At a little past midnight, I took a canoe out to King George’s Island, the largest of my islands in the lake. When I reached a small cove, I tucked the canoe away, slipped my pistols into their holsters, and made my way further inland. I sat and waited until dawn broke over the horizon, and then I hunted my prey.
I found him encamped on the lee side of the island, where the old fence remained from when the Bloods and the Coffins kept our sheep during hard summers long before the colonies rebelled.
He had radio equipment and a tent, and I found him busy at his work. The stranger moved as if nothing in the world could touch him, and I was pleased to correct this error in his thinking.
I hobbled him with a single shot through his left ankle, then sealed his fate with a second shot to his right. For a short time, he held his tongue.
For a short time.
By mid-morning, once I’d amputated both feet and was slowly roasting them over his fire along with a pot of his coffee, he spoke. He told me of an organization, a group of soldiers and sailors inspired by the recent revolutions in Germany and Russia. The bombing of the Boston to Cross train had been a test run for more ambitious goals.
I asked him the name of the man who was his contact, and at first, the stranger refused. After I force fed him his toes, he told me he spoke with a man named Derrick Wright, in Boston.
Armed with the information I needed, I undid the tourniquets on his ankles and drank my coffee while he bled out.
I would celebrate the fourth in Boston, looking for Mister Derrick Wright.
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