by Tom Lowe
And then a cloud crept in front of the moon.
Total darkness. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It stopped after two vibrations. I waited for the cloud to pass. Would he be on the trail near me? Would he have passed me? Or would he be directly under me?
The crickets stopped first—all at once. They stopped chirping. Within three seconds, the cicadas became silent. And then the cloud ebbed away. Moonlight again drenching the trail. A man was coming. Slowly. Stealthy. Maybe seventy-five feet away. He held a rifle. One hand near the trigger-guard, the other hand gripping the forearm. The tip of the barrel pointed ahead of him.
By the time he walked ten feet closer, I could tell he was wearing a deputy sheriff’s uniform. Deputy Ivan Parker was hunting me. He appeared to be alone. His radio was either turned off or disconnected. A twig popped under his feet. He stopped. Waited for a few seconds and then proceeded.
I had to time it perfectly for maximum shock. I was approximately fifteen feet above the trail. He stood close to six feet. When I jumped, I needed to hit with both feet on his shoulders, about a ten-foot jump. Gravity and my 210 pounds would bring him to the ground. I was betting he wouldn’t hold the rifle with a hit that powerful.
He was less than twenty feet away. Walking slowly in the dead center of the path. Come on…a few more steps. Five feet. I stood. Waiting for the exact second. Then I jumped. In the moonlight, I aimed for his shoulders. My boots made square impact. I heard a subtle pop. He hit the ground hard. Face first. A whump sound when his chest slammed into the dirt. The rifle flew out a few feet in front of him. He crawled to it. I charged him, grabbing his shoulders, pulling him back. He turned in my grasp, landing a punch to my mouth. He pounced, pulling a knife from his belt, rushing me. I sidestepped, blood dripping from my split lip. He dove at my legs, trying to tackle me. I brought one knee up into his face. His nose snapped, blood pouring from ruptured skin and cartilage.
Parker glared at me, reaching for his knife. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!”
“Drop the knife!”
“Sure!” He threw the knife hard at me. I turned, the knife vanishing in the thicket. I reached for my Glock just as he scrambled and grabbed his rifle.
“Don’t do it, Parker!”
He hesitated a half second, turned and raised the barrel in my direction. I fired once. The round hit him in the chest. He shot again, the bullet just missing my left ear. I knew now that he was wearing a bulletproof vest. I aimed in the moonlight, firing a second round. This one hit him in the center of his forehead. He fell back, dead—the moon iridescent, reflecting from the dark pool of blood forming next to his open mouth.
I lowered my Glock, a mosquito whining in my ear. I thought of how wrong I’d been about the man I just killed. Remembering the day I spoke with him in front of the coffee shop.
“We got to try to bring closure to that lady.”
“That’s the plan, Deputy Parker.”
“If we’re working together, just call me Ivan. That’ll do fine.”
I held two fingers to my lip, slowing the blood flow. I remembered the incoming call I’d received while squatting on the tree limb. I looked at my phone. Lana Halley. I pressed the redial button. “Sean, I got your message. Are you okay? Did Deputy Parker arrive?”
“He did. But he’ll have to leave in a gurney.”
“You killed him?”
“He left me no choice. He was hunting me. Hunting me with a high-powered rifle. He shot at me twice. Close range with the rifle. I returned fire. His body is on the Bellamy Bridge trail, about half way down the trail.”
“I understand. Are you okay?”
I pressed the back of my hand against my bloody lip. “Define okay.”
“I’ll call Sheriff Monroe. He’s fair and he exemplifies integrity.”
“I’ll wait for the cavalry at the trailhead parking lot. Lana…”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“See you soon. I’m working on getting Jesse released.” She disconnected.
I walked under the bright moonlight toward the parking lot, thinking about the conversations I’d had with Parker. Trying to replay verbal or visual clues that would have made me suspicious. There were none, at least I didn’t see them. Maybe I’d let my guard down too quickly, wanting to believe in his honor, his honesty, before seeing proof that it was ever there.
I’d walked back to the trailhead parking lot sooner than I anticipated. I figured I had maybe a fifteen-minute wait until the sheriff’s deputies and investigators deluged onto the lot. There were no streetlights, only the light from the moon. I’d put my Glock on the front seat of the Jeep and stand outside, unarmed, when they arrived. They’d demand that I put my hands on my head and spread my legs. Then they’d probably cuff me.
I anticipated that Detective Lee would lead the posse. I hoped it was Sheriff Monroe, assuming Lana got through to him. Either way, there was nowhere I could go. I’d effectively reported the incident to one of the district’s lead prosecutors and had asked her to notify law enforcement. Done. For now.
I opened the Jeep door, placing my Glock on the seat. I closed the door and looked across the lot at the sheriff’s car left there by Deputy Parker. I stepped to the front of my Jeep and leaned against it, waiting. I could see deer tracks in the soil a few feet away. Wide-spaced. Probably a buck. The tracks looked fresh. The front tracks and the back far apart. It looked like the deer had been running across the lot. Maybe spooked by the sounds of gunfire. I stepped up to them, hit the flashlight app on my phone and knelt down to examine the tracks.
There were others. Tracks from man. Imprints from a boot. A boot with a pyramid shape on the heel. It was then I heard the sound of a pump shotgun, followed by a low voice. “Lemme see your hands! Turn around slowly, O’Brien.”
I stood, raised my hands and turned around. The man had the 12 gauge pointed at my chest. I recognized him. Military haircut. Gym body. He wore a jean jacket with cut-off sleeves. I could make out the tattoo. Army Rangers. I remembered Jesse had said the man’s name was Ace something…Ace Anders.
He looked at me with no expression on his face. “Give me your phone.”
I reached in my back pocket, lifting out Jesse’s phone, handing it to him. Anders tossed the phone into an open trash barrel. He grinned. “Now it’s just you and me. Get in your Jeep. There are some people who want to meet you.”
SEVENTY-SIX
Ace Anders held the 12-gauge on me walking back to the Jeep. He stepped to the passenger side and said, “Get in.”
I knew I had no more than two seconds to pick up my Glock and get off a round before he fired the shotgun. At this range, it didn’t make any difference what was in the shells—buckshot or slugs, I would be cut in half. When he opened the door the dome light turned on. He spotted the Glock and said, “Don’t even think about it. Back up!”
I stepped back and he reached across the seats, lifting the Glock. He looked up at me and gestured. “Let’s go! I’m assuming you killed Parker or he’d be standing here instead of you.”
I said nothing. But now I knew Anders had ridden here with Parker.
I sat in the driver’s seat. He sat on the passenger side, holding the Glock on me. “Drive.”
“Where we going?”
“Leave the lot and turn right. I’ll give you directions as we drive.”
I started the Jeep, put it in gear and drove by the abandoned sheriff’s car, turning right onto the highway. He didn’t take his eyes off me. His breathing was steady. Unruffled. Changed from the shotgun to the pistol with ease. He had the moves and demeanor of a pro—a mercenary. A hired gun. I said nothing for the first mile. I figured he would speak only when he was giving directions or orders. I said, “You wear some nice boots. Expensive. Made for jungle combat. If I recall, only one manufacturer makes that boot. The pyramid on the heel is sort of like the Nike logo, but you only see the pyramid when the person wearing the boot leaves tracks. You get around.”
<
br /> “Shut up!”
“Sure, as soon as you tell me why you sold out Jesse. Takes a big man to hang a noose from a tree in the front yard of an elderly black woman. Takes a helluva man to burst into Jesse’s room, a Ranger brother, and beat and brand him while you and your pal are hiding behind masks. And it really takes a tough guy to assassinate Jeremiah Franklin, an innocent unarmed man.”
“Fuck off. I’m a soldier for hire. We got a war on our hands here. I’ve seen it across the world. Now it’s here, more than ever.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Myself. I do free-lance contract work. Make a right at the cattle gate.”
I slowed and turned right, driving down a dirt road. No sign of farms or people. Just thick woods on either side of what felt like an old logging road. After a mile and a quarter he said, “Take the next left.”
“Do you work for Jeff Carson?”
“None of your fuckin’ business.”
“Or maybe you work for the whole Johnson family. Maybe you have your favorites and Cooter isn’t one of them. Maybe he’s a little too liberal for your tastes. That it?”
“Might as well run your mouth while you still got a voice box. These ol’ boys back here do stuff that makes ISIS look like a bunch of pussies. You’ll see.”
We drove to what appeared to be a ramshackle farm setting with trailers and out buildings. I remember what Dave had said after pulling satellite images: ‘Looks like some kind of compound back in the swamps. Lots of fencing. Some wetland. In the dry area, I’m counting five trailers…something that resembles a farmhouse, a couple of barn-like structures. I could see an old farmhouse to the far right, a single bare light burning from the front porch. Various barns and portable garages scattered about the property.
I counted three doublewide trailers. Rusted cars were on blocks in the front yards. A trampoline ripped and sagging. An antique tractor, paint long faded, was parked in one yard. Weeds grew tall around the tires. There were broken barbecue grills, faded wooden picnic tables, four-wheelers with flat tires. White smoke twisted from an opening in a trash barrel with holes drilled near the base. The smell of charred garbage hung over the place.
I counted seven pickup trucks. One was the yellow late fifties model I’d followed the night Cooter Johnson left Shorty’s and took a girl to a motel near the Interstate intersection. Any plans I’d been thinking about to infiltrate this compound were now out the window. The biggest advantage you get facing an enemy is the element of surprise. Remove that, especially when you’re vastly outnumbered, and the odds of survival go exponentially down. The logarithms of living can only be counted in milliseconds of timing, luck and cunning. I knew, that in just a few minutes, I’d need all that and more to walk out of here.
Anders said, “Drive to the left and head toward the big barn.”
I drove up to an old barn that was in bad need of paint. The boards had long since turned ashen gray from years of Florida sun and rains. There were no pickup trucks in the immediate vicinity of the barn. Maybe the clan was still asleep and Anders would have to wake them to come see the trophy he’d captured in the woods.
Anders continued holding the Glock on me, reaching for the shotgun next to him. “Park it, turn off the motor and give me the keys. Then get out.”
I handed him the keys and opened the Jeep door. He did the same, putting the Glock under his belt and cradling the shotgun in his arms. He said, “Stand next to the door.”
I stood there while he used the barrel of the shotgun to tap four times on the large wooden door. I heard walking coming from inside, the sound of metal scraping, a sliding bolt unlocking. The massive door swung open, rusted hinges squeaking.
Light poured out. The interior was lit from a half dozen bare bulbs hanging by cords from the rafters. Seven men stood inside the barn. Most unshaven. All carrying guns and bad attitudes. Some with pistols. Others with sawed-off shotguns. Two with assault rifles. I could smell burning marijuana, whiskey and body odor. Not a good combination.
In the center of the group, sitting down, was an old man. He wore a Stetson, gaunt face with white whiskers. His blue denim shirt was buttoned to his neck. Sleeves rolled to his scrawny elbows. He raised his right hand, pointing at me. I could see the tattoo on his forearm—the Southern Cross. In a rasping voice, Hack Johnson said, “I hear you been lookin’ for me, son. Now that you found me…what you gonna do?”
SEVENTY-SEVEN
The small crowd parted, men shuffling out of the way as another man came from somewhere in the recesses of the barn. It was the same man I’d met the day in front of Ruby’s Coffee shop. Solomon Johnson wore jeans, shirtless. He was barefoot. Toenails long. Chest filled with ink. A large tattoo of a Nazi swastika, a shamrock with the letters AB, an image of a human skull with deer antlers coming out of the sides and twisting into the numbers 666. There was a gloss of sweat over his body. He wore lightweight training boxing gloves.
He walked up to within three feet of me, his eyes flat. “I warned you that day. But you didn’t listen. You come here and stir up trouble.” He gestured back to the old man in the foldout metal chair. “You tryin’ to have the law mess with daddy. That won’t fly in Jackson County. Our family is the law…sometimes that’s the lawless.” His men snorted and chuckled. “Earl, Cooter, ya’ll hold onto this dumb fucker.”
Cooter, and another man walked toward me. I recognized the other man, Earl, as one of the two men I’d encountered when I was looking for Jeremiah Franklin’s property. His right wrist was still in a cast, which meant he’d be a little slow to lift the pistol he slid under his belt. Earl leaned in my face and said, “Hey asshole, remember me. Before the night’s over I’m takin’ a baseball bat to your arm. Eye for a fuckin’ eye.”
They stepped behind me, each man grabbing my arms by the wrists. Solomon Johnson swung hard. I turned quickly, trying to avoid a direct hit. His gloved right hand connected with my right cheek. Then he used his left to slug me in the mouth. I felt the taste of blood, spots floating in front of me for a second. I feigned weakness, a wounded soldier. I didn’t have the element of complete surprise, but I might be able to fake just enough physical signs for the men to lower their guard.
He grinned, massaged the knuckles on his right hand. Then he hit me square in the gut. I’d tightened my stomach muscles to deflect as much of the impact as possible. I doubled over, blood dripping from my mouth onto the hard-packed dirt floor. He drew back and delivered a hard hit to my forehead, the blow causing two seconds of total black before my eyes.
He slapped me playfully on the right side of my face, bent down and said, “I’m lovin’ this. It’s better than the best video game.”
I looked up at him and smiled.
He said, “What’s so fuckin’ funny motherfucker?”
“You are.”
His gang laughed. He paced in front of me and said, “Here’s a punch line.” He drove his fist into my ribs. “I don’t see you laughin’.”
I stared at him a moment. “This is your last appearance before your handpicked followers.”
“Why’s that ass wipe?”
“Because I’m going to kill you.”
He laughed, his laughter sounding like a jackal howling. And then he hit me in the jaw, the blow causing a few seconds of vertigo. I let my legs go slack.
He looked at Cooter and Earl, smiling. “Ya’ll can cut him loose. He can barely stand up.”
He turned and looked back at the others. “Who wants to skin him?”
All the hands shot up. Excitement of a kill in the eyes of wolves. I continued bending over, pretending to cough, spitting blood, looking back at Earl who was laughing and grabbing his crotch.
“Who wants to cut his balls off and feed ‘em to the pigs?”
The same number of hands shot up, two men passing weed and sipping from a bottle of Jack Daniels.
Timing and luck. I had to cut the head off the snake.
I reached back fast. Less than a second, jerki
ng the pistol from Earl’s pants. I shot Solomon in the center of the Nazi swastika. Ace lifted the shotgun. I shot him in the throat. I grabbed Earl by his beard, pulling him in front of me and shoving the barrel into his ear canal. “Lay down your guns! Now or he’s the third that’ll die here tonight.”
Solomon glared at me, falling onto his knees, blood pumping from the middle of the swastika. “Turn my boy loose!”
“He’ll be your dead boy in three seconds. Lay down the guns!”
Solomon gestured to his men. “Set ‘em down boys. Ain’t no way he’s getting’ off this land alive.” Then Solomon toppled over, his dead eyes locked on my position, right arm extended, his middle finger pointed.
In the distance came the sweetest sound I’d heard in a long time. A helicopter incoming. I could tell by the rotor sounds that it was two choppers. Within seconds they were over us, powerful spotlights crisscrossing the compound. I could hear sirens, the advancing pulse of blue and red lights. It looked like the cavalry was finally coming. I backed out of the barn, dragging Earl with me. I pushed the barrel in farther. “Walk backwards!”
I held Earl hostage in front of the barn so the police pilots could see us. The squad cars were pouring onto the property. Lights in the doublewides turning on, dogs barking. I looked over my shoulder. Some of the cars were from the Jackson County Sheriff’s department. Some from the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Others from what I assumed was the U.S. Marshal’s office.
Both choppers flew stationary, hovering at forty-five degree angles in the air away from the barn. One of the spotlights was trained on me, the other light illuminating inside the barn. Dozens of men in uniforms, badges and guns descended around the barn. Someone on a PA system said, “Everyone out! Come out with your hands on top of your head. You are completely surrounded.”
The men inside the barn hesitated. Some looked at the old man for guidance. Others looked at Solomon Johnson’s dead body.