I am unaware as to what Mrs. Orlando’s exact reaction was to the destruction of her family. I do know, however, that a large number of troops was called in to prepare to scour Cross for me. She, or whoever she engaged to prepare the troops, was smart enough to quarter the troops in a building rented solely for the purpose of housing those who would hunt me.
This, I expected.
It took me some time to discover its location in Fitchburg, Massachusetts, but when I did, I was pleased to discover it was in a non-residential area.
I brought my equipment with me into the city and waited. After supper, all the troops had returned to their makeshift barracks. They were, from what I could gather, not given permission to be out and about after dark. Mrs. Orlando seemed adamant about this last decision, and I am quite pleased she was.
The bombmaker’s art not only requires finesse and skill, but it requires a willingness to die because of one’s own mistakes.
I planted a bomb in the barracks, and then, when I was sure there was little danger to those not involved, I destroyed the building.
Dozens of men were killed, and scores more were injured. Only a few were left unscathed, and they all abandoned their post as soon as they could.
I don’t blame them.
Tomorrow, Mrs. Orlando shall continue to reap what she has sown.
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