Something could be seen just off the shore of New York's coastline, swaying against the inky blackness of the night sky. As it rocked closer, the indeterminate figure morphed into the outline of a small boat full of silhouettes.

"Men, at the ready," came the command cutting through the still, graveyard silent night air, and the collective sound of some 50 or so guns cocking was heard.

The boat was now about 30 yards off the coast.

"Fire."

The steady raining of bullets and the soft thudding of shells hitting the sand rang through the darkness. The silhouettes dropped like flies, one tumbling overboard with a distant splash.

"Cease."

The night was still one more. The soldiers looked out over the now calm Atlantic Ocean, watching for signs of movement from the boat as they stood in silence, invisible in their all black uniforms.

Only one man moved, the only one wearing a black armband with an insignia of silver flames. Commander Marx, Blaine Marx. His amber eyes moved over the faces of all his men.

"You can head back to the base now, boys. Seems like it's gonna be a quiet night."

"Yes sir! Thank you, sir!" They saluted him, grateful to get off early tonight. One man spoke up as most were leaving:

"But sir, who's gonna haul in the -," he paused for a second, searching for the right words. "- you know." He finished his sentence with a jerk of his head towards the ocean.

Rafael Lake was the name of the young man standing in front of him. He was one of the younger ones, only 22.

"Don't worry about that, Lake. I've got this one."

"Uh - yes. Yes, of course Commander." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

"Go on and head back to base, son." Marx clapped him on his back, laughing.

As Rafael retreated, Blaine turned back to the water and watched as the small boat bumped against the shore. He walked over and grabbed the edge. There were two bodies inside, riddled with multiple bullet holes. The corpses' shirts stuck to them, sticky with the red substance coating them. The same blood was leaking from their mouths. It was a man and a woman. Rings glinted from each of their left hands, spouses. Marx pulled the gold pieces off of their fingers and pocketed them. He then examined the bodies noting their dark skin and curled hair, the opposite of him. Wasting no time, he picked them up one-by-one and dumped them into the ocean. He watched the bodies sink and then dragged the boat farther onto the mainland and across the beach to the storage facility. This was the regular routine of the US Coast Guard. I wonder what it would be like to not have to commit murder everyday. Blaine shook his head clear of those thoughts as he shut off the lights in the storage facility. Right as he turned to lock the door behind him, he heard a small sound coming from inside. Soft weeping. Someone was inside the facility, and they were crying. He stepped back in and turned the lights back on.

"Who's there?" His voice boomed into the large space, bouncing off the white walls. The sobbing continued. It was coming from one of the boats, the boat he just brought in. He walked over to it and looked in. He didn't see anything until he looked under one of the benches in the boat. A little girl looked back at him, absolutely terrified. She was shaking and wide-eyed, her dark brown curls covering her left eye and blood spattering her blue dress and brown skin. She didn't look more than 6 years old.

Blaine pulled out his gun and pointed it at her, motioning with it for her to step out of the boat. She complied, her whole body shaking and tears flowing down her face.

"Please mister, please don't shoot me. Don't kill me like my mama and daddy and brother!" She begged him.

Brother? Marx thought about it for a second. The silhouette that fell over the boat. That must've been her older brother. Blaine looked at the little girl's tear stained face and his finger loosened on the trigger. He couldn't do it. He never hesitated, but he couldn't do it. He lowered his gun and looked at her. She was a beautiful little girl. Long, curly dark brown hair and big brown eyes. Clear brown skin like melted chocolate. She made him think about how he always wanted a daughter. A daughter to be his "daddy's little girl." But this girl couldn't be his, she was a refugee, an immigrant. She was illegal.

But she was perfect.

"I-I'm not gonna hurt you," he said to her. "I'm sorry about your family, but you're not safe here either. Please, come home with me. I'll hide you."

She looked up at him through her flowing locks. "Promise?" She asked him in a small voice, sniffling.

He smiled. "Of course sweetheart."

She looked at him for a heartbeat, scrutinizing him to see if he was telling the truth. Deciding he was, she ran to him, wrapping her small arms as far around his waist as she could. He swung his gun around to his back, letting it hang behind him on its strap. He picked her up and held her in his arms and she wrapped hers around his neck.

"Thank you," her tiny voice whispered warming his heart.

I have to get her out of here.

Blaine rushed out of the facility, shutting the lights off and locking the door. He ran to his car and placed the little girl in the backseat. He pulled out his phone and texted his second in command telling him he was unwell and needed to go home immediately. He then sped off into the night.

Once home, Blaine began to ask the girl a series of questions about herself. He found out that she was five years old and her name is Allison Vyas. She's also Indian. Not afraid of him anymore, she allowed him to bathe her and clothe her in one of his shirts which she wore as a dress.

The knowledge of what he had done hit him full force as he watched her asleep in his bed. He was harboring an immigrant. He had given refuge to this refugee, the one thing he was never to do. He had committed treason, and he liked it. He would keep this girl safe and destroy the Coast Guard, that was a promise. These refugees were human too and deserved to be treated as such. He would make sure everyone saw that.