Smart guy. He smelled something off. I left and didn’t come back. But I learned what I needed: the place closed late, and he stayed behind alone to count the money.
That would be the time. And then there was Wade Crispin, the leader. Thirty-two years old, ex-con.
Did time for armed robbery. Got out three years earlier and built himself a crew. Terrorized the town, lived in the red-roofed house on School Street.
Two-story house with a basement where he kept cash, stolen property, videotapes. That was also where he met with people who owed him. Drove a late-model car and always carried a real gun.
Not a toy. I watched him for two days. Wade didn’t work anywhere.
Lived off interest, threats, and fear. In the mornings he drove out on business, met people in the next county. In the evenings he came home and drank.
Sometimes Steve and Luke came by and they talked business. Deputy Peters showed up too. They drank together. That told me all I needed to know. The gang had cover.
By the third day I was done. I knew enough. Luke was drunk, slow, and careless. Steve was smart but predictable.
Wade was dangerous, but arrogant. All three had the same weakness: they weren’t expecting anyone to come after them. They thought the whole town was scared of them, and nobody would dare.
They were wrong. That evening I sat at home sharpening a knife.
My old Army knife. Heavy, sharp, dependable. Mom watched me from the kitchen without saying a word. She knew what I was preparing to do, but she didn’t stop me.
Maybe she was too tired to be afraid anymore. Maybe she wanted it over. I finished sharpening, slid the knife into my boot, and put on a dark jacket and knit cap.
I checked the clock: eleven o’clock. Luke got off in two hours. Mom came over and put a hand on my shoulder.
“Alex, be careful.” I nodded. “I will. Go to bed. I’ll be back by morning.”
She didn’t ask where I was going. Didn’t ask what I planned to do. She just hugged me hard, the way she used to when I was a boy.
Then she let go and went into her room. I stepped outside. Warm, quiet night.
Bright stars, nearly full moon. Pretty as a postcard. I walked through the sleeping town, past dark houses and the occasional streetlight. Reached the empty lot near the bar.
Found a spot behind an old garage and stayed in the shadows. From there I could see the back exit, but nobody could see me. I waited an hour. Then another.
Finally the door opened. Luke came out swaying, drunk as a skunk. Singing loud, cussing to himself, cutting across the lot just like I knew he would.
I waited until he was halfway across. Then I stepped out and followed quietly, heel to toe, the way I’d been trained. Luke didn’t hear a thing.
He stumbled along humming to himself, tripping over weeds. I caught up to him in the darkest part, where the brush closed in and there wasn’t a light anywhere. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.
Luke grunted and tried to jerk free. I drove a punch into his solar plexus, clean and hard. He folded over, gasping.
“Who the hell are you?” he wheezed. I leaned close to his ear and said in a calm voice, “I’m the son of the woman you beat.”
“You remember calling her names?” Luke went pale, even in the dark. He tried to reach for his gun.
I hit his arm and the pistol flew into the weeds. Then I drove my knee into the outside of his thigh, right where it would shut the leg down.
Luke dropped and howled. I crouched beside him and watched him writhe.
He was crying. This big, soft bully was crying and whining in the dirt. I pulled out the knife.
Luke saw the blade and started screaming. I clamped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet,” I said. “You scream, I kill you.”
“Stay quiet, and I just break you. Your choice.”
