:Sly grimaced as he walked toward the end of the pier.  The wind of the wee hours swept a stinging salty spray into his eyes.  To his left, two large thugs dragged a man by his armpits, breathing loudly and grunting occasionally:

"Stop here a minute," he instructed them.  They laid him down.

:Leaning in close to the nearly unconscious man, Sly could smell–almost taste–his bloody tears.  The smell, mixed with the fresh moistness of the dock's timber, returned Sly to days of his youth.  Sweat and bait and fish blood.  Fishing with an uncle.  Or his father, when he had the time:

"I'll give you one last chance to make it all right," he told the man, softly, as they were only a few inches apart.  "Tell us who sent you, who's got you following me, and this will all disappear.  Fail to do so, and you'll disappear.  Capiche?"

:The man showed no sign that he had heard.  He simply blubbered a few sobs through the blood and tear mixture covering his chin.  Sly wiped a few flecks which had flown onto his own chin and motioned for his two compatriots to continue forward with the man. 

Walking sideways, sharing the load, was awkward for the large men.  It was a long and narrow dock, which jutted out to what seemed to be nearly the center of a narrow section of the Delaware River. They stopped to regain their grip, and one man changed tactics, attempting to lug their limp cargo on his own, over his back, like a firefighter.  The dead weight proved too much for him, though, and he slipped on the wet boards, nearly toppling over the side. 

As the second thug rushed up to catch him and assist with his now unconscious burden, Sly was struck with a vision of Simon of Cyrene, the man who had helped Jesus carry his cross.  Simon, Sly's mother had told him, though a beacon in the Christian community, was disowned by his own people and later  beaten to death.  The tale of his kindness, she had said, was one of her favorites.

The two men sat the spy on the end of the dock, as if he were fishing.  The four remained there in silence for several minutes.  Sly stared out over the not-quite silent water while the two thugs lit cigarettes. 

Leaning over the man, supporting himself on the corner post, to shove him into the water with a gentle kick, Sly barely looked down.  His eyes were fixed on the clouds as they covered and passed the moon, and his thoughts were fixed on the souls of his mother and father.  He said a prayer for their sakes as the group, now only three, turned to make their way back toward dry land: