The silent rumbling of thunder and the loud crack of lightning woke the prisoner from his slumber. It was dawn and today was the day of his execution. He sat chained from his wrists to the cold stone wall. Out the window of his cell he saw the gallows being prepared.

Two weeks have passed since he was caught. The bruises and scars of multiple beatings were starting to heal.

He was angry.

Not angry that he got caught, but angry at the people who caught him. This does not happen. Not to him. He had been close to capture before, he’s even been close to death before, but he always escaped. His once nicely groomed beard and hair were now disheveled. His clothes torn to pieces, dirty and hung from his thinning frame. He looked like a beggar on the streets of Port Wellington, hoping that a kind stranger would drop a doubloon in his hat.

The clinking of keys removes the prisoner from his thoughts. He could hear the sound of footsteps coming closer.

They were coming for him.

It was time.