John waited at the docks in England, Dover, awaiting the two people he would be working with. He hated everything about this, every last detail. John Laurens did not require assistance. His sat on his suitcase and watched the boats and ferries. He picked at the leather handle of the case, bored. It was night and only a few people had walked past. Mainly men tending to the ships, others drunks and pro skirts, couple of dope peddlers. John found it all very boring. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.

A tall man wearing a herringbone pattern fitted suit with matching trousers and vest walked towards him. He had a striped shirt with a collar and a black necktie. Strands of wavy, mousy brown hair obscured his eyes as he approached John in the dim light. Closely behind him, a woman dripping in jewels and wearing a gold, low-waisted flapper dress under a long coat. Her eyes were dark brown, even in the poor lighting. John thought her features were certainly attractive; had she been his type he thought he would be all over her. But she was not his type.

John stood up and smirked, "evening, Sir. Miss."

The man held his hand out to shake and John laughed. He pulled the man into an embrace - he loved how this simple gesture made men squirm - and chuckled when he felt a sharp pressure to his abdomen, "oh, are you holding a knife or are you just happy to see me? It's rude to stab people before you've greeted them, you know."

"Achilles, I presume?" the woman asked, a thick Russian accent evident in her voice.

"In the flesh, darlin', your friend doesn't say much does he? He's got a pretty face, shame if something happened to it."

She smiled and held out her hand to John who shook his head when he saw the shine of a blade under the coat, "got a little something in your sleeve there, sweetheart?"

"Ah, you are clever aren't you, Achilles. Shall we?"

"After you."

He picked up the suitcase and they walked to a parked automobile in a deserted street.

"In the back, freckles," the man said, also with a Russian accent.

John let out a low whistle, "ah! It speaks. But, that's a risky move, my good man."

"What?"

John shrugged, "well, I don't know, it just seems like you've put a lot of trust into one of the most dangerous assassins you've ever met. Lot of weapons in the back, it would be disastrous if one were to somehow fall into the wrong hands. It seems to me, good sir, that you're making a lot of impetuous decisions. Perhaps you should just let this lovely young lady make the decisions from now on, да?"

The man growled and cursed in Russian under his breath. The lady stepped forward and gripped John's wrist, he let her, "get in the front, I'll drive."

The man reluctantly got in the back of the black automobile and slammed the door. John smiled to himself and the lady then got in the front. A few moments later and the man in the back had a razor sharp dagger to his throat. Laurens rolled his eyes again, wishing people would learn.

"Honestly, am I the only one who can do my job right? Good God, немного ниже, сделай это правильно, Дмитрий."

The man, Dmitriy, lowered the blade slightly as instructed, "how do you know my name?"

"Does it matter? The important thing to point out is that you and Натали here… sorry, you wouldn't mind if I used the English translations of your names, would you? I never like Russian. So, Dmitriy… you and Natalie keep trying to threaten me when we all know you have orders not to kill me, it's just a tedious nuance now. Honestly, keep the dagger there if it makes you feel more comfortable. But you don't have any power over me, I'm in charge here," John said.

Natalie glared at him and took the dagger from Dmitriy and put it in the inside pocket of her long coat. She started the engine and drove them in the direction of London.

"So… are we going to a party? You're both dressed nicely," John asked.

"Dmitriy, the outfit?" Natalie hissed to the man who was sulking in the back of the vehicle, fiddling with a pistol.

He huffed and bent down in his seat to grab a bag from the floor. He passed it rather forcefully to John who only grinned, flashing his teeth. The later searched through the bag and pulled a face of disgust.

"A waiter? Why do you get the fancy dress?" he pouted.

"Because I am going to be a showgirl tonight. We are going incognito," she replied, sounding slightly irritated.

"Not to be that person, but, don't we have more pressing matters to deal with than going to a speakeasy?" John replied.

Dmitriy laughed, "they don't have speakeasies here, дурак. No prohibition. No speakeasy. It's just a bar."

John sucked in air through his teeth, irritated, "still a speakeasy, just legal. It's a legal speakeasy."

"No."

"Yeah."

"No!"

"Mhm, yeah."

Natalie stopped the automobile abruptly sending the two men forward, "shut it! Now, Dmitriy, explain the plan. And you two be nice or I swear I will rip you both to shreds!"

"Feisty one, aren't ya?" John side-smirked, "such a shame."

"What is?"

His grin grew and he turned around in his seat to smile at Dmitriy, "the plan, sweetheart?"

"The girlfriend is going to be at the bar tonight. She will not be alone. She is under police protection, so it is a little bit more complicated."

"Get on with it. So what is the plan?"

"You and I shall distract the officers and Natalie will be in the restroom. Finished."

Yeah… no, that's not happening, John thought. He nodded anyway.

"Okay. Boring, but okay."

They drove for a few more hours, stopping for John to change, and parked in an alleyway by the side of a bar, steps going down to the entrance.

"Speakeasy."

"I have warned you, Achilles," Natalie threatened, "British accent?"

"I hate the British accent," John groaned. He threw his arms in the air and changed his accent sarcastically yet accurately, "good evening, governor! Dreary day, don't you think? Care for some tea?"

"Just do it," Dmitriy growled.

John entered first, shortly followed by Natalie and finally by Dmitriy a few minutes later. Rising no suspicion, John strode through the bar in his long coat and hung it in the back room which he had found to be unlocked. He straightened his tie in a small, cracked mirror on the wall and tucked a chain - one he always wore around his neck - under his shirt. Hidden.

He sauntered back into the bar and picked up a tray of champagnes. Nobody even batted an eyelid. He winked as he passed Dmitriy, "care for champagne, sir?"

"Non. No, thank you, mes ami," he replied, glaring.

What? How is that fair? Why does he get to have a French accent.

He walked away, scowling - French was his favourite, he hated British. All of the champagne filled glasses had been given out and John slipped behind the bar, seemingly unnoticed. He began to clean glasses with a white rag as showgirls, including Natalie, took stage. They were, though to John it made little difference, beautiful. Every man in the dimly lit room had their eyes on them. All but one, Laurens noticed. His eyes were immediately drawn to this man who paid no attention to the dancing women. Natalie stepped forward and began to sing a familiar song into a microphone. John tapped his foot along to the tune and moved down the bar to the distracted man. He had his head bent over a notepad and was furiously scratching down multiple German phrases the woman beside him was slurring.

"Why? Why does it have to be German? I don't speak German…" he mumbled.

John looked closer at the woman beside the man. She had messy, unbrushed hair and smudged make up. She slurred her words and waved her arms. It was her. The witness. Bingo.

"Can I get you anything, miss?" John smiled politely.

She looked up and waved her arms some more, mumbling in German, "Engländer sind so dumm. Sie sind ihrer Sprache ähnlich. Blöd. Ich weiß nicht was du sagst, dumm!"

John had to fight back a laugh.

The gentleman beside her looked up at John and rolled his eyes. John stared. Fuck. Talk about attractive. What a pretty face. His dark navy collar was turned up and his shirt was unbuttoned, his necktie loose. Dark shadows made him look tired. John knew he wanted him. Badly. He glanced at the paper he was writing on, translating it in his head. Shit. A description of the assassination, and what John looked like at the time. He had disguised himself for that incident, he wasn't in the mood to kill multiple people that day who might have discovered his identity. Still, it could have been worse. He smiled at the gentleman who was now looking at John.

He sighed, "I wouldn't even bother with her, friend. Not a word of English in her vocabulary."

"Well, fortunately, I happen to speak German, sweetheart," John winked as the man's face flushed a shade of pink against his tan skin upon hearing the nickname John so often used.

"You- you do?" his eyes lit up.

"Oh, yes, I spent a short time in Berlin with my sister," he lied, "she taught me."

He turned to the witness again, "willst du etwas trinken, liebes?"

"Offensichtlich!" she rolled her eyes.

John grinned, he felt Dmitriy glaring at him from the other side of the a bar and glanced at Natalie's eyes narrowing on stage. He bent down and pulled out a liquor. He was alone behind the bar now, the other bartenders were delivering drinks. Crouched on the floor, he pulled out the chain from around his neck and poured a white powder from the tube attached to the chain into a small glass - arsenic. He topped up the glass with the liquor and stood up, smiling reassuringly at her when he passed her the deadly drink. She chugged it down, no questions asked.

John and the officer chatted for an hour or two, exchanging stories. John shamelessly flirted with the stranger who neither displayed enjoyment nor disgust as most did. He found himself studying the man's features, the way he rubbed at the stubble on his chin, the way he tapped his fingernails against his glass when John used nicknames one ought not to use in public to those of the same gender.

John checked his watch and saw how much time had passed - not long now. He turned to the man, "my mother used to tell me stories when I was younger. They never really interested me. Not those ones. No. I tended to lean more towards the myths and the legends. What do you think, sweetie?"

The man furrowed his eyebrows, "any literature catches my attention. But, yes, the myths and the legends are stories I favour… what are you telling me this for, my good man?"

John shrugged and pulled out a piece of folded paper from a pocket, "you'll understand in a moment or two, I'm sure. You seem smart."

He walked around the side of the bar and held the man's shoulder, placing the folded paper on top of his notepad, "don't peak yet. Tell me, what is your name, handsome?"

The man shuddered - John loved that. Loved how he made people feel. He brushed the man's hair behind his ear and leaned in, kissing the man's temple, "I won't bite, what's your name?"

The man focused his gaze on his fingers drumming against his half finished glass, "you should be careful what you say and how you act around these people, you know."

"But not you, no, not around you."

"I could arrest you, you could face imprisonment."

John clapped the man on the back, "certainly, you could. But, you have a lot of buddies around here, and you haven't called for any of them. Are you going to arrest me? I don't mind being handcuffed."

"Are you quite mad?" the man's eyes were wide.

"Oh no, sweetheart," John checked his watch again - a few more moments. He leaned in to whisper in his ear again, "are you going to tell me your name?"

"No."

Dmitriy was slowly and subtly making his way towards him. John noticed and looked over at the woman, she was swaying in her seat. Time to go.

He held up his finger to the man and addressed the poisoned witness, "für eine Frau unter Polizeischutz hätte ich gedacht, dass Sie mit dem, was die Menschen Ihnen geben, vorsichtiger sein würde. Vor allem Getränke."

She paled at his words and fell into a coughing fit, "er ist der Mörder, er hat meinen Geliebten ermordet! Er hat mich vergiftet!"

"Are you quite alright, miss?" the man asked the woman under his protection.

She wheezed, "attentäter! Attentäter! Mörder!"

John squeezed the man's shoulder and began to walk away, "my shift is over. Perhaps miss has had a tad too much to drink. I suggest you take her home now."

He blocked John, "who are you?"

"I already told you," John moved his arm and continued walking, "night, sweetie. I'm sure we will meet again, I'll make sure of it. Night night, miss."

He walked out of the bar and turned the corner, a skip in his step. He heard the scream of a woman from the bar even this far away and knew he had completed the job. She was dead. The witness was no longer a witness. A live one, anyway. He heard the shout of a Russian man, Dmitriy, and the sound of his boots on the pavement, getting closer. He carried on walking and made a detour down an alley, knowing he would follow.

He did.

"Hey, are you deaf?" he shouted at John, whose back was turned to Dmitriy.

"Not at all," he dropped the accent.

"What was that? You didn't stick to the plan!" he growled.

"Well spotted."

He turned around to look at the red-faced man. He considered him and scanned his body, looking for weak points and possible places he could be hiding weapons. The last thought made him chuckle. The man leaned on one leg. A weak leg? John felt the knife in his sleeve. He breathed in deeply. He has it coming to him, just do it. He let the breath out and sighed.

"Sorry," he said.

"'Sorry'? The Great Achilles, apologising to me?" he laughed, "why didn't you stick to the plan, then?"

John scowled, "what? No, that's not why I'm apologising. I did a great job, your plan was stupid. No, no, no. I'm apologising because you're not my type."

"What? Don't disgust me. How dare you suggest I favour your... kind... in bed."

"I suggested no such thing. I only meant that had you been my type I might not have done this."

Before Dmitriy could respond, John had kicked the man's weak leg and buried the knife into his chest, drawing it out and slitting his throat. Messy. Messy. Messy…

John walked to the car and started the engine, Natalie ran in her heels to the car.

"What are you doing? Why did you kill him?" she demanded, getting in the passenger seat.

"Well, miss, he said some not very nice things about you. And I couldn't stand for that, could I?"

She frowned, "he was my husband, he wouldn't."

"He wasn't a very good one, was he?" John smiled, faking sympathy, "look, I'm sorry. But I couldn't let him talk about you like that. Why don't you put his body in the back and we can dispose of him, I'll buy you a drink."

She stared at him, tears forming in her eyes. She made no move to attack John, she looked down at her cold hands.

"Look, sweetie, it's for the best. Give me a smile, no tears. That's better. Go on, get him in the back."

Her bottom lip trembled and she got out of the car. When she was behind the automobile, John shifted the gear and reversed very quickly, knocking her over, doing it three times, just to make sure. He turned off the engine and grimaced to himself, "oops? Slip of the hand?"

Alexander checked the witness' pulse and cursed when he found none. She was dead. A crowd formed around him and the woman, his fellow officers rushing over and joining Alex in his anger. The last lead. He looked at the folded piece of paper on his notepad. That man had distracted him from his case. That handsome, flirtatious, mysterious man. That freckled, long-haired, tanned man. Damn him. He picked up the paper and opened it. It was a page from a book, an old book, a familiar book. A book of Greek mythology. And the page… Achilles.

"Shit…"

Alexander stood up abruptly and rushed out of the bar. He stood on the street, not a single person in sight.

"Damn!"

He walked to the station and gave his report to Washington, verbose, as usual. He explained how he believed he had met the assassin that night.

"You met him?" Washington said, "and you didn't stop him?"

"Sir, I didn't know it was him at the time."

"You were given a task: interview the witness and maintain her safety. You have failed both. I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed in you, Hamilton."

"But sir!" Hamilton was filled with anger, he'd done his best, he didn't know, "that is unfair, I imagine you would have failed as badly as I have."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard! How was I to know? I interviewed the witness but I don't speak German."

"You are getting careless. I'm taking you off this case, it is too important."

"Sir!"

Washington slammed a fist down on the desk, "enough! Alexander, I think it is best you go home."

"But Sir…"

"Home. I'm sure your wife is expecting you."

Alexander stormed out of the office and walked home, kicking fallen leaves on his way. He took off his tie and opened the door to his home.

"I'm home, love!" he shouted to his wife.

"Alexander? You're home early…" Eliza said, getting up from her chair and holding her back, "are you well?"

Hamilton nodded and kissed his wife putting a hand to her bump, "I am. How is our son?"

"A little aggravated I think, keeps kicking. I wonder where he gets is from?" she smiled, her nose wrinkling.

Eliza was wonderful woman. In fact, Alex couldn't have wished to meet a more pleasant and affable young woman. Her long brown hair fell down her back as water flows down the mountain, gracefully and with great beauty. She placed her delicate hand on top of Alexander's where it rest on her stomach. She smiled sweetly, "Alexander, dear, why are you home so early? I wasn't expecting you for hours, at least."

"Are you disappointed?" he asked, wanting to hide himself away in his office and forget about the whole ordeal with Washington. He didn't want to talk about it, not at all.

"Of course not, I only meant that I am surprised. I missed you, of course."

He was angry after the disagreement with Washington, and with the loss of the only witness; for he was naturally choleric, but his anger never lasted long. Another look at his beloved wife made his bad mood dissipate into that of one filled with comfort and warmth. She had that effect on people.

They walked up the stairs together and got ready for bed. Eliza rested her head on Alexander's bare chest as he read through his writings on the case. Washington may have taken him off of it, but that didn't mean he couldn't continue to make his own investigations. Well, it did, but it had never stopped him before.

"Alexander, go to sleep, dear. I won't have you up all night, it will do you no good," Eliza mumbled, her eyes shut.

"Shh, just a moment longer. Night, sweetie," Alex replied.

Sweetie. That's what he had called him. The assassin. The assassin with the Achilles story. Achilles. Maybe that's what they called him. Him. The man with the gorgeous eyes and beautifully tanned skin. The man who flirted shamelessly, knowing he was a police officer. Achilles.

Guilt rushed through Alexander. He was in bed with his pregnant wife and thinking so sinfully of a man, an assassin, no less. He turned off the lamps and kissed Eliza on the forehead.

"Good night, love."