Wow. This chapter... took me forever. Aside from the fact that I've been crazily busy with other things, this one was just a hard time coming. I don't know why, but it was a pain in the butt. I'm hoping things will ease up after this, and I can return to my regular updates. That would be nice. Anyways, read and review, and I hope you enjoy!

New York City, 1902

The Bowery

The smile faded off Bolt's face as The Bluebird Café came into sight. He stood across the street from it for a moment, preparing himself for whatever lay ahead. He finally sighed, before squaring his shoulders and walking across the street. He was as ready as he would ever be.

New York City, 1880

Brooklyn

William's hands shook as they lit the cigarette. He drew in as much smoke as his lungs could handle, his eyes watering as it stung. His hand closed around the cool metal—the gun. He couldn't believe he was doing this. He couldn't believe he was holding a gun in his hand. He couldn't believe he was standing in an empty alley, waiting for his victim. He was waiting for his mark. That's what Conners had called the poor man... a mark.

The mark's name was Pete Walker. William didn't know what his significance was; all he knew was that he was going to be coming out of the pool hall in roughly five minutes, and it was William's job to shoot him.

William reached into his pocket, pulling out the silver flask he had stowed there. He unscrewed the top, raising it to his lips, and tipping the liquid down his throat. It burned as it went down, much like the smoke had burned his lungs. He waited for the liquor to take it's affect and calm his jangled nerves.

William's breath caught in his throat as the pool hall door opened. And there stood Pete Walker, just as Conners had said.

William lifted the shaking gun, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

Bang.

The backlash startled him, but he did as he was told, and squeezed off two more rounds. "No less than three shots," Conners had said. "Make sure he's good and dead." The shots were fired – the bangs echoed in his head… and Walker was dead.

When it was done, William's hand fell limp at his side. The gun felt like it weighed a ton. His fingers lost their grip, and it clattered to the ground noisily.

He could see people pouring out of the pool hall now, and he backed away, going through the small opening on the other side of the alley, as he had planned.

He felt numb. He couldn't believe he'd murdered someone. He couldn't believe he was a murderer.

New York City, 1902

The Bowery

Bolt entered the restaurant, scanning the mostly empty room for the people he was supposed to be meeting. A man towards the back of the room stood, his teeth flashing in a humorless grin.

"Well, well, well... If it isn't Elijah Henderson. You know, Conners said it was you, but I didn't really believe him. I mean, you were a pretty scrawny kid, if I remember correctly."

Elijah did his best to bite back his shock, but he was sure some of it showed on his face, regardless. "Johnny? Johnny Walker?"

"How sweet, you remember. Have a seat, Henderson," Johnny replied, kicking out the chair across from him as he sat again.

Bolt lowered himself into the chair, warily eyeing Johnny, "So, what's this about Johnny? You work for Conners now?"

"Well, haven't you gotten all smart since our school days together? Yeah, I'm workin' for Conners. Seems that I wasn't the only one either." Johnny shook his head, "I just couldn't believe it when I heard you had been working for him. And as a fighter, no less. I mean he must have been pretty desperate, to have hired you."

"Yeah, well, maybe he was. So what is this, a happy reunion of some kind? Were you just missing me, Johnny?"

Johnny sneered at him, "Hardly. I've been talking to Conners. And he doesn't seem to have the fondest feelings for you, if you know what I mean."

Bolt leaned back, refusing to play Johnny's game. He waited silently for Johnny to explain what it was Conners wanted with him.

Johnny smiled smugly, enjoying his opportunity to be the one delivering this news. He was going to milk it for all it was worth. "It seems that a certain young boxer double crossed Conners… what was it now, two years ago?" He shook his head, feigning a concern that his smug smile was at odds with, "And, well, it seems Conners is none to happy with this guy."

Bolt frowned. "Get to the point, Johnny."

Johnny leaned forward in his seat, a glint in his eyes. "Conners is pissed that you didn't throw that fight. Stupid of you, really. All you had to do is lose, Henderson. But, then again, I've never thought of you as a smart one."

"So, what? What does he want from me now?" Bolt asked, waiting to hear what all this was really about. His patience, already thin to begin with, was fading quickly.

Johnny's smile slowly disappeared. "Well, for some reason, Conners is willing to offer you a deal. Couldn't tell you why. If it were me, I'd just waste you."

The careless way Johnny uttered those words caused his stomach to turn and, for a moment, Bolt had to wonder what it was that the other boy did, working for Conners. However, he kept his face straight. He would not let Johnny have the satisfaction of knowing how worried he was just then. "Yeah? What's this deal?" he asked, dreading what he was about to be told. But he knew he needed to be told...

"It's simple, really. You're going to throw a fight. You'll come back to the Factory, fight one fight, and Conners'll drop the whole thing."

Bolt furrowed his brow. It sounded too easy -- or, at least, it would have been if that was still his life. But times have changed and he continued to frown. "That's it? That's all he wants me to do, throw a fight? Well, I don't fight any more."

"Yeah, well that's too bad. I don't think you'll like the alternative." Johnny picked up a knife from the table, casually using it to clean his nails. "We know where your pretty little girlfriend lives, Henderson. What's her name again? Hannah Christina Evans? And her sister… hmm... Elisabeth Patrice Evans? Let's see... I believe they both live at 59 North Fletcher Street. Isn't that right?"

Bolt's jaw tightened and he was on his feet in a second, his voice as hard as steel. "Don't you dare, Walker. If you so much as lay a finger on them… You'll wish you'd never been born."

Johnny smiled mirthlessly. "Well, I doubt that. But, hey, throw the fight, and you won't have to worry about it." Johnny set the soiled knife back on the scratched tabletop, no hint of the playfulness lingering on his face. As much as he had been enjoying himself, he was serious now. "I'll be here tomorrow night. Same time. Let me know what you decide."

He stood then, before adding, "Oh, and if you don't show up… well, let's just say it will be Hannah that pays for that mistake." And, with that threat hanging in the air, he sauntered out of the restaurant.

Bolt watched Johnny leave the restaurant, his throat closing at the thought of anything happening to Hannah. His legs were heavy; he could not move. He just stared, lost in sudden thought.

What he didn't understand was just why Conners wanted him to throw a fight. It didn't make any sense -- he could get anybody to do that -- so why him? Other than revenge, of course, Bolt couldn't think of any plausible reason. And revenge didn't really fit the bill either, because Bolt had heard stories of what Conners was capable of in the revenge business -- and this was nothing like that; like he had thought before, it was too easy. Then again, nothing about the past few days had made any sense to him at all...

He sighed roughly before pulling himself to his feet. Hands jammed in his pockets and head bowed as he tried his damndest to make any sense of this whole Conners matter, Bolt began to shuffle out of the Bluebird Café . Even though Walker had left, he had the feeling that it would be best not to stay behind. Besides, he had the sudden urge to go check up on Hannah.

Bolt just couldn't wrap his brain around what was going on. All of a sudden, his past life had resurfaced to claim him and, because of that, Hannah and her sister were in danger. Not to mention this whole mess was taking a severe toll on his nerves; he was becoming incredibly jumpy. Everywhere he went, he was waiting for someone to jump out of the shadows at him. Or worse, at Hannah...

He sighed again, more of a defeated breath this time, before pausing as he entered back onto the street.

There was not more than a second of streetlight on his worried face before a callused hand closed around his arm, jerking him violently back into an alley.