October 10, 1979
It's cold tonight. What is keeping him from actually being bothered by the penetrations occurring upon his skin by the slightly breezy air is the knowledge that "cold" will become "freezing" in just a few weeks. Then snow will come.
He despised, and envied, those rich snowbirds, those so-called "New Yorkers," that could lap it up in the city, then fly down to Florida when the first snowflake drops. The fact that they can afford to avoid the worst that this city can offer in crime, drugs, and winter while leaving the poor to drudge through it, just makes him angry.
That is, if Swan wanted to bother wasting his time in such a futile act.
Down on the deserted beach, sitting on one of the big rocks littering the sands, Swan looked out into the endless horizon of the Atlantic Ocean. No clue of what is to come for The Warriors. Is this abyss that lies ahead of him full of treasure or death?
Swan had quietly slipped out of the rather solid party back at the hangout when the last boxes of booze came in. His lieutenants and other foot soldiers off-duty from their sentry rounds didn't need their leader's help in enjoying the massive amounts of alcohol, narcotics, and women.
Swan hoped that by allowing the guys to enjoy their last major "hurrah" before the Halloween Bash at Cooney, it won't backfire in his face. He knew too well of Cleon's stories about the crack head finale of the Destroyers.
He had to get away from the noise of the party. He wanted this rare opportunity to reflect upon what has happened since his sudden and unwanted ascension to Warlord. The tides roll forward. Cyrus is the messiah. The tides are halted in their invasion of the beach. The messiah is dead. The tides are retreating back to the mother ocean. We don't see Cleon alive again.
The sands behind him are moving in a man-made pattern. Swan should be concerned about the footsteps approaching him, but they're too soft and smooth to be a fellow Warrior or rival gang assassin. He welcomes her presence.
Mercy sits on the rock with Swan. Neither shares any words with the other. They aren't needed. She leans towards him for warmth. A minute later, he slowly puts his arm around her. Swan was unwilling in nature to display any form of affection because of his need as Warlord to be seen by his subordinates as a stoic hard-man of action. Yet this was his general behavior years ago before becoming a street soldier. Being born into the same reality, Mercy understood.
She smashes the silence. "Let's go in."
Swan looked at her, and pulled out his watch from his pocket. Its 2 in the morning, its time to head back to the hangout. The boys surely are either winding up, or have fallen drunk as a skunk. He looked at his watch again. Slick but durable. Swan needs to find the chump he stole it from and complement him for the free gift.
The couple is nearly back at the hangout. "When will it happen?"
Swan was hoping she wouldn't ask that question. "Next week." He knew what was coming next.
"You think he can be controlled or even if he can stand not being in charge?"
"He'll accept it. He has no choice. If we have to drop him, so be it. But I would rather have him on my side when we begin the blitz. He's a jackass, but he never runs from a fight."
"I just hope you know what you're doing."
"Me too"