Christopher Sheffield paused in the rain. In San Francisco it was spring, so it was pouring.

The rain was heavy, but it was also refreshing. It soaked through the newly buzzed hair of his head, and dripped down across the scars of his forehead and the large angled scar on his left eye. Across the bridge of his flattened, yet still strong, nose. Across and into his thick bristled beard.

Sheffield shuffled through the satchels that he held underneath his thick black raincoat.

There was one for Leone in New York City.

For Paulie Stripes in Miami, the Donnally brothers in Boston and the Rasputin family in Montreal.

There was one for Semion Mogilevich who had just gotten out of the lockup for tax evasion. He had gotten a senior position at a medical insurance company in Washington D.C. Sheffield grinned at the fact.

Satchels went out to Gambino, Gigante and Morello, and more specifically to the Don's behind these families.

Even information for the Croatians and the Yakuza.

At the bottom was even one for the Widow Doyle, because hell, she had always been quite the Lady Macbeth, evidently.

In total, there was at least a dozen satchels with there own information. The addresses would litter them all across the East coast.

Sheffield let the hard rain hit the satchels for a moment, and then dropped them into the mail.

Whiskey Jack, Alias, Christopher Sheffield… he sighed, and breathed in the fresh rain air.

Lightning flashed, and the thunder was soon to follow.

The easy part of all of this was over.

Now the hard rain, was gonna fall. In the west.

“And what do you do now, my blue-eyed son
And what do you do now, my darlin’ young one
I’m a going back out fore the rain starts a fallin'
I’ll walk to the deepest of the deepest dark forests

Where the people are many and there hands are all empty
Where there pellets of poison are flooding there waters
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison
And the executioners face is always well hidden
Where hunger is ugly, where the souls are forgotten
Where black is the color, where none is the number…

And I’ll tell it and I’ll speak it and think it and breath it
And reflect it from the mountains so all souls can see it
Then I’ll stand on the ocean, till I start a sinkin’
And I’ll know my song a well ‘fore I start a singing

It’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.”

- “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” Bob Dylan

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