Warning: torture and implied violence against a child.
Late Autumn, 1776: Boston
George McCready screamed as his head slammed into his dining room table. His grunt was swiftly cut off as he was hauled upwards by his attacker and then hurled to floor. A kick to his ribs sent another scream bubbling up from his throat. The sound of bone cracking reverberating in ears, tears sprung to his eyes. Clutching his arms around himself, he curled into a fetal position to protect his newly broken ribs as a shadow fell across his crumbled form.
"Now," the heavily accented, German voice rumbled above him, "I would prefer to not ask you again, Herr McCready. If you would be so kind as to tell me where you keep the funds you have pilfered from the General?"
Letting out a hacking cough, George rocked back and forth along the carpeted floor. Swallowing back his sobs, his hazy gaze snapped to his blood spattering the pale carpet as he struggled to speak. A distant part of his brain dwelled on how annoyed his wife would be at having to scrub out the stains. Assuming he lived through this, of course. Caroline was always exceedingly particular about keeping a clean abode.
Before he could respond, a rough hand snatched him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. A leather-clad backhand loosening a couple of his teeth, it sent one of them flying from his mouth. Before he could collect himself or send out a howl of pain, he was dropped into a chair.
Whimpering, he could barely hear the other man murmur, "Come now, you have wasted enough of my time. All I require is that you confess to your crimes, ja?"
Running a shaky, sweaty hand through his thinning, light brown hair, George shivered. His slim frame shook and nearly sent him crashing to the floor. If not for his tormentor dropping a heavy hand to his arm and keeping him in place, he would've slid out of his seat. Mouth swimming with blood, he spat it out onto the carpet before whispering, "I-I told you…I barely took b-b-but a few pounds from the G-General's…convoys! Besides, w-why would he send a soldier to question…me?"
The other man let out a loud sigh as he withdrew his dagger from his boot. George's eyes went wide as he deftly twirled it about his meaty fingers. Taking in the soldier's brightly polished, black dragoon boots, tan breeches and dark brown infantry coat with its black embellishment, he appeared every inch the mercenary. It was made all the more so by his glossy, black fusilier cap and exquisitely crafted leather holster. Save the black Templar cross embroidered along the right thigh of his breeches, there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. Features only slightly angular and distantly handsome, his face could easily be lost in a crowd.
It made his grim work all the easier. A forgettable visage, a soldier in a time of war within an occupied land, and few would remember him.
"I shall ask you only one more time, Herr McCready-"
"I said I don't…have…the funds! FUUUUUCK!" George screeched in agony as the dagger plunged into his thigh. Legs shaking as his hands vainly clutched at the weapon, his eyes rolled back into his head as his wails echoed off the wood-paneled walls.
Snatching a cloth napkin from the table, the soldier efficiently stuffed it into George's gasping mouth. Muffling his screams, he pulled up a chair and gracefully took a seat. Patiently waiting until George's cries quieted to hiccupping groans of anguish, he tilted his head to the side contemplatively. "Come now," he snapped his fingers in front of George's bleary, red eyes, "Focus my good man. Focus, and I shall be done with you shortly."
Spitting out the napkin along with his other cracked tooth, George looked up unsteadily. Blood poured from his mouth and dribbled down his dark green waistcoat and white tunic. It only served to make it all the more difficult to form words. "Y-you are a monster!" he bleated.
"I am a grenadier," the soldier shrugged, "My calling is war, my duties to my master and to the Order. A pity the same cannot be said for you."
George let out a hysterical laugh, the sound high and manic. "What do you know of order?" he mocked, "Of civilization? You, who torture a man for a mere bit of coin! Your f-fellow Templar, no less!"
Rather than appearing incensed or insulted, the soldier only slowly shook his head in mild disagreement. "I do not steal valuable funds from those who employ me. Yet, you skim profits from General Davenport's convoys. Meanwhile? You withhold food and supplies from the men who fight for these lands."
"M-men who have no right to rule," George struggled to hold up his head. Rapidly blinking back a surge of pain, he wheezed, "Men who use our homes from quarters...a-and kill our boys for sport!"
"My poor, poor, misguided soul," the soldier lightly patted Edward's cheek. Dropping down, he picked up the napkin and hastily shoved it back into George's mouth. As the other man begged for mercy through his make-shift gag, his hands desperately clawing at the soldier who utterly ignored him, the soldier reached down for his dagger. Without hesitation, he slowly began twisting it. The rip of flesh sent George keening, tears spilling down his blotchy face as the blade was turned a quarter of the way.
Waiting again until George's screams dropped to pitched whines, the soldier pulled the gag from his mouth and asked again, "Where are the funds, Herr, McCready?"
Rocking back and forth for a long while, George moaned, his breath hitching every few seconds. "M-my wife," he pleaded, "P-please…my child-"
"I am a patient man," the soldier murmured, "But even I have my limits."
"Go…go to hell!" George hissed.
"I guarantee that you shall arrive first," the soldier shrugged, thoroughly nonplussed.
Without further ado, he yanked the dagger out of George's thigh and promptly plunged it into his chest. Gaze widening, George's lips twisted into a ghastly expression. His body spasmed and shuddered grotesquely once, twice and finally a third time. Within a few moments, the color fell from is freckled cheeks and he exhaled his final breath. Sightless, blue eyes stared fixed on the ceiling as he slumped down in the chair.
"My, what a mess," the soldier clucked his tongue with reproach as he retrieved his knife. Picking up the napkin, he cleaned his blade and sheathed it before he rose to his feet.
A shot rang out, the bullet suddenly lodging in his shoulder. Letting out surprised grunt, he stumbled forward, wincing at the impact. Gritting his teeth, he closed his eyes to collect himself before pushing up from the table.
A second bullet whizzed past his forehead, nearly clipping him. "Shit!" a woman's stunned voice said behind him. As the soldier pressed hand to his shoulder in an attempt to still the blood now dripping down his uniform, he could hear the frantic sounds of powder being poured. She'd have to flintlock reloaded soon.
Willing away the pain, he straightened himself and turned to face her. On the tall side, her round form was clad in a simple, dark muslin dress. Her red hair braided back in a bun, her pale cheeks were flushed as she focused on reloading. So much so that she didn't see him cross the room within a few long strides. By the time she looked up, he was within an arm's length. Looming over her with his muscled bulk, he stood at least a head taller than her. All terrifying, well-honed, brutal professionalism.
"You must be Frau McCready?" he asked, voice low and bored, "Caroline, I believe?" Save the way his dark eyes were slightly narrowed with admonishment, he appeared wholly impassive.
She hurled the unloaded gun at his face. It connected with his nose, cracking the bone as she fled the dining room.
Caroline was uncommonly fast. And she had the advantage of knowing the layout of her home. But the sight of her dead husband, bloodied and with a gaping hole in his chest, sent her panic clawing at her. As she finally made it to backdoor, her shaking hands yanked at its handle.
It didn't budge. Jerking at it again, it remained frozen in place. Looking down as the tugged at it a third time, she looked back at the advancing soldier in horror at seeing her marble rolling pin stuck through the handles and solidly barring it closed.
She could only let out a terrified gasp as he abruptly snatched her by the shoulders and spun her around before slamming her back into the wall. Yet she had no time to let out any sort of exclamation as he reached up cleanly snapped her neck. It was a swift kill. Certainly far more efficient than her husband's. Caroline's body dropping to the floor, her heavy clothes muffled its lifeless thud.
"Who…who are you?"
The voice startled the soldier, the little boy suddenly standing at bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. "I ask the same of you little one," he tilted his head in question. His black eyes were savage and soulless as they swept over the auburn-haired child with distant assessment. He looked to be no older than about seven or so.
Trembling, the boy stammered, "I-I am Whitney…sir. Is that," his eyes went wide at the sight of his mother. Her head really shouldn't have been turned at such a strange angle. She was nearly facing the floor despite lying splayed out upon her back. "Is that my…mama, sir?" he inquired, voice high with worried question.
"Indeed it is," the soldier rapidly moved to his feet. His sheer size caused the boy to stumble backwards, though he did not run. Biting his lip as shock of pain arched through his injured shoulder, he glowered for a moment before his expression slid back to boredom. "Whitney, you said?" he murmured, glancing about the house and hearing no other sound indicating anyone else about. "That is such a nice name for such a nice young man," he distractedly added.
Expression falling to relieved, the boy quickly nodded. "Aye, sir. It be me grandfather's."
"How interesting," the other man carelessly shrugged.
"What is your name, if you please, sir?" the boy plaintively asked, nervously playing with his hands in front of him. "And…what happened to your nose? Is it...is it busted?"
Reaching up, the soldier pulled away his gloved hand to find blood trickling down his mouth. "Pardon me," he ordered, snapping out a pristine, starched white handkerchief from the inner pocket of his waistcoat. Staunching the blood flow, he then pressed two fingers to either side of his nasal cavity. A repulsive snap reverberated in the air. While he muttered out a curse, his nose was now realigned.
"Oh!" the boy winced, shirking away a bit, "That looks like it, uh, hurt?"
"Not particularly," the soldier snorted with a derisive curl of his lip. "In the meantime," he continued, "I am called Gerhard Vonstatten. Of the Landgraviate of Hesse-Kassel," he clicked his heels together formally and saluted. "Though most simply call me the Hessian."
"His-si-anne?" Whitney stumbled over the word. Expression confused, he muttered, "Hesse-Kassel? Where in heavens is that?"
"Oh, it's most certainly not heaven, I assure you," the soldier flatly retorted. "Across the sea, so I am quite far from home. Not that I shall be returning to it anytime soon."
The lad's gaze brightening, he pointed to the ship within a bottle that sat on the mantle over the fireplace. "I wish to sail the sea one day! Perhaps be the cap'n of me own ship. With my own crew and whatnot, eh?"
Shaking his head is disagreement, the soldier distantly declared. "Not all of us get our wishes. No matter how hard we try at them. For time is short, especially in your case, boy." Without warning, he hastily unsheathed his dagger and advanced. "You should not have seen me here," he casually professed as the child stood frozen in abject terror, "A pity that you are destined to be the last of your line. For now, there shall no one else to carry on such a lovely name, lad."
That Whitney's back was now to the wall made it all almost too easy. This time, there would no need for the Hessian to chase down his latest quarry.
Hidden in the long shadows cast by the storefront across the street, Haytham let out a loud exhale of dismay. The roaring fire of the McCready's home danced in his eyes, painting the night sky vicious streaks of yellow and orange. The smell of charred wood and heated brick invading his nose, he found himself coughing a bit. Combined with the snarled sound of the flames mixing with the panicked calls of the family's neighbors as they vainly attempted to form a fire line, the scene proved monstrous. If it wasn't brought under control, it would soon engulf the block. A dozen stores and townhomes would be lost, some of the buildings nearly a half-century old.
"A bloody damn shame," Benjamin Church sighed beside him. Dressed in his usual silken finery, he would've cut a dashing figure. Well, save the way his powered wig sat askew upon his head, along with his feathered tricorne. He also smelled heavily of gin. Crossing his arms and bracing himself up against the wall, he arched a languid brow, "George was a git and a half, but how unfortunate-"
"Except this was no accident," Haytham grit. Leaning back against the lamp post, his expression was grim.
"And how would you know that?" Benjamin let out a dubious chuckle.
"Regrettably, as soon as I attempted to call on him, there came screams from the house," Haytham narrowed his eyes, "Yet when I tried the front door, there was no answer and it was barred solid."
Gaze snapping back to the blaze, he took in the dozen or so more neighbors who'd come pouring out at the commotion. Well, he could at least give them some credit at being a bit more organized. An older woman in nothing but a nightgown, sleeping cap and robe started bellowing out orders, sending children to fetch buckets and lining people up next to a well to start passing water down the line. He couldn't hold back a brief grin at the old battle ax's brusque demeanor. No wonder she'd grown to such an age.
"So why didn't you break in?" Benjamin sniffed.
"Too many people about and the building was nearly half aflame by then," Haytham acknowledged with a shrug. "Considering this all occurred roughly ten minutes ago? That fire was deliberately set, it's the only explanation."
Casting him a sideways glance, Benjamin cleared his throat. "I take it that you know that McCready was skimming profits from the General Davenport's captured convoys?"
"Of course," Haytham shrugged. "I look over the books myself, every month. But it was a minimal amount, nothing to cut off his hand for. Surely, not worth killing him over. Certain loses are to be expected in times of war, especially when a man has a family to feed."
Tilting his head to the side, Benjamin murmured, "So you didn't have anything to do with," he waved his hand in the direction of the flaming building, "That?"
Haytham blinked in surprise, balking, "As though I would murder a man's wife and child!"
"Just the man, eh?" Benjamin sarcastically countered.
Pushing himself off the lamppost, Haytham's dropped his hands to the sides and balled one of them into a fist. "Watch yourself, Benjamin-"
"Oh, I am, sir," Benjamin threw up his hands in surrender. Though it looked to be more out of habit versus actual fear.
Suddenly reaching out to pick a stray piece of lint from Church's collar, Haytham's voice dropped. "Do not mistake me for anything but the master of our organization, Benjamin. One who will do everything in my power to ensure it flourishes within the New World." Without warning, he suddenly twisted the other man's collar against his throat rough enough to cause him to gasp for air. "Yet, I find the slaying of women and children utterly distasteful. No matter who they are unlucky enough to marry or be born to. Remember that, Church," he swiftly unhanded him, "And never deign to accuse me of such monstrosities again," he nodded at the fire. Dark eyes narrowing, he didn't say a word as the other man struggled for breath.
Benjamin let out a hiss of retort, his hand clutching at his throat for a moment. His shaking hands straightening out his collar and readjusting his wig, he gulped, "You have made yourself quite clear."
"Now," Haytham cleared his throat, "The first thing we must do is track down General Davenport."
"W-why him?" Benjamin snorted with derision, still catching his breath.
"Because there is only one sort of man who would kill a man's wife and child without any sort of remorse," Haytham worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "We know for a fact George was skimming directly from the General's convoys." Brow creasing in thought, he added, "Not to mention, the Commander has been getting bolder as of late with his incursions outside of Fort St. Mathieu. Perhaps it is time I have a little sit down with him. And his Hessian executioner he uses to do his bidding."
"So you think he's let his rabid dog off the leash?" Benjamin rolled his eyes in disbelief. By now, he stood a few feet away from the Grandmaster. His back purposefully to the brick wall, he shirked away from Haytham's every move.
"Between McCready's ruinous end, the near deadly attack on Padre Perez and Ms. McCarthy's complaints about three of her informants ending up strangled in their beds since then," Haytham pondered, drumming his fingers against his cheek in thought, "I'd say that the Hessian has been away from his master's heels for some time."
"Regardless, George had other enemies. Not to mention, there are the reemerging foes of the Order," Benjamin wrinkled his nose in distaste. "How do you know it wasn't that bloody assassin bitch and her minions laying waste?" he sneered.
It took a rather large amount of self-control for Haytham to not throttle the other man. Then again, there was no way he knew of Connor's parentage. Letting out a long sigh, he waved away Benjamin's words. "Even at their worst, the Assassins aren't quite so messy. And as much of a nuisance as they are, they stay their blades from innocents, no matter the cost." Or at least I should hope my own daughter doesn't allow such savagery among her ranks, he mused to himself. "Such is part of their asinine creed. In the meantime," his looked back at the fire across the street. Somewhat under control, it didn't appear to be spreading to the homes next door. "Come, we should head back to the inn."
"Seeing that we are out of other options," Benjamin sarcastically said, following in Haytham's wake, "We don't appear to have much choice."
Within a few moments, they were gone, melting into the shadows as the fire continued to blaze across the way.
The Yellow Goose Inn was typical of its kind. Small, slightly dingy, with poor lighting and serving mediocre food and ale, it didn't stand out in the slightest. Which made it perfect for carrying on clandestine conversations. Upstairs were the usual rooms set aside for overnight stays. Downstairs was the bar and dining area. Behind the counter was an elderly couple and their teenage son. Thankfully, the freckle-faced, blonde-haired youth had recently gone through a growth spurt. Built of solid muscle and quite tall, his mere presence kept more of the drunken customers at bay. Frequented by Patriot soldiers, the inn's prices were inordinately high due to their tendency to freely spend coin.
Originally, Haytham only planned to stay the night. But with George and his family now dead, he had bigger fish to fry. Finding a dark corner and ordering food, he and Benjamin ensured they were served without further interruption by tipping the innkeep's son a couple of pounds.
"Weren't you under house arrest?" Haytham questioned. "Or have you finally come to some agreement about acquiring those supplies for General von Steuben? If so, I'm sure it'll go a long ways towards getting back into the Congress' good graces after your little cipher to the British was intercepted," he pointed out.
Pounding an angry fist on the table that caused their plates to jump, Benjamin growled, "That letter said nothing of any troops or any pertinent information concerning the Patriots! I've told you this repeatedly!" he snapped, "And yet you and others insist I am traitor of the highest order!"
Arching a brow, Haytham help up a hand, "Peace, Benjamin. I am not insinuating anything of the sort." Pouting, Benjamin shook his head in disagreement. Leaning back in his chair, he churlishly waved for Haytham to continue. "I just simply pointed out that your fortunes appear to be reversing. What, with the fact that you are now able to apparently move about the city without a guard, hmm?" Haytham continued.
"So long as I don't leave the confines of it," Benjamin groused. "As for the supplies, as much as I wish to reiterate my innocence to the blasted Congress, they will be wasted on the likes of that lot," he threw up a hand.
"From what I understand, General von Stueben is Prussian-trained," Haytham replied with curiosity, "They are some of the most talented troops in Europe-"
"What, and you truly think that even he will prove able to drill a modicum of discipline into the Continentals?" Benjamin sniffed in disdain, "An army of drunks, backwoods farmers, fur traders and shopkeepers?" Leaning over in laughter, he slapped the table in glee. "Oh, Haytham," he wiped a tear from his eye, ignoring the other man's scoff, "Whenever did you, of all people, become the perennial optimist?"
"Again, you mistake me, Benjamin," Haytham pressed his lips together into a thin line of irritation, "Or my motivations," he slowly added. Quickly finishing off his ale, he pushed away his plate of finished food off to the side. "Now, what to do about General Davenport? Do we have any assets we may call upon within the vicinity of Fort St. Mathieu? Considering it is his base of operations, it should be the first place we consider seeking him."
Thinking for moment, Benjamin snorted, "I believe that Thomas is stationed in the general area now. Guarding convoys and what not after he was recalled back to the Connecticut militia."
"The boy is lucky was wasn't dishonorably discharged," Haytham sniffed.
"After that disaster with Washington a few months back? And how many pockets did you have to line to ensure he never made it to trial for attempting to kill the general after the assassin miraculously escaped the noose?" Benjamin drunkenly chortled, gesturing for another tankard. Waiting until the innkeep's son left again, he added with a snicker, "I hope the drunken little shit was worth it," he guffawed.
"Well, he's never had his loyalty to me called into question, now has he?" Haytham rejoined with dangerous glint in his eye.
"Despite that he was nearly ruined by his sloppy actions against Washington?" Benjamin smirked. "Fortune smiles on that one, so it seems."
"Above all, he is loyal to the Order first," Haytham warned, "'Tis all the supposed fortune one requires."
"No matter that we've a murderous Hessian on our payroll that been loosened onto the world?" Benjamin brayed, "Which is how we find ourselves in our current situation, eh?"
"Which is why Thomas will come in handy in getting us out of it," Haytham rolled his eyes.
Honestly, Church was beginning to get rather tiresome. Between his constant complaints about the direction of the Order, his increasing drunkenness and how poorly his end of the smuggling business had gone since his arrest for treason, he was well on the road towards being far more trouble than he was worth. And that was excluding the more troubling aspects of the accusations against him. His supposed correspondence with British currently had him a practical prisoner of the city. Oh, he claimed it was only to ensure his British contacts would never doubt him, allowing him to keep hauling in his black-market goods with little trouble. But Haytham knew Church always considered himself the smartest person in the room. Alas, such hubris often caused men to make careless mistakes that could cost the Order its continued progress. Between that and his daughter's constant attempts against them through her alliance with the Assassins, Haytham knew he had little room for error.
Frankly, should the time come, he would have little regrets about eliminating the former surgeon general. Perhaps he could kill two birds with one stone; remove Church and convince Connor to abandon her vain pursuit, thereby replacing Church within his inner circle. No doubt, once he opened her eyes to the truth, her loyalty would have little need of questioning. How could Connor deny her own father, after all?
"Have you heard a word I've said?" Benjamin barked, interrupting his thoughts.
"Forgive me, it has been a long day," Haytham made his excuses, even as he mentally envisioned the easiest way to drive the spoon next his hand straight through Church's skull. Blood splattering all over his clothes and sending the inn into a terrified frenzy be damned...
"Clearly," Church crossed his arms as he leaned back even further in his chair. Haytham couldn't hold back a huff of retort as he continued, "What exactly can Thomas do from his commission out on the frontier?"
"No matter his predilections towards his baser pursuits, the man has always been rather brilliant at gathering information," Haytham replied.
"Yet, give Hickey a decent amount coin and he'd sell his own mother into a brothel," Church disparaged.
"Come now, he's done nothing of the sort to elicit such an opinion," Haytham shook his head in disagreement. Leaning forward and dropping his elbows to the table, he steepled his fingers. "Anyway, we need to find out just how far General Davenport has fallen from our goals. From there, we may decide the next course of action. Perhaps our relationship may be saved, perhaps not. It will all hinge on how best to eliminate the Hessian, of course."
"For all rabid animals must be put down at some point, right?" Benjamin shrugged, taking another long draught of his ale.
Nodding, Haytham continued plotting with Church. Hopefully, a solution to the current chink in the Templar's proverbial armor could be repaired. Ideally, the sooner, the better.
While she wore her usual impassive expression, Connor's heart thundered in her chest. Reflected in her wide, watery gaze, the blood red flames from the McCready's home tilted and whirled in a macabre display of color. The familiar scent of burnt wood, grey ash and the distant tinge of scorched, human flesh mingled in the air.
It nearly caused her to vomit.
Closing her eyes, she willed herself slow her breathing at the all too familiar sight of fire consuming an entire household. She shivered, though not from the biting gusts of wind licking up from the ocean to the east. Logically, she knew old memories had little to do with the scene in front of her. Yet her vision swam, her fingertips numb with mounting dread as she swallowed back bile. Thankfully, she was perched relatively far from the lip of the roof and a few doors south of the blaze. So there was little danger of falling to the cobblestones, should a fainting spell take her. Still, there were the guards to be aware of…
"Duncan," she whispered, abruptly recognizing the pattern of footsteps just to her left. Not to mention, the sound of his fingers jangling his rosary beads along his right hand.
"Miss Connor," his soft, Irish drawl filled her ears. It proved a blessed comfort, replacing the heaving, fatal crackle of the fire licking at the house. Eyes snapping open, she jerked her head in greeting. A few years ago and she would've chided him for such formality, as there was no need for him to grant her that strange, colonial title of "Miss." Now, she'd come to accept to it easily enough. He meant no insult, simply respect. Frankly, it was made all the more extraordinary considering that he now knew she was the daughter of the man who'd murdered his uncle.
Slowly moving to her feet, she held out a hand. Thankfully, it was no longer shaking. "How do you fare?"
"I may ask the same of you, Connor," he lightly said, returning her handshake. Briefly looking her over, he arched a ginger brow, "I nearly snuck up on ya, lass."
"Nearly," she swallowed, "But not quite."
"Heh," he chuckled, "Were I a younger man, I may have succeeded."
"Then let us be glad you are more an old man than I," she retorted, cracking the faintest of grins.
Glancing between her and the fire beyond at her back, Duncan gave a small, knowing shrug. "Mayhap we should travel by the streets, Connor? The patrolling soldiers are far too occupied with…that," he pointed to the flames over her shoulder, "Than two supposed civilians."
"I agree," she quickly shook her head. Lithely making her way to ground, she immediately turned in the opposite direction of the burning home.
Following in her wake, Duncan remained at her heels. After a few moments of silence, they crossed into the northern section of the city. Slipping into the backdoor of the tavern Duncan frequented, they headed to their usual table in the corner. Within a few moments, Duncan had his usual ale, Connor forgoing such for water. While she was a bit famished, her stomach was still twisted into knots.
"It's all rather horrifying, God rest their souls" Duncan let out a heavy sigh, "Especially their little one, Whitney."
Letting out a curse in her native language, Connor shook her head to clear it. To know that a child perished in the flames as well sent her reeling. "How…do we know that none of them escaped?" her voice rose a bit.
"Blending with the crowd out there," he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, "No one saw them leave when the fire broke out. And judging by how fast the house caught, it was likely set on purpose."
"We have tracked the McCreadys all autumn." Biting back a groan, Connor angrily waved a hand, "Considering Mr. McCready's employer, this is likely the work of General Matthew Davenport, I presume?"
"Aye," Duncan solemnly frowned, dark eyes flashing with ire. "When you sent us out to scout the mystery of your missing convoys round 'bout then end of summer, it proved surprisingly easy to discern his involvement. He's become bolder and bolder in attacking Patriot outposts on the frontier."
"Clipper mentioned you were both able to infiltrate his stronghold at Fort St. Mathieu?"
"With little issue," Duncan smiled, absentmindedly running a thumb along a rosary bead. "The gent's always had a head for simple, effective planning. He's also got quite a talent for improvising when things go south."
"'Go south?'" Connor asked with a hint of confusion.
"Forgive me," Duncan briefly laughed, "It's a colloquialism meaning, 'when things go bad.'"
"Hmm," she nodded, mentally adding it to her English repertoire. "Anyway, he has undoubtedly flourished under your direction," she steadily continued. She didn't fail to notice the color that bloomed to Duncan's cheeks.
"The boy gives me far too much credit," Duncan nearly stammered, ducking his head and taking a long draught of ale.
"Somehow, I doubt that," Connor assured him.
"I see," Duncan lightly coughed. "In the meantime, you mentioned in your letter before you arrived that another one of your convoys was attacked a few weeks ago?"
"Typical Templar impudence," Connor groused, barely able to hold back a pout.
Chuckling at her expression, Duncan reached out and gave her hand a comforting pat. Pleased to see she didn't flinch, he agreed, "No doubt. Combined with the fact that Mrs. McCready was nearly there as far as trusting me with the full details of her husband's involvement with Templars, I can only assume he caught wind of the family's possible defection."
"Surely not from our end?" Connor croaked in alarm, eyebrows shooting upwards.
"Clipper and I were absolutely mum," Duncan raised a hand of reassurance.
Lips pressed together into a thin line, she closed her eyes for a moment. Hunching down and pulling her hood closer about her head, she crossed her arms in frustration before replying, "I know you both were. You have always been the paragons of silence. As has Stephane."
Duncan nodded in agreement as he took a sip of his ale, "He was our proverbial 'in' to the McCready's, considering the family frequented the inn where he works in the kitchen. Hence, how I was able to make her acquaintance," Duncan affirmed.
"Of course," Connor replied.
"I purposely wandered about the market just down the block from Stephane's. It took 'bout a month or so, but she and George eventually had me over for dinner every week or so." Withdrawing a bit, Duncan pulled a small, red, leather-bound notebook from his robes. Sliding it across the table, he smirked, "Snooping around the house every time I crossed the threshold, I was able to copy roughly three-quarters of his log book from his study."
Eyes widening, Connor reached out and snatched it. Flipping through the pages, she immediately realized that George McCready certainly valued details. Dating back a couple of years, there were logs of transports and bribes, as well as exactly how much he apparently skimmed. Surprisingly, his embezzlement was minimal. Surely not enough to murder an entire family over.
Bloody Templar brutes.
After a long while, Connor leaned forward and declared, "It looks as though my next journey shall be to the Fort, then."
"You've no wish for Clipper and me to carry this out?" he swiftly asked.
Glancing down at where the rosary was wrapped around Duncan's wrist, Connor let a grin slip to her face. "How long until he returns from Trenton on his current mission?" she casually asked.
"He's due in less than week," Duncan summarily said, twisting the beads through his fingers.
"And so you keep him in your prayers?" Connor nodded in understanding.
Staring at her for a bit, Duncan let out a pent up sigh and shifted in his seat a bit, "It is the least I may do for…a dear friend.
"We all hope for his safe return. He will acquit himself with aplomb, I am sure," Connor dipped her head in agreement. "However, between his current assignment and Stephane's present undertaking in the Carolinas to train Jacob Zenger, I need your eyes and ears attuned to the city for any new developments. Thus, I believe it is best if I pursue General Davenport on the Frontier."
"As you wish," Duncan waved. "Though as much as you believe you don't need to hear it, do be careful Connor."
"You need not worry yourself," she shyly replied, glancing away for a moment. "But," she began drumming her fingers along the aged table, "I assure you that I am grateful for your concern."
Connor's stomach finally settling, she joined Duncan for dinner. Planning her journey and reviewing their intel, the two talked deep into the night. It was nearly one in the morning by the time they retired to their rented rooms upstairs.
Soon, General Davenport would find that the Assassins were no longer mere myth, but rather, a force to be reckoned with.
Author's Notes:
General Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, September 17, 1730 – November 28, 1794 – was a Prussian general and ally of the Continental army during the Revolutionary War. One of the father's of the Continental army, he helped train and drill the Patriot troops the essentials of military drills, tactics, and disciplines. He wrote the Revolutionary War Drill Manual, which became the standard for American troops until the War of 1812.
"…after your little cipher to the British was intercepted?" - In July 1775, Benjamin Church sent an encoded letter to a British Officer in Boston called Major Cane through a former mistress. The letter was intercepted by her lover and then sent to George Washington by September. While the letter didn't give away much pertinent information about the Continental forces, Church did state his devotion to the Crown and asked for further instructions on where to send further correspondence. By November, the Continental Congress expelled Church, removed him from his position as Surgeon General, and placed him under house arrest in Norwich, Connecticut. By May 1776, he was moved to Boston, where he remained imprisoned until 1778.