Disclaimer: I own none of the characters presented in this story. Red Dead Redemption and all associated with said property belong to Rockstar Games.

Disclaimer: Strong depictions of violence, murder, and other such heinous and repugnant acts, very harsh language used throughout, and some taboo and offensive material occasionally presented.

Part Five: John

6:31 PM, July 18th, 1899

"You new in town, mister?"

" C'mon…"

"Mr. Bronte's got a lot of friends, mister," the rat-faced, peasant boy said, and John tried to keep his cool, reminding himself they were just boys, "but I ain't never seen you," he finished, twirling around dramatically as if it added more impact to his point. Just boys. Just boys. They'd robbed him sure, but there was no way the twelve or so urchins holding him at gunpoint would have the balls–hell, most of 'em barely had balls at all–to do him in. He had been putting his ear to the street, trying to find out where this "Angelo Bronte" lived. Where he'd taken Jack. He'd only spent a flash in Shady Belle, partly due to the horrid quarters it offered (flies did not make good companions, especially in the thousandfold), but mainly due to her. He couldn't stand looking at her, eyes so saggy with exhaustion–she looked so tired it made him sick. Dutch and he had spent the last day and a half with their ears to the ground, asking about for any word on who they needed to see. Everyone seemed to know him, yet no one seemed keen to say anything; they couldn't even find out where the bastard lived. What they did find out, though, was he was one bad man. His criminal empire seemed to touch practically every business in one form or another. He'd heard the man's organization was well funded and staffed too–he'd seen many less-than-honest looking individuals roaming about Saint Denis but wasn't about to go questioning them. Not that subtly seemed to be especially well for him now.

"We ain't friends," he finally responded gruffly, losing his patience.

"You don't like no one mister," the brat chuckled, motioning for John to stand closer. Don't shoot him, John thought as he neared the rat-faced street rat. He's just a boy. Jack'll be his age soon. Jack…

"Mr. Bronte, he's got fine hair… he got a beautiful house and I am proud to work for him–"

"He listening in or something?" John interrupted, getting a few titters from the crowd of armed orphans.

"He got fifty men, mister. Why he gonna care a thing about you?" The boy finished, kicking his oversized–probably stolen–boots up onto the table beside where he sat.

Because he's got something that don't belong to him!

"I just want to speak with him," John said, keeping as monotone as possible.

Rat-Faced Street Rat just laughed at him. Just a boy… Just a goddamn boy…

"I'm sure you do, mister." Then something happened. Rat-faced Street Rat's guise shifted from playfully amused to deadly serious. He seemed different now. Not old, but surely not a child. Seventeen or eighteen at least. Shit, that was basically Lenny's age.

"You and them friends of yours been asking about him all over town," Rat-Faced Street Rat said, standing up, looking taller than he before. John's eyes wavered about the place, a swell of panic beginning to bulge within him.

"He been mighty disrespected, bunch of muddy Yankees in town asking questions."

Before anyone could react, John drew his gun, aiming it at the boy–correction: man–who couldn't have been more than a foot away from the barrel. He had insurance now, which was good. If you ain't in control, you're dead. It was one of Dutch's most important teachings, the thing he remembered more than any of the reading or writing or Evelyn Miller he'd also taught him as a boy.

"You mighty quick there, mister." Rat-Faced Street Rat said, the only guttersnipe there who was calm; everyone else had their sweaty fingers glued to their guns, wondering if they were fast enough, wondering if it was worth the flutter.

"I hope ya don't treat your gal that way." He couldn't help chuckling before he continued with haste, not unaware of his predicament. "But that's not necessary. I was just about to say you and your friends should pay him a visit." He whistled and the peasant grifter who stole John's satchel launched it back to him, which John caught with his left arm, keeping his gunhand fully focused on Rat-Faced Street Rat. "He's got a big house on Flavian Street, opposite the park. Now…"–he gave a girly wave similar to something John had seen Mary-Beth give Kieran on a few occasions–"get out of here."

Just a boy. Seemed a weaker excuse every minute. Regardless, John left that shady little orphan's Elysium corner of nowhere without killing anyone–though it took all his strength. Patience wasn't a strong virtue of his, especially now. He exited through the alleyway and back onto the main road, whistling for Old Boy to come hither and collect him. John wondered if they would have really killed him if he hadn't armed himself. He'd killed a man when he was their age. But… no. No. This was the civilized age after all–that kind of thing didn't happen anymore. Just like outlaws, savages, slavery, and sin; relics of the past.

Old Boy strutted over, and John mounted the black Hungarian Halfbred. Time to meet with Dutch.

He rode to the Bastille Saloon, easily outracing the fat, crowded trolley branded with "Cornwall" on its front–a lovely reminder of who else they pissed off. En route, he also passed dozens of illiterate chinamen, a woman pouring a bucket of shit and piss off her third-story apartment onto an unsuspecting man having a polite and mannered discussion about how he'd like to put it in that songstress, Robin Koninsky, and some gabby morons giving the freedom of speech a bad name. The first trying to sell some overpriced jargon about how a single book–to clarify, it's his book, not the bible–will change your life forever, remolding you into the better and wealthier man of your dreams (for only fifty bucks), and the second prattling on about how black folk are monkeys and white folk are angels or some such nonsense.

John didn't believe in most of Dutch's sermons, but they found equal footing on this concept: if this was the future, God help us all. He finally reached the saloon, catching sight of Dutch sitting parallel to it, on a bench right in front of the park near the tailor shop.

Dutch beckoned and John approached, trotting his horse over to the other side, before he caught sight of another rat-faced bastard riding in.

"There is no God," John muttered.

"What was that?" Micah asked, marching his horse until the two men sat side-by-side on their steeds, looking down at Dutch, who was still sitting, arms spread across the homey beige bench.

"Why is he here, Dutch?"

"Figured we could use some backup. You found where this Mr. Bronte lives, I assume?" Dutch answered, rising and whistling for his own horse.

"Yeah, Flavian Street opposite the park."

"Good. Well, we can't very well enter with an army, not 'till we know Jack is safe, so beguilement seems our best play. But in case things take a turn for the worst, I want our three best gunmen on the job," Dutch rationalized, and John almost agreed–Dutch had the power to make him believe anything if he had enough time to talk–until he remembered it involved Micah coming along.

"You sure we should bring this one along, Dutch?" Micah asked, sticking his greasy thumb at John. "He's emotional. Sloppy.

"Without Arthur, John's our best shot. And it's his son," said Dutch, mounting his horse. "Lead the way!"

They followed a bitter John, riding slowly, not attracting any attention.

"Did ya discern anything else about whom we're meeting with, John?" Dutch asked.

"Nothing we didn't know. Big fish, lotta muscle, lotta money."

"Lotta businesses too. Lenny sold me some interesting theories about them runnin' guns with the Lemoyne Raiders. Plus them being acquainted with the Braithwaites."

"What's your point?" John inquired.

"His point, you moron," Micah cut in, "is that our next big score could be right here."

" That's what you're thinking about right now, Dutch?" John snapped, harder than he meant to.

"I am thinking about getting Jack back in case you hadn't noticed!" Dutch snapped back. "I am thinking about keeping twenty people clothed, fed, housed, and eventually relocated. I am thinking about the Pinkertons, and the Lemoyne Raiders, and this new feller. I am thinking about it all, cuz there ain't no one else in this gang who can think a lick!" Dutch finished with a grim snarl that unceremoniously changed to a polite smile as a blue-clad Saint Denis police officer passed them by, oblivious.

John felt mucky with guilt–was he really so self-absorbed? He opened his mouth to give a half-apology (the only sort of apologies he usually bestowed) when Micah's irritating voice filled his ears.

"Y'know Dutch, I could get that money from Blackwater."

"Micah…"

"I know!" Micah said, actually attempting some level of charisma in his speech (butchering it, of course). "I hate to keep hearkening back to it too, but I only do it because I genuinely believe I could pull it off. It couldn't do no harm; you can pull off whatever you're trying for here and I'll split and give Blackwater a whirl. Divide and conquer. Just tell me where the money–"

"Micah, you're a damn idiot if you think anyone's that gullible."

"Just what are you implying, Scarface?"

"That money is gone," Dutch said, matter-of-factly. "Gone. Too many agents are posted there; might as well be trying for McKinley's parrot. Besides, we ain't talking money now, today is about getting our boy back."

"We had better," John spat.

"Didn't you make yourself scarce the second that boy slid out? Why you so avid on seeing him home?" the blonde ferret questioned.

"Dutch, I need you to get your dog under control before–"

John saw it. Saw that Micah wasn't wearing his large white hat which he'd lost at the raid on Caliga Hall but was instead wearing a cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band. Arthur's cheap black gambler's hat with two strands of unfastened brown rope making up the band.

"Dutch… why the hell is he wearing that?"

"What? Oh! That old thing?" Dutch answered dismissively, seeming off-guard, a step behind, as though he'd been ambushed. "Weren't doing no one no good, and he was in need of one, so I figured 'why bother buying a new one?' Recycling is a formidable tool."

"He. Can. Have. Mine," John said, clenching his aching teeth.

"No!" Dutch hurried out. "I… like it on Micah."

Silence followed as John tried to keep his cool. Focus on the boy. Just the boy. Just the boy. John led them through a sharp turn onto Flavian Street, the park on their left. On their right was a home fit for a king, a mansion fit for a god. John had no doubt this was Bronte's place. Fixed with a double-decker front porch, a lush garden and handsome trees that almost made you forget what town you were in, and a pretty two-window dormer with two nifty sea-shell adornments. The part that stood out the most, though, was the tall ten-foot bulwark that engirdled the estate, finished with a thick iron gate out front. And of course, there were a dozen guards out in the front yard, holding repeaters, shotguns, you name it. Damn, John thought, if negotiations don't work, how the hell are we getting through this? They hitched their horses across the street, walking to the gate where some Italian boy stood guard. He looked kind of like the Braithwaite boy that had tried to intimidate Dutch at the manor–before he got shot in the balls and hell broke loose. Probably not a good omen.

"Dutch…" John started, as they walked. His voice gave out and he started again: "Dutch. If they let us in… it… it might be the only time they ever do. If Jack's in there, should we… try something?"

"Only good idea you've ever had, Scarface. Kiddie's probably not even in there, they got tons of strongholds 'round this city," Micah threw out.

"Enough. If neither of you can keep your cool, stay behind. We are not putting a little boy in potential crossfires on account of weak speculation," said Dutch.

John felt a sting of dread prick him. Dutch was right, what the hell was he thinking? What the hell was wrong with him? Could he ever make the right call? Calm down, focus on the boy. Just the boy.

"Keep real loose. We'll charm him," Dutch said encouragingly. "And not a peep outta either of ya. I mean it: not a word unless you're asked a direct question."

Sun had mostly fallen by now, and John was struggling to see now. Was there a sniper on the balcony? No, keep loose. Think of the boy. Just the boy.

Even in the dark, John noticed the corners of Dutch's mouth stretch upwards into an unnatural smile; it reminded him of the rocking horse back at Protestant Orphan Asylum. That horse was attached to a wooden arch so it would sway back and forth, but the horse was so worn–and termites and other such pests were a common problem–that the arch's edges were slanted down like some unbearable invisible weight was being hung on either side. John loved that old horse. That old boy. One day a kid started crying and screaming and smashed it for no reason; that was the day John ran off and never looked back. You're getting distracted. Focus. Just the boy.

"Excuse me, sir," Dutch said, still brandishing that fake, rocking horse smile to the guard behind the fence "We have an appointment to see Mr. Bronte."

"Who are you?" The Braithwaite-looking boy asked in a thick Italian accent, meeting Dutch right at the fence so they were a Bill-cock (approximately two inches) away from each other.

Then Dutch grabbed him by the throat, bringing his head against the gate. "You get your boss down here and now, so we can talk about this like gentlemen." He then let go, and the poor boy went running off faster than Trelawny in the face of conflict.

"Was that the special Dutch charm I heard so much about?" John couldn't resist nipping out. He didn't think kick your enemy in the balls before you ask him for a favor was an Alexander the Great quote.

"Relax… I got this." Dutch said reassuringly, although there was a hint, a note, of something malice in the way he talked. Dutch put his hands up as a guard arrived on cue, pointing his Lancaster repeater at them, and opening the gate. John and Micah's hands followed suit, then their legs as Dutch walked past the guard, entering the belly of the beast.

"Don't worry, boys, we come in peace," Dutch said pleasantly to the many guards that greeted them as they walked to the front porch, that malicious shadow in his words still ever-present. "Just need to straighten a couple of things out with your boss."

Then John saw the Braithwaite look-alike in the corner of his eye, this time with a shotgun, and John really thought that was it. That he was gonna get shot right then and there, ruining Mr. Bronte's expertly trimmed grass. But it wasn't. They all kept walking until they were past the front door and inside the house. John was too anxious to appreciate the delightful blue and white Sicilian vases or the scrumptious (hopefully not bloodied) maroon rug. He willingly ignored the Roman-inspired lamp with a beautifully sculpted woman's body as the base as they passed into the lounge room–as the thought of women made him think only of Abigail, which only wedged more anxiety in him. God, she looked so tired. Shut up! Just the boy. Just the boy.

Then he saw him. Sitting on a cozy, hundred-dollar, navy-blue sofa in a gold and red dressing gown. Anglo Bronte spoke something in Italian to one of his guys, a cleanshaven feller with greasy, pomade hair. Pomade threw back more incomprehensible phrases, and John felt all that anxiety bubbling up into fuming anger. What did they need to say between themselves? Was it about Jack? Was he already dead? He felt weak. Isolated. Maybe that was the point.

"Why do you take his son?" Dutch asked Bronte, pointing at John.

"Excuse me?" Bronte asked hotly, setting down his book, and paying them his full attention.

"I said why did you take his son?" Dutch repeated, the malice overwhelming any pretense of politeness. "We ain't got no problems with you sir, nor you with us… but if you wanna start one…"–Dutch took a step back, buying space for them to make a move–"There is gonna be a lot of folks dead in this room before it's done."

Bronte's escorts picked up on his oh-so-subtle threat, cocking their guns and keeping them trained on Dutch and his crew. The anxiety was in John's fingers now, titillating them, begging them to get a shot off.

"So, you walk into my city, stinking of shit and looking like this…" Bronte said, pointing at their attire not unjustly, "and you come into my house before you have a bath and you tell me how to act? You ask me to show compassion? Have I not shown you almost infinite compassion already… by simply allowing you to breathe in my presence?"

John counted six men pointing guns at them, two shotguns, all close-range. Not good odds. Goddammit, we coulda played this better! he thought.

"Indeed you have," Dutch said, malice gone, cogency back. "Now…" he continued, making a play for the couch opposite Bronte, "we are simple country folk. All we have is each other, and you have gone, and you have took his son over some dispute with some inbred ex-slavers. It ain't got anything to do with anyone of us."

"You had nothing to do with destroying the liquor business?" Bronte demanded, knowing the answer already.

"We was innocent bystanders, and that which were weren't innocent of, well we were must surely ignorant of," Dutch rationalized.

"You, you, you twist words, you lie shamelessly, you think you are better than everyone else…"

John's hands shook with adrenaline. His eyes scanned the environment. Maybe he could take out a few and dive out the window, but Dutch wouldn't make it. They were fucked. Completely and fully–

Then Bronte was laughing, a hearty, jovial laugh. Then everyone else was laughing, his men, Dutch, and even Micah.

"Angelo Bronte!" He introduced, standing and shaking Dutch's hand.

"Dutch Van der Linde!" he reciprocated. "And this is Micah Belle…"–Micah shook it–"and John Marston."

"The pleasure is all mine. All mine. Please, please," he said, laughing and directing them to sit with Dutch. Anxiety flushed away, rising from John like steam from a fire. They weren't going to die. Pomade came over then, with a tray of glasses filled to the brink with some fancy yellow concoction–however, upon closer examination John found it was just whiskey. Dutch took his cheerfully, urging the other two to do the same. Micah thought differently, taking the last two remaining glasses and holding one to Pomade.

"Join the party, friend. I insist. Take a drink."

"Micah–" Dutch warned, malice–albeit controlled–present once again. Luckily, Bronte just ate it up. The bastard must've been as high as Swanson.

"Eh, don't trust anyone, do you? Well, you can trust Guido, he's my closest confidant," said he, taking Micah's offering and downing it himself, before insisting some other Italian, this one buck-toothed, go fetch a bottle for all of them.

"Don't worry," he said, looking at Micah, "I'll take the first swig!" Bronte laughed, his men–and Dutch–joining in. His smile faded when the ear-piercing crash of glass shattering shot out. Buck-Tooth and two others–one was older and fatter with scars on his knuckles, and the other had longer hair that hung by his neck–had been rowing and dropped the bottle in their scuffle. Bronte cursed them out in Italian, probably demanding they leave, as they were gone moments after his violent fit, their polished shoes squeaking on the way out the door.

"I'm sorry–"

"Oh, not at all," Dutch reassured.

"Those three… I tell you…" Bronte griped, muttering something else in Italian under his breath.

"So… can my friend have his son?" Dutch asked, trying to slide it in casually, but it was clear as a bell: he was desperate.

"Of course, of course," Bronte said, showing Dutch what casual sounded like. " But…"

There was always a "but". Always a damn "but". What happened to this country? John wondered. When did it become okay to use little boys as a commodity? What was Mr. Milton and his precious "civilized land" doing 'bout that!?

"...should I be out of pocket over a misunderstanding? Of course I know you would not want that…" He trailed off, passing the sticky wicket over to a helpless Dutch.

"N–no." Dutch played his only card.

"No. No, no. So, how about this?" Bronte said, catching the flies in a web. John resisted the urge to scoff. He shoulda known. Ain't nothing free no more. "You perform a simple job for me… and you get your son back."

"What is it?" John asked coldly, staring this son-of-a-bitch right in his eyes. He had narrow eyes like a cat, like an alligator; saw nothing but prey. He felt Dutch's eyes on him, but he didn't care. Micah broke their vow of silence first.

"A couple of people have taken to grave robbing in the cemetery."

"That is a fine place for it, the best," Dutch quipped, drawing a laugh from Bronte.

"I love this guy, I love you!" He felicitated. "See they've taken, not only to desecrating the dead, but they've done so without paying a tribute to the living…"– Christ, he wanted them to collect tax on grave robbers–"Thing is, they see my men, of course, they run a mile. So, maybe you two…" he said, giving a dramatic point to Micah and John, "head off, and you, Mr. Dutch Van der Linde… why, you tell me more about my manners!" He finished with a chuckle that was a flawless blend between heartening and sickening.

Worn-Knuckles motioned for them to stand up, and John and Micah took the hint, exiting as they heard Dutch and Bronte clinking glasses. The Braithwaite-looking kid–seriously, it was weird, maybe the families had fornicated?–opened the gate for them and they trudged out, happy to be free from this hub of sophisticated European culture. Of course Dutch opened his mouth for five minutes and managed to get them into a cemetery while he got to sip expensive champagne with the man they were potentially there to kill. Like he said, Dutch could talk his way out of anything. Not that John was complaining; that couldn't have gone any better. Jack was alive and he'd be returned right after they completed this, admittedly dirty, errand.

"I saw the graveyard earlier; it's pretty impressive," John said, mounting his horse. "Just follow–"

"Don't tell me you bought what they was selling."

God Almighty.

"'Cuz, I'm telling you, I ain't never smelled so much horseshit in all my life," Micah started.

"The problem we got here, Micah, is that you are horseshit, so your gauge for picking it up is all busted."

"Let me ask you something: if that son of yours–oh, sorry, we still don't know do we? Alright, I'll start again: if that son of your trollop wife is alive, why wouldn't they show him to us? Guarantee they got what they runnin' their mouths over?"

John could feel the anxiety seeping back into him, despite himself. He knew Micah just liked to mess with people. Got off on it. Knowing that didn't quiet the murmuring of doubt in his head.

"Cuz, they probably got Jack stored somewhere else. Who knows how much of this city these bastards own," John said, feigning confidence.

"That's possible. It's more possible that they cut a deal with the Pinkertons. Traded that boy in for some kind of payment and are probably gonna trade us in too. What we got on our heads? Five thou a piece? Way I see it, this cemetery's a trap. Why the hell else would this Bronte feller be giving his most valuable piece of bargaining power to us in exchange for a service he coulda hired anyone to do?"

John could feel the anxiety wobbling him now like that old rocking horse. His head got light and he almost fell off his horse. Jack was dead? It couldn't be… Although, the more he thought about it… the more sense it made.

"Yup. Way I see it, that boy is dead as a doornail. That's gonna hurt, seeing you explain that to poor Abigail."

The doubt, the anxiety was beginning to consume him now. Breathing became a struggle. His vision blurred. Jack was dead, and he thought his father was ashamed of him. The horrid thoughts overtook him… until they passed like a fleeting shadow once the cold facts started sinking in.

"You are nothing, Micah," John said, almost whispering.

"The hell you say?"

"If it's a trap, why you riding in blindly? Why ain't you turning 'round to spring your only pal from harm's way? You don't believe in any of what you just said. What is it then? Want to get in my head? Big mistake. That would require me to think about you, and I don't. Ain't no one ever thought about you twice once you're outta sightline. What's your goal? Want me to swear I'll kill you? Want me to swear I'll piss on your grave? I won't. I won't even visit your grave, no one will. Hell, no one'll even bury you. You'll die out in the middle of nowhere and you'll turn to dust, and no one will even notice. Because that's what you are Micah: nothing."

And in the chill night air, John hears no reply.

"And to answer your question, Micah, about why they gave us such a simple task, I'll admit it was a challenge. Took me all of thirty seconds to come up with. It's cuz they want us. They want us to do more favors for them down the road, but first they gotta see how effectively we can perform a simple task before they give us a big one. Why the hell would they turn Jack over to the agents? Why the hell would they even want him? He's got no bounty, he's a boy, for God's sake. I do appreciate the effort, though. Maybe try someone gullible enough next time, like Bill or Molly or one of the horses–no, too intelligent. Think I saw some trees with faces back west, you try them."

Micah's trap remained sealed as they reached the cemetery, dismounting and approaching the entryway. It wasn't dissimilar from Bronte's mansion. Thick walls outlined the place, although they stretched only about eight feet instead of ten. The gate was significantly smaller as well and didn't inspire the same fear as Bronte's did–although that could've been because John wasn't scared anymore. He knew he was getting Jack back. They looked about what would be a coyote's wet dream, listening for signs of disturbances. It was dark in the cemetery, but there was an occasional streetlight that safeguarded the boneyard from being completely overthrown by inky blackness. Micah took out a lantern; John didn't need it. Micah let off a warning shot with his shotgun, probably just trying to scare everyone and make John's job harder. Let him try. Even Micah couldn't ruin this day for him now. He kept his cattleman revolver drawn, tracing any and all varied sounds to their source. The first time it was some dog nibbling on a finger or hand that grave robbers had left after unmasking one of the graves. Sick bastards. The second time it was some drunkard, crying for the recent loss of his dear friend. John had handed him another bottle of whiskey–it seemed the best thing he could do for this feller. The third noise led him to an ancient mausoleum; this noise was different. The first two were loud, a dog's bark and a man's wails; they commanded attention, but this was subtle, quiet. Exactly how you'd want to be robbing someone's grave in the dead of night. He motioned for Micah to join him in his inevitable invasion of the small space. Nothing was stopping him. He'd have Jack again in his arms soon enough, he'd apologize for not spending enough time with him. Micah met with him on the opposite side and they kicked the door down.

"You find my pappy's watch ye–"

It was empty. Not a soul inside.

"Shit!" Micah exclaimed, dipping down.

Bang, bang, bang! Three shots tore up the mausoleum, cracking and tearing chunks of the marbled stone off as they went along, just missing John. He ducked down right after. Micah's warning shot must've tipped them off, giving them enough time to centralize and strike back. He had to hand it to them: for grave robbers, they were pretty crafty. Didn't matter.

Bang! He shot one of the tomb raiders dead. Micah took a shot at one, missing–wouldn't change a thing; John picked him off with one bullet. Nothing was stopping him from getting Jack. He'd take him into town, get him one of those books he liked, Penny something or other. He shot another one hiding behind a tall obelisk of a grave. Only a few more, he reckoned. He thought of Abigail, how her pale face would blush with color once she saw Jack. He thought of her smile; she was the kind of woman who only smiled on rare occasions, not like Mary-Beth who just seemed perpetually overjoyed. He grew excited, lecherous, even, at the thought of her smile–how happy she'd be. Bang! Bam! John got another one, and Micah finished the last one off. John had figured they'd loot the bodies for the stash of goods, but Micah's dour face rejected that theory upon him searching one of the corpses.

"What now, cowpoke?"

"Gimme a minute. Uh, I don't know, I guess we can check where they started firing from," John answered as best he could.

"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Makes perfect sense to hide your treasure in the same spot you're instigating an ambush," Micah complained, yet he still went over to that spot with John, not having a better idea in the chamber. To his great annoyance, it was all there, every piece of it. This was great; John hadn't expected to find half of all this loot. He'd held a minor fear in the back of his head that they wouldn't be able to find it all; that Bronte would say they were holding out on him and refuse to return Jack. That wouldn't be an issue now; they had two stout coinsacks stuffed with silver bracelets, gold rings, and German watches. He could feel Jack in his arms now, all scared and upset, and John would be there to tell him it was alright, that he was going home to see his mother. He couldn't wait to see how fast the kid's eyes would light up–probably so bright Micah wouldn't need a lantern.

Then he heard the loud screeching sound of a whistle.

"Shit, it's the law."

They rushed to the back gate to find it locked.

"Dammit! Who locks a gate from the inside out?" Micah demanded.

"Stay loose, we'll be fine. Just sneak back out the way we came." John said, crouching down, yanking the lantern out of Micah's hands and tossing it to the other side of the graveyard where it emitted an obvious crash sound, pulling most of the bright blue-uniformed coppers over there. They snuck past, carefully monitoring for any lanterns, only traversing the paths that were dark–the police were like Micah, every last one of them needed a lantern to see two feet in front of them. Not John; he knew exactly where he was going, snaking around the decaying labyrinth with Micah's breath on his neck. They fared all the way to the leftmost corner of this maze, the exit only a few meters directly ahead. They bolted for it, so close…

And an officer popped in from the entrance just as they reached it. They jumped back as he turned to face them, disappearing in the darkness. He moved closer, holding his lantern near his eyes, illuminating his face; he was also quite young– Christ, were all of these syndicates having troubling recruiting?

"Anyone there?" The young man asked the shadows, who didn't dare call back. They waited, hearts in their toes, guns in their hands, ready for anything. They crawled back as he marched forward with the light, staying just a hair out of sight. The young man heard something in the distance, what John didn't know, the blood throbbing in his ear was so loud he didn't take notice. But he did take notice when the boy turned to leave, opening a straightshot to the exit, to freedom. To Jack. John watched him leave, tingling in anticipation–as he'd done when he was a youngster, a virgin, staring through the humid windows of Winslow's Inn and Tavern, trying to sneak a peek of the renowned town strumpet, Miss Maribel, hard at work. This was it; they were home free at last…

Then Micah shot the boy in the back, the sound echoing through the quiet night so it seemed like there were six shots.

But there weren't. Just one, right in the boy's dorsum, so large you could toss an apple through it. He was just a boy. Just a boy.

Thanks for reading, I know that was a long one. Next chapter-the one I'm real excited to publish-is equally as long, so brace yourselves! If you've made it this far, let me say: it only gets better from here. This is where I'm going to really start diverging from the canon in major ways as you'll see soon. I do have it mostly done, so I'm on par to have it out by Saturday. See you soon!