Start with the weakest one—Luke Cabbott. Then the middle brother, Steve. Last would be Wade Crispin, the one in charge.
Each one would answer for what he’d done. No police, no witnesses. Clean, fast, professional.
I knew how to do that. The Army hadn’t taught me murder, but it had taught me hand-to-hand combat, pressure points, how to neutralize a man quickly and efficiently.
I knew where to hit to break, disable, and stop somebody cold. And I knew discipline: cool head, clear steps, no wasted emotion. I finished my cigarette and crushed it out.
I lay down on the folding cot in the front room and closed my eyes. Tomorrow I’d start gathering information.
I’d learn where they worked, where they went, who they spent time with. Then in a few days I’d move. Before sleep took me, I remembered my mother crying.
Her broken fingers bent at the wrong angle. The way she whispered that she was afraid. My last thought before sleep was short and hard.
They were all going to pay. Maybe not all at once, but every one of them. For every bruise.
For every tear. For every ounce of fear. I slept just fine.
My conscience was quiet, because I believed what I was about to do was right. I spent the next three days studying them.
In the Army they taught us: know your opponent better than he knows himself, and you’ve already won. I started with Luke Cabbott. He was the easiest read.
He worked as a bouncer at a roadside bar on the edge of town. The place had the grand name Firelight Café, but really it was a greasy little joint with three tables and a room full of drunks.
Luke worked evenings until closing, throwing out troublemakers and pretending to keep order. I went in as a customer. Sat in the corner, drank beer, watched.
Luke was big—close to 220 pounds—but soft, thick around the middle. Muscular arms, sure, but slow. The kind of guy who thinks size is the same thing as skill.
He carried a cheap handgun in his waistband and made sure everybody saw it. Drank on the job and by midnight was half lit. He got off around one in the morning.
He left through the back door and walked home alone. Lived in a run-down rental on the edge of town. His route cut across an empty lot—dark, isolated, no traffic.
Perfect. Steve Crispin, the brother, was smarter. He ran a car wash—his own place.
Opened at eight in the morning, closed at nine at night. Not much business. Mostly he used it to handle his brother’s side work. Held cash, met with debtors, moved stolen goods.
Always sober, always careful, always had a knife in his pocket. Medium build, but you could tell by the way he moved that he knew how to fight. I went by the car wash the second day pretending to be a customer.
Asked about getting a neighbor’s car cleaned. Steve looked me over and narrowed his eyes. “Who’re you with?”
I smiled and said, “The Parkers, over on River Road. Neighbor asked me to bring it by, but he got stuck at work.” He nodded, but he didn’t trust me…
