Blood of Cain

66

An hour later, I knew I wasn’t going to get my wish. I’d hoped the rain would not arrive before the mercenary. It did. The clouds fanned in and the temperature fell. It was as if a black hood had dropped over the moon. Gone. The first drops were large, splattering through the branches and leaves, the rain cooling the old quarry-stone chimney that still harbored warmth generated by exposure all day in the Florida sun. Now it was cool to my touch.

I could no longer see my driveway, the road was swallowed in black. I looked just above what I thought was the end of the drive, hoping I might somehow see movement. Nothing. The rain fell harder, water rolling down my face causing the charcoal to run. My hair was drenched. I glanced up into the sky, it was like staring into a coal mine.

Lightning marbled white hot veins through the gut of the clouds. I instinctively looked toward the end of my drive. And there he was. His image caught and frozen for a second in the flash from the lightning. Dressed in military fatigues. Right down to his combat boots. I could only see one man. Maybe that’s all they thought they needed. They were wrong.

I crouched down behind the chimney. I knew he’d survey the perimeter of the home, staying back, cautious of motion detectors turning on floodlights. Often the movement of rain is enough to trigger some motion detectors. He’d quickly find the silhouette in the window. The falling rain would make it more difficult to see movement inside the house. And if he got close enough to peer in the window, the trap door from the roof would fall on him. I knew he had orders to kill Courtney. I assumed he had orders to kill me, too.

Max barked. Two barks. Muffled, but there.

I stayed low, squatting and moving to the side of the roof above the bay window. The light coming from the window extended about ten feet into my yard. Within seconds he’d moved to the edge of the light. I could now see his face, right down to his boots. Kim’s voice ratcheted in my mind. ‘He’s about your height, but stocky. His hair is blond … cut short. His ears stuck out just a little. He had cleft chin and hateful green eyes.’

And there he stood. On my property. Next to my house. Pistol in his hands. He stepped closer to the window, raising the gun up. I recognized it: a FNP .45 Tactical. Often used by Special Forces soldiers. It will fire up to fifteen rounds as fast as the shooter can pull the trigger.

I watched him. He leveled the pistol. Held it with both hands. Stepped to within three feet of the window. Pointed the .45 and fired in rapid succession: bam — bam — bam — bam — bam.

Five shots. At the end of the fifth round, lightning exploded in the top of a tall pine. Thunder reverberated. I dropped from the roof. All two-hundred-ten pounds landing squarely on his shoulders. He fell flat on his back, his lungs trying to suck air into them. I slammed the shotgun stock into the center of his forehead. His eyes glazed, looked at me, black streaks running down on my face, wet hair, right fist cocked. His eyes grew wide — confused, and then dull, a second before rolling back in their sockets.

I turned him over, pulled his hands behind his back, and used duct tape to bind them. Then I picked him up, lifting the dead weight over my shoulder, carrying him through the rain down to my dock. I lowered him to the very end of the dock, extending more than seventy-five feet into the river. The rain stopped and quiet settled over the river. I looped a rope around the man’s belt. His eyelids flickered and then opened. He stared up at the night sky, the black clouds gone, the moon back, its light reflecting off the dark surface of the river. A cottonmouth moccasin made S movements swimming across the river.

I stood over the man and said, “I love a full moon. It really makes the river come alive. Lots of activity on the St. Johns under a full moon. What’s your name, soldier?”

He cut his green eyes to my face. Silence.

“Okay. I assume you’re under orders not talk about your mission. But you see, part of your mission included hurting a good friend of mine when you and your buddy broke into her home. I know you like to play with fire. You know what I like to play with? I’ll tell you … alligators.”

He’s eyes narrowed. I could see him dry swallow. I said, “Tell me who sent you.”

He shook his head. “You can’t stop them. They have access to dozens of guys like me. You might stop me, but another will take my place immediately.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Who sent you?”

“Go to hell.”

“We’re seventy-five feet out into the river. From this point, the current kicks to the right because it hits the jetty just before my property, and it flows faster toward the center of the river. Similar to how a billiard ball bounces from the rail of the table. So when I throw you off my dock, you’ll be in the center of the river in less than half a minute. My guess is that it’ll take the first gator about that amount of time to swim to you. It’s mating season, and they’re more hungry than usual.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“When a big guy like you tortures a woman, a friend of mine, it brings that trait out in me. Guess what, there’s a gator in here longer than my two-man kayak. I call him Samson. My neighbor says ol’ Samson pulled down a huge deer that tried swimming the river a month ago. Who sent you?”

“Fuck you!”

I kicked him off the end of the dock. He vanished under the black water, seconds later popping up more than fifteen feet from the dock. With his hands behind his back, he kicked hard, trying to tread water. The current carried him farther away from my dock. He fought hard to keep his head above water. Splashing. Spitting water. Ringing the dinner bell.

There was the sound of a plop across the river, like a tree falling into the water. I said, “Hear that? That was probably Samson. He’ll crush your entire chest cavity in one bite. The next gator will clamp down on your leg. It’ll be a tug of war. They’ll pull you apart like a wishbone.”

Under the moonlight, he looked around frantically, head moving side to side. He could see a large alligator swimming from the far bank of the river. Nostrils and eyes out of the water. The tail like a big paddle.

“Get me outta here!” he screamed.

I rolled video on my phone. “Who sent you?”

“Pull me in!”

“Who sent you?”

“Please! I have a wife and kids!”

The gator was less than one hundred feet away. Eyes like rubies in the moonlight.

“Pull the damn rope!”

“Tell me what I want to know.”

“I don’t know!”

“Bullshit.”

“Please!”

The gator was gaining, swimming faster.

“I can’t die like this!”

“This is the last time … who sent you?”

“Orders came down from Senator Logan’s camp.”

“Who in his camp?”

“I don’t fucking know! Swear to God!”

“Gator’s about thirty seconds from you.”

“I heard it was Timothy Goldberg. He runs Logan’s donor campaign.”

“What do they want?”

“The girl dead.”

“What girl?”

“Courtney Burke. She’s a huge liability for Logan. Please!”

I set the phone down, lifted my Glock and fired a shot in front of the gator to scare it. It submerged beneath the surface. I pulled the rope — fast, hand-over-hand, reeling in the terrified soldier. I grabbed his belt and lifted him up and out of the river, the gator rising to the surface less than twenty feet away. The man flopped on the dock, exhausted, breathing hard, vomiting. I played back a few seconds of his confession on video. He looked up at the video screen on the phone, his face in sheer disbelief. He closed his eyes.

I said, “Get up.”

“Wha—”

“Up!” I lifted him to his feet, left his hands tied, picked up the shotgun, and chambered a shell. “Let’s take a walk.”

“Where?”

“To your car.”

I followed behind him. We walked to the highway and more than one hundred yards west. He’d parked the car under some live oak trees off the road. I said, “Here’s the plan. You’re getting off easy tonight. You’re going to drive away, meet with your contractor and tell him your confession is on video — taped under the moonlight, good sound and a clear picture. Your team is going to let Goldberg and Logan know that if they continue hunting Courtney Burke, I will upload this video to YouTube. Let’s see how fast it’ll go viral. And then let’s see how fast Logan’s presidential bid goes down in flames. Turn around.”

He turned around and I used my knife to slice through the duct tape. I stepped back, tapped him between the shoulder blades with the shotgun and said, “Get out of here. Deliver the message and all of this stays buried. If you ever return, you won’t walk away.”

He opened the door to his car and turned back to me. “Who the hell are you and where the fuck did you train?”

I was silent, the cicadas echoing in the woods.

“The girl … is she your daughter? Is that why you’re putting the crosshairs across your back?”

“I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.”

He shook his head, started the car, and drove down the road, the red wash from taillights spattering against the cabbage palms and live oaks. I watched him drive past my driveway.

This time he didn’t tap the brakes.