Retribution (An Assassin's Creed III story)

Eight: The Explosion

Naomi

The city has turned into a madhouse. All around me civilians are rioting, fighting against the soldiers who try their best to push the people back. The shouting in the marketplace is deafening, threatening to give me a headache when paired with the loud ringing of church bells. Achilles and I stand by a stall, whose owner is long gone, and anxiously wait for Raton to return from his errand.

I let out a sigh of relief when I spot the familiar tanned figure amidst the throng. "Raton—Connor!"

"What happened?" he asks, frowning asks he jogs towards us.

"That's what we're about to find out. Follow me," says Achilles, and we obey.

The din grows louder as we near the Old State House. The people are gathered here, both men and women alike, shouting and shaking their fists in the air. Several Redcoats push the crowd back with their muskets, some even beating the people with their weapons. Before them, the Town House is flanked by Redcoats. One of them is yelling at the people in a distinct British accent.

"I say again: Disperse! Congregating in this manner is forbidden!"

"Oi! Why don't you go back to England?" one man cries, before making a rude gesture.

"No good can come of this chaos! Return to your homes and all will be forgiven!"

The Redcoat is answered with more shouting and profanities. This crowd is a tide of fury; despite the soldiers' best efforts, they seem powerless against it. If someone doesn't do something soon, the Town House will be overrun. 

"There!" Achilles says, pointing towards two men standing in the shadow of the building. The one more regally dressed exudes British-ness, from the tricorne on his head to the way he carries himself. Across the distance, it takes me a while to figure out who he is. Raton is faster, though. He must've spent more time staring at the man's portrait than I have.

"Is that...my father?"

Haytham Kenway, Grand Master of the Colonial Templars. Our biggest enemy, our greatest threat. Also Raton's father.

He lets out a gasp, then stops it quickly, but I hear it all the same. His gaze is fixed on the man—the man who should've watched him grow up, the man who should be supporting him. The man he shouldn't have to fight.

Do you think you could hate your father, Raton?

I see it in his eyes now—the wonder and anger and longing. He cannot hate his father, no matter how much he may want to.

"This means trouble is sure to follow. The crowd is a powder keg; we can't allow him to light the fuse," Achilles growls. "I need you to tail his accomplice."

"But—"

"But nothing," he says firmly, cutting off our protests. "Go!"

Raton and I exchange a glance, communicating the roles we need to play. His stealth makes it easy for him to blend into crowds, while my speed is better suited for the rooftops. I nod once at him, then sprint off to start climbing a nearby building.

I maintain a steady pace, never letting the man out of my sight. Below me on the streets, Raton is almost invisible, disappearing effortlessly into groups of people. He glances up at me sometimes, knowing exactly where I'd be, because he would've chosen the same spot himself. We tail the man for several minutes, before he halts in an empty backyard.

He starts to climb the building then, roughly and unskilled. I snort when he nearly loses balance, but quickly slip around a chimney when he reaches the rooftop. His gaze sweeps over my hiding spot before he continues walking.

The soft padding of Raton's footsteps reaches my ears. "Let's go," he breathes.

The man is now at the edge of a rooftop overlooking the square where the people are congregated. Realization hits me, seconds before he raises his musket, and I reach for a throwing knife. But Raton is already charging at him. He lodges his tomahawk in the man's back before he can even turn around.

"Your plot has ended," he snarls at the man, holding him over the edge.

The man gives us a bloody grin. "Not quite..."

My eyes follow his gaze and land upon another man, standing on a rooftop across the square. Dread fills my stomach when I see him holding up a pistol. Before either of us can react, gunfire erupts from the handgun, the sound loud enough to travel across the chaos.

For a moment, there is silence, like the calm before a storm. Then the din returns, and over it I hear a single soldier shouting a single word—a match to light the fuse, a command to doom them all: "FIRE!"

And then they fell. Civilians—men, women, the elderly---one by one they sink to the ground, defenceless against the bullets of the Redcoats. The screaming returns—this time not of anger but terror, and I have to force myself to look away. How many died, I do not know. Yet.

The dark-haired man on the rooftop—the one who fired the first shot—is still there, sneering at us across the distance. A name emerges in my mind. Charles Lee. Of course. Where Haytham Kenway is, there will Lee be also. I clench my fists, aching to cut him down with a throwing knife. But the distance makes it impossible.

A tug from Raton breaks my stare. "We have to go," he rumbles in my ear, gesturing at the Redcoats now charging in our direction. Below us, Raton's father looks smug. I don't need to be a genius to know that he's the one who set the guards on our tail, framing us as the ones who opened fire. 

I run. My heart is pounding in the knowledge that this is for real. This isn't Raton chasing me through the woods for practice. If I get caught, my life could end.

"This way!" I yell to him, spotting a way out. I'm several feet ahead when I hear Raton stumble behind me, tripped by one of the uneven roof tiles. He regains his footing quickly, but a soldier has already caught up to him, ready to fire.

Raton glances at me. Go, he mouths, and I do, reluctantly. The soldier is already dead when I'm running, a victim to Raton's blade. I don't hear him behind me, and realize that he must've taken a different route. A well enters my sights, and I quickly hide in it. The soldiers' cries grow softer with the minutes, and I only leave my hiding spot when I'm certain they're completely gone.

I can't afford to worry about Raton now, whether he managed to escape or not. He must have, I tell myself. He's more skillful that you give him credit for. Instead, I try to gain my bearings, and focus on how I might find him or Achilles. The old man should've set a rendezvous point before he—the carriage! I almost smack myself in the forehead when the realization hits me. Retracing my steps, I make my way to the place, careful to keep out of the Redcoats' sight.