1680 words from page 275 of ma book

very brief context: this is smack dab in the middle of the story, napleonic era london. thomas, our perspective character here, is gonna leave his evil psycho boss vincent, but he's got one last job to do.

evelyn is a person that thomas has promised to protect

abraham truman offered to provide evelyn with a home earlier in the story

oh yeah and verena's like thomas' imaginary cat buddy. don't worry about it too much

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Vincent simply looked at him for a long time. Measuring. Calculating. Scheming. As he always did.

Then he took a deep breath and sighed. “Fine,” The Rat said.

What?

“But I want you to do one last job for me.”

One last job. That was it. Then he was free? It was that easy?

“Who is it?” Thomas asked.

“A nobleman. Big house at the end of Cross Lane, near the bend on the southwest of the river.”

Thomas paused warily, scanning The Rat’s face for some sign of deceit. It couldn’t be that simple. Vincent wouldn’t let him go that easily. But there was none. That was all he had to do. One last person. Then… he was free.

“Fine,” he said. “But… one thing.”

Vincent cocked his head.

“I don’t… want to kill more than I have to.”

The Rat raised an eyebrow, his cold eyes not leaving Thomas’s. “I can get Barker in.”

-

Finnigan Barker was a thirty-four year old ex-army rifleman, discharged after his left foot was shot off. He was good at his job.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

Thomas took the lead, his companion hobbling behind. They were headed into a tenement building, one across the street from the target’s house.

Curious eyes followed them as they walked through the open door and into the premises. Eight families lived here, and it showed – the floor was covered in grime and dirt, and the ceiling was held up by half-rotted wooden beams.

They were going up three flights of stairs.

“Help me out, would ya?” Barker said, indicating his leg and holding out his hand. Thomas begrudgingly took it and led him upwards, the wooden boards creaking underneath their feet.

“So,” Barker said, pausing every time he had to put weight on his peg leg, “Black Murderer. Last job for ya, huh?”

Thomas grunted affirmation, not looking back.

“And I get to be the one actually doing it.” Barker waited for a response. Thomas didn’t give him one. “Why – no, how are ya leaving, anyway? Nobody else gets to.”

“I asked nicely,” Thomas said, earning him a snort from Barker.

“What’re ya gonna do after, mate? Got any plans?”

“Live.”

“Solid.”

They reached the top and went down the hallway. According to Vincent, the room second to the right was the one they wanted. A family of seven lived there. The father was under Vincent’s control. Thomas knocked on the door and heard voices inside.

“It’s them.”

“I know – wake Daryl an’ Kristen.”

Footsteps came closer, and Thomas was greeted by a man his late forties, baggy eyes and scruffy beard.

“Hey there,” Finnigan said.

The father’s wide, gaunt eyes flicked over to Barker to acknowledge him then jumped back to Thomas. “You’s the two sent by – by-”

“The Rat, yup,” Barker finished for him. “We’ll just need your room for a little bit.”

“Th-that’s all?”

Thomas nodded.

“Alright, alright-” the man stepped aside to show his wife and five kids, all staring at Thomas. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Thomas and Barker stood clear of the doorway. One by one, the family shuffled past them, giving nervous backward glances at they went. The father made to speak to Thomas, mouth opening and closing, then decided Barker was more approachable.

“The Rat, he – he’s not gonna ask fer anything after this?” he said.

“Nope,” replied Barker. “You’ll be fine.”

“You… what are you going to do in there?”

Barker exchanged glances with Thomas. “Uh…”

“Business,” Thomas said.

The man gave him a jerky nod and followed his family down the hallway.

“Right,” Barker said, “Let’s see what we got here.”

The two walked in to face five square metres of empty floorboards, and one single open window.

Barker scratched his head. “Well,” he began, unslinging his rifle bag from his shoulder, “there’s our window, I guess. I’m gonna need somethin’ to sit on, though.” He thrusted the gun into Thomas’ hands. “Take this – gonna go see if one of the people here got a chair.”

Thomas nodded, Barker limped out, and Verena appeared, looking up at him.

This is it, hmm? You’re going to be free.

The cat padded over to the window and lightly jumped onto the sill, beckoning him over.

Come.

Thomas obliged, setting Barker’s rifle against the wall.

Pretty house, isn’t it?

The window looked directly into the target’s office, just as Vincent had said, and from here Thomas could tell the owner was tidy man. One large desk stuffed with papers and ink. One comfortable-looking chair. As far as most London dwellings went, it was fairly well off. As far as nobles’ houses went, though… he would’ve thought the place belonged to a middle-upper class family.

Finnigan asked you a good question. What’re you going to do after?

“Help Evelyn,” he said.

No, after that. When all this mess is over.

You have no clue, do you?

He imagined himself, the infamous Black Murderer, serial killer and mass murderer, accomplice to blackmail and extortion and torture, working as somebody’s janitor.

“No,” he answered, his mouth tightening into a small smile. Verena sighed.

Well, you’ve still got time. You can cross that bridge when you come to it.

Uneven footsteps from outside. Barker returned with a chair in hand, and Thomas moved aside for him get seated by the window.

Thomas held out his rifle bag. The man accepted it, unzipping it as he looked outside.

“Will you be able to make the shot?” Thomas asked.

Barker stopped in the middle of dusting the gun off to stare up at him.

“Will I be able to make the shot? Will I be able to make the shot?” he repeated, indignant. “Are ya really askin’ me that right now?”

“Yes.”

Barker took a deep breath. “Sir,” he began slowly, “this is a Baker rifle. This is the rifle the Army’s usin’ right now. The only one, actually. These things have ninety percent accuracy at three hundred yards, or two hundred ‘n’ seventy metres if ya wanna be French about it. An’ if you’re good – I knew this guy, Plunket, right – that cunt could hit targets at four hundred yards. And that house,” he said, turning to point a finger at the target’s office, “is not even a hundred yards away. Sir, I could hit this guy’s goddamned pinky nail if I wanted to.”

Passionate, isn’t he? Verena said.

“Only making sure,” Thomas said, keeping his face carefully emotionless.

The room fell into a comforting quiet, just the two men and the sounds of urchins and hawkers drifting up from the street below. Barker didn’t seem to like it.

“So, our guy… name’s Truman, yeah? Why’s Vincent picked him out for you?”

“Don’t know,” Thomas answered.

That was the honest truth. He wasn’t stupid – Vincent was The Rat. The Rat wouldn’t pick this particular man as his last assignment unless he had a very good reason. There would be a hitch, something that’d likely hurt him – or Evelyn. The moment Thomas had left Vincent’s office, he’d reached out to all of his contacts, Vincent’s informants, asking about the nobleman named Abraham Truman. He’d returned to the office that night as Vincent slept, rifling through his dossiers. Vincent had papers on the King, the Lord Mayor of London, thirty-four men in the House of Lords, five major chartered company owners at the London Docks, ninety-two nobles, and hundreds of middle and lower class citizens across the city.

And yet, there’d been no Abraham Truman to be found.

So Thomas had to rely on the broken scraps of knowledge given to him through unreliable sources – he was from around Dorset, he was an old man, he had money, he’d been in a war, he enjoyed crumpets. Anecdotes and hearsay. Factoids. Trivial, irrelevant, useless. All of it he’d dismissed except one thing – this Abraham Truman, whoever he was, was one of the nobles funding the Crows.

The questions had scratched into his thoughts like vermin ever since.

Why had this man drawn Vincent’s attention, make him target a benefactor of the Crows? Why couldn’t he be blackmailed or bribed, like every other nobleman before him? Why had he been chosen as Thomas’ last job? Why? Why? Why?

The whys kept itching in the back of his head as he told Barker he’d go keep watch on the ground and he made his descent down the tenement stairway, Verena slowly dissolving into mist as the job took priority.

Why?

Vincent was The Rat. There would be a hitch. There was always a hitch. But what was it? Why this person?

Why?

Why Abraham Truman? What had he done? Why did Thomas have to be involved? The questions felt like they were being branded into his bruised brain as he reached the last flight of stairs, exiting the tenement building to look at the target’s house, up at the window where Barker would shoot him. What would he do if something went wrong, if Barker missed? Run into the building and finish the job. There were few civilians walking around. He could see manservants through the windows of the lower floor, all harmless. It’d be easy, though he’d probably have to help Barker leave depending on how fast the militia came.

Voices, coming from the target’s office. Truman was in there now. Thomas’ ears perked up as he caught snatches of what the man was saying… help, home, arrange – heard a girl’s voice giving its reply…

And then he knew why.

No.

It’d take too long to go back up – Thomas bolted towards the house, roaring at Barker to not fire, shoving Truman’s people aside, shouting a warning to Truman as he took the stairs three steps at a time, hoping against all hope that either of them would hear him – but it was too late, and when he slammed the office doors open Abraham Truman was already face down on his desk, a big fucking hole where his brain used to be, and Evelyn Whitehill was already splattered with blood and staring at him and something slammed into him from behind and everything became a blur.