A/N:
(So, just a quick little note here, I don't wanna keep you from the chapter! ^-^)
I wanna thank everyone who reads and favs, follows or reviews this story; it really means a lot to me and I adore all of my readers. We are all talented writers, just different readers. I really appreciate your feedback and criticism and I listen to every thing you guys say ^-^ if it weren't for you, I wouldn't continue to write this story. As long as your reading and enjoying what I'm writing - even if it's just one person - I'll continue for you and be as happy as I would be with hundreds of followers. Cuz what are we, if not readers? And what are writers without readers? Now I got long and boring again -_- sorry xD but it makes me so happy when I check my mail and see that I've gotten response on what I've written ^-^'
Chapter 3:5
1774, June 18th
I watched in horror as the Native American was shot. His angry expression turned blank in an instant as he slumped down on the bloodstained ground.
"Now, who's next?" wondered Mr. Johnson, eyeing his observers. "I assure you that I'm doing this for your own protection. Allow me to buy your land."
"No," spoke the black-haired man once again and gritted his teeth as he continued. "Get lost from our lands and stay lost!"
Another blast of a rifle being fired echoed away into the distance. I couldn't hide my gasp as Mr. Johnson's next victim hit the dirt. He quickly turned to me, a flash of irritation consuming his countenance, before he collected himself and cleared his throat.
"Anyone else got an objection?"
The remaining Iroquois were silent and stared at each other, their eyes revealing the fear they had fought not to show. I clenched my fists and looked away from the two dead bodies. This is not a negotiation; this is murder, cold-blooded murder. The thought immediately made me think of someone I desperately was trying to forget, and it made me wonder: are the Templars really any different from the Assassins?
"You…" I didn't know that I was speaking until it was too late. "Y-you killed them. Why?"
Mr. Johnson spun around and he seemed to be as shocked and aggravated as I was.
"I had to," he muttered and hurried inside the Johnson Hall, his cape whipping after him. "You have an hour to discuss this issue; I am an honorable man and as such, I will show mercy and let you have a second chance."
He gestured for me to follow and I quickly obeyed.
"Sir, you didn't have to shoot anyone!" I exclaimed as we entered something that seemed to be his study. Tall bookshelves were filled with notes and books, and two large windows overlooked the backyard of the mansion. "They would've listened, had you just given them some time to hear you out—"
Mr. Johnson sat down in the large chair behind a black table, pulling out a bottle of Scottish whiskey and two glasses. His blue eyes inspected me quickly before putting back one of the drinks and pouring the other to the brim with amber-colored liquid.
"I had no choice," he answered, his voice tired and exhausted. "I've tried and tried for such a long time but those wildlings won't listen. They're much too proud to even think about giving up their homes." He gulped the whole amount at once and again filled an empty glass.
I was furious at him and his words but as I opened my mouth to answer, someone knocked on the door.
"Who is it?" Mr. Johnson asked but there was no reply. He repeated himself but whoever the person was, he or she kept quiet.
I approached the door and opened it. My heart almost stopped as I realized who the white-hooded man was and it did stop for at least a moment, when my eyes traced down his bloodied dress uniform jacket, down to the flintlock pistol in his hand. The world seemed to slow into bits and pieces as the assassin raised his gun and pulled the trigger.
The bullet buried itself into Mr. Johnson's ribcage and blood splattered out of his chest. His head hit the backrest of the chair and his eyes flew wide open in pure surprise. He groaned in excruciating pain and clutched the edge of the table.
"Get out of here."
I was staring at the dying Mr. Johnson and my mind didn't catch what he said.
"You have nothing to do with this," continued the man behind me and his gentle voice seemed completely out of place. "Let me finish what I came for without any onlookers."
I slowly turned around and reached for the dagger I had in my back pocket.
"Get away from him!" I growled and pulled forth my blade. "Soldiers! Guards!"
"I've already dealt with them all," he answered, almost amused at my vain attempt. "All I want is to talk with him. Your father is already virtually dead; nothing you say or do can save him. So step aside now."
He doesn't know who I am and thinks I'm Mr. Johnson's child, I thought and finally allowed myself to meet his gaze. I want to see how the face of a true murderer is, so that I can recognize him. Maybe he lives no longer with Achilles – maybe he has a house in Boston or New York – but either way, I will find him and put an end to this killing.
His eyes were the same of the boy I had met years ago; same brown, hazelnut-colored eyes but now with a definiteness that almost scared me. A small scar marked his right cheek but was almost unnoticeable due to his dark skin. His large, slightly crooked nose gave definition to his features, making him look harsher, together with his well-shaped bone structure. He had a completely different expression in his face now, compared to what I could recall from when I had first met him and seemed twice his age, with his determined countenance and grave eyes. Was this really the boy that lent me his bed while he slept on the floor?
I clutched my dagger even harder and bit my lower lip. Can he identify who I am? Or does he not remember? I swallowed and tried to find any physical weaknesses or a wound I could exploit… but to no avail. He was as good as untouched. Even if he is stronger and has way more experience, I won't just let him pass without a fight.
A spark of recognizance lighted his dark eyes as he finished his own analyze of me.
"You're…" He paused and tried to find the right words. "You're that foolish girl who tried to get the old man to talk!"
He mentioned nothing of when I had confronted him and the French man, half a year ago, and I sighed in relief. Good, then he knows nothing of me, nor can he guess why I'm here other than being Mr. Johnson's daughter.
"You killed my pa, you murderer!" I yelled.
My first strike was a feint, which caught him off guard and made me get one lucky hit onto his stomach, though with the blunt edge of my dagger. He quickly regained his balance and gripped my hands.
"I'm not going to fight a child," he said calmingly and pried my hand open. "Now calm down and stop fighting; you stand no chance."
The assassin easily unarmed me and gripped my arms with just one of his. He then pushed me into the wall and dug the knife into my collar, rendering me immobile. I attempted to get a good hit on him but he quickly recoiled and approached the man he had shot.
"Let me go!" I screamed and tried to pull out the dagger from the wall, but it was like rooted. "You can't just go around and kill people!"
He ignored me and quietly spoke to Mr. Johnson. If I would've been quiet I might have had a chance to overhear anything but I was too furious even to think. I was angry at Mr. Johnson for having killed the Iroquois, I was angry at the assassin to have killed the soldiers and now Mr. Johnson as well, but I was most of all angry at myself. I was disappointed and utterly humiliated due to the assassin's capability of handling me with such ease. I had spent three years of hard, tough training and still I stood no chance to the man standing in front of me. I had gotten one hit; one terribly bad hit and had been maneuvered like a little doll. Tears trickled down my cheeks, tears of abasement and fury.
"Connor, let me go!"
His eyes immediately locked with mine but he didn't have the time to answer before a flurry of angry voices filled the large building. He vaulted over the table and opened a window. Our eyes met one last time before he disappeared away from my view.