The plan was simple. Get in, get the poor bastard out, and get the hell off the island before the whole prison came down on you. Of course, with Dutch’s plans, it was never that easy.

You and Arthur crouched in the shadows near the outer wall, the wind biting through your clothes. The boat you’d come in on rocked just offshore, your only way out. Inside, alarms hadn’t sounded yet. You still had time.

Arthur adjusted his hat. “We do this quiet, we do this fast.”

You shook your head incredulously. “When do things ever go quiet?”

Arthur huffed, looking back at you. “Fair point.”

You both slipped through the yard, dispatching guards with brutal efficiency—knives in the dark, muffled grunts, bodies hitting the dirt. But as you reached the cell block, a rifle cracked through the night.

So much for quiet.

The warden stormed in, flanked by shotgun-wielding guards. “You have any idea who you’re messin’ with?” he sneered, aiming his pistol at Arthur’s chest.

Arthur’s lip curled. He stepped forward, undeterred by the guns in his face. “You think I care who you are? Your law don’t mean shit to me.” Then he shot the warden square in the gut, chaos erupting.

You dove behind a crate, returning fire as Arthur grabbed the keys from the dying man’s belt. He kicked open the prisoner’s cell—wasting no time on words—before dragging them out into the crossfire. The three of you sprinted through the courtyard, bullets ricocheting off the stone. More guards poured out of the towers, shouting, firing wildly.