between the clouds and it shone down around us, illuminating our faces for a fraction of a second. I saw the terror and fear in Jackson's eyes. It was like looking at a rabid dog, his pupils wide and his mouth frothing. 

I shouted. "Stop struggling, you'll only make it worse!" 

Turning around, I looked for George. I could see amid the waves and in the dim light that his eyes were as wide as dinner plates. He looked at me, then at Jackson.

George shouted. "Don't get too close, you both could drown!"

I was about to lay my hands on him, to stop him from thrashing, but he just pushed at me. The confusion I saw in his face was evident. Jackson was beyond level-headed now. Absolute and sheer panic clouded his features. Any movement I made towards him, he seemed to interpret it as an attack, anything that came within his sphere was an immediate adversary. 

I tried reaching out my hand again, but something grabbed hold of it. It was George. He was treading the water behind me. He tugged at me, drawing me away from Jackson. George's long greasy hair covered most of his face, but his eyes were as wide as mine. Over the roar of the wind that was picking up now, George managed to cry, "Leave him" He repeated it over and over again, pointing at the floundering Jackson. 

The waves battered at us, they rolled us and pounded us from our left and our right, but it only seemed that Jackson was getting the worst of it. His arms were flailing less and less. His ragged expression turned upwards, his face prostrate towards the full moon above. The ocean spilled into his open mouth, the sea mixing with his saliva, and he spat it out. But the more he spat, the more water seeped in. He coughed and gurgled and began to kick around, each time he bobbed he gradually sank lower and lower.

Mr. Thomas had now realized the delay of progress and was swimming back down the line. He too saw what was happening. He saw Jackson, the man's body writhing as he fought the clutches of the water around him. 

"He's not going to make it!" I screamed at Mr. Thomas, pointing at the drowning man in front. Mr. Thomas looked at me, the dark silhouette of his brow nodding. Then he turned around and proceeded to pull the line once more. I couldn't believe it. I reached out a hand and tugged at the rope.

"Mr. Thomas!" I shouted again, wondering if he hadn't understood. Maybe he hadn't seen Jackson. Perhaps the waves had covered the drowning man. 

I turned around to George. He was already shaking his head, and he shouted,

"You're right. He's not going to make it." 

I looked on helplessly at Jackson, his eyes pointed to heaven, and his arms splashing the water around him as he sucked desperately for air. The spray from the ocean, the splashing he made with his arms, and his slow sinking descent into the water were just too much for Jackson. He thrashed his way down, all the way down to the bottom of Hammond Creek.

We made it to the beach a few minutes later. I clung weakly to the rope, Mr. Thomas having to practically drag me through the few remaining yards of the surf. I couldn't feel much of anything by then. I couldn't even feel the rough hemp fibers of the safety line I clung on to. Once the tide picked us up and washed us onto the shore, the freezing aching sensation in my joints turned into a blinding nothingness as I mentally pushed my arms to move. 

I had to dig at the sand, propping myself up against the receding pull of the tide. I couldn't stand. My legs wouldn't work. Foam and stray seaweed slapped against my face, and I shook my head. I blinked the saltwater out of my eyes and strained my eyes in the darkness. I had strayed far from the other two men. My vision had become blurry, but I managed to make out the hulking form of Mr. Thomas farther up on the beach. George was there too, just a few yards out from where Mr. Thomas was standing. I clenched my jaw and was astounded that I had even lost all sensation in my teeth. 

I shook my head, trying to fight back the sudden darkening circle that quickly vignetted the edges of my sight. I pounded at the wet sand under me. I elbowed and kicked and thrust myself further and further up the beach. Like a floundering fish, I ripped myself away from the pull of the tide. Away from the ocean. I struggled and clawed my way through washed-up seaweed, discarded seashells, and jagged rocks. I didn't feel the numerous cuts open in my forearms. 

I couldn't feel the scrapes on my knees as I pushed myself off from the sandy beach and onto the beachhead. I didn't feel my shoulder driving into the ground as the world tilted and I fell sideways into the sandy dirt. I didn't feel Mr. Thomas's hands on my shoulders, shaking me. I only saw his prominent figure stooping down to where I lay.

"Get up. We're not finished yet." Mr. Thomas's growling voice was muffled as if cotton wads were pushed in my ears. I saw George come alongside and kneeled, his hand on my chest. He clicked his tongue, and then looked up into the distance towards the base.

George said, "Kid, you can't do this to us right now. We're not even at the halfway point."

I nodded shakily, unable to speak. My mouth was involuntarily clenched shut, my jaw and neck shivering uncontrollably. I couldn't make it stop. 

George shook his head. "I don't like the look of him, but we need to keep going." 

Then he stood, unslinging his satchel. He uncinched the mouth, and he dug his hand into the bag. I knew what was going to happen next. I could see it in his eyes; he didn't have to say anything. It was there, a brief mutual exchange. Silent, unspoken, but evident. Evident that I was no longer a player in the equation. Much like Jackson, I had come to the end of my rope. I was a loose end. So, before George could pull his hand out from his bag, I rolled over and pushed myself of the ground. 

Getting into a kneeling position, I swung the bag from my back over onto my stomach, the mouth of the satchel facing down. With my clawed fingers, I thrust my hand up into the opening of the sack and gripped onto the modified 1908 Webley. I pulled it out with my right hand, raising it in the general direction of Mr. Thomas and George. 

I saw them visibly recoil, each man taking a step back. George still had his hand stuffed in the mouth of the satchel. 

He stared down at me, frozen in place.

I straightened in my kneeling position, feeling warmth come across my chest. 

I growled, "Get back. One pull of this trigger, and we all go down." 

I pointed the short stubby muzzle at George and nodded at him. "Put the bag down." 

George hesitated. Then Mr. Thomas growled, "What are you doing, Emerson. Have you gone mad?"

"I haven't," I replied, standing shakily. "I've never done anything more sane in my life."

"He's obviously lost it," George retorted, lowering the bag.

"Don't move," I shook my head, gesturing with the pistol on my hand at the satchel. "Put it down, George. Or else."

"Or else what?" George sneered. Even in the darkness, the subdued light coming from the full moon lit half of the man's face. His gaze burned with an intense fire that seemed to lap at the corners of his eyes.

"I will pull this trigger, and every Night Watchman in the Bronx will be swarming this point within minutes" My voice sounded hollow in my head as I talked. I made an effort to get up, wobbly doing so as I planted my feet in the sand. Mr. Thomas took another step back, but George advanced. His hand was still in the mouth of the bag. His fingers around his own Webley pistol. It was hard to see in the dim light, but his black pupil eyes peeked out at me from under his disheveled hair. He spoke with a hushed tone that was as smooth as a tab of butter sizzling in a pan.

George spoke slowly, carefully choosing every word, "Emerson. Jake. You have to understand. Everything we did, this past month. We've been waiting for a shot like this for quite literally years. Years, Emerson, and you want to burn it all away? Whatever happened to Freedom's Cause?"

"What did happen to Freedom's Cause?" I spat, tilting my head and jabbing the gun in his direction. "I thought I was really doing something. I thought I was making a change, some kind of difference in this crazy, asinine city. I thought everything I did in Freedom's Cause would do something, anything. But nothing has happened. Nothing!"

"Are you blind or stupid, boy?" It was Mr. Thomas's turn to speak. He too came forward, inching in on my left, his enormous figure blocking out the shine of the moon. Mr. Thomas's voice was a low, rumbling timbre that seemed to rip the cold air in half.

"You don't know how long we've worked to get to this point. Granted, you have been of much use to Freedom's Cause in the past weeks. But now I can see that we have been careless in selecting a child lacking vision."

"Lacking vision?" I laughed, my voice trembling. "I've had my fill of visions. I've only ever heard of the Cause's vision. All I've ever seen is death and hate-" I swung the gun at Mr. Thomas, his large frame recoiling slightly. "And you act as if you want more of it! Blowing up a naval ship? Really? What help does that bring? Who does that benefit? You?"

"Emerson." George slicked back his hair, tilting his head back and forth, the joints in his neck popping softly. I could see his expression, almost clear as day. A burning glow festered behind those dark eyes of his. Filled with subdued rage that could only be set off by the slightest inconvenience, the slightest provocation. He exhaled harshly through his nostrils, small clouds of vapor venting and then being whisked away in the ocean breeze. 

George took another step forward. He was now barely three feet away from where I stood. I raised the gun higher, aiming directly at George's forehead.

"Give me the gun, kid." George sighed. "You're making the worst mistake of your life."

I retorted. "I can't let you destroy the TRIUMPHANT."

"You just don't get it, do you?" George stared me down, his eyes bearing down on me like the twin lights of a train at night. "The plan is going to happen. With or without you."

I saw George grit his teeth. The muscles on his face stiffened, and he squinted his eyes. It was to late for me, as I looked down at his hand in the satchel. Then the flash came first, followed instantly by a resounding pop that split the night air around us.

The sound was no more louder than the crack of a whip, but the bullet dug deep into my chest. And it dug hard.

"Sorry, kid." George pulled out his hand from his satchel. The bag was split near the top where the Model 1908 Webley had blown a hole clean through. Pulling out his hand from the mouth of the satchel, he leveled the barrel at me. At my chest. And pulled the trigger again.

The second round cut through me more cleaner than the first. I hadn't really felt the first shot, but the second kicked more viciously. It broke ribs, it punctured organs, and it pushed me back off my feet. I toppled and stumbled backwards, half shocked and half groggy, as if I had too much to drink. It was like the whole world was revolving while I stood still. One second I was falling back, the next I was on the ground, my arms and legs splayed out.

I lay there in the sand, allowing the darkness to swallow me whole.