"When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"

In time, they'll begin to form a profile. They'll find links between the three movements, tenuous ones maybe, but enough to assume they're exactly that; links in a grander chain. Public targets, not mafia insiders, they've all been people or places that anyone could find out about with a dime for a copy of the Echo. Custom weapons, brutal things that either kill instantly or inflict suffering. Some degree of demolitions training, based on the streetlights.

Maybe they'll think it's a rogue element from one of the families, maybe a new crew looking to get a foothold. Most likely? Ex-military, not a new arrival in town based on the familiarity of neighborhoods targeted. Unaffiliated with all the current players, not looking to buy guns or sell drugs, only a real criminal because of all the damned killings.

Someone'll leak it to the Konoviches, some dirty cop with quick hands who can grab the file without men like Trent seeing. They'll take it to the streets, then, start gunning for every vet who fits that shaky shit framework. I can wait, I can let them be the monsters again instead of me. Wish I could stop thinking about the park, but that won't happen. Wish in one hand, shit in the other.

I wonder how the faith in the city is these days. Do any of these people have doubts now? Do they ever wonder like Blake did when he wrote of the Tyger? Because according to their faith, I was made this way, in God's own image; it's divine will. According to my beliefs, I chose it freely. Which would sit worse with these people?

Today's for rest, for reading, starting blueprints. Tomorrow, recon and craft. The day after that, I knock down the house of cards again.