The firelight cracked low in the silence as Old Joe’s hand lingered on Jack’s shoulder. It wasn’t comfort. It wasn’t approval. It was something heavier—acknowledgment.
Jack didn’t say a word. His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on the rising column of smoke spiraling into the sky from the west end of Harmonfield. Somewhere in that direction, George was tightening his noose.
“I trained you for this,” Joe said softly, his voice just above a whisper. “But I never told you why.”
Sarah shifted beside them. “Why now?”
Joe hesitated, then nodded toward the subway wall, its old bricks blackened by soot. He limped over, dragging his cane, then knelt slowly—too slowly for someone once feared in six boroughs.
He unfastened the leather pouch from his belt and unfurled a tattered scroll. Faded, ancient,
