Fuzzy Navel

9:56 P.M.
SWANSON

THIS IS TAKING FAR TOO LONG. The more time Swanson squats here, waiting for a shot, the more time he has to dwell on why this is the granddaddy of all bad ideas.

So far, he’s only killed one man – the one who attacked Jen. That scumbag deserved to die. It isn’t Swanson’s fault that Munchel went butternuts and wasted all of those cops. Swanson had nothing to do with that. But this – staking out a police officer’s house and trying to murder everyone inside – Swanson is a full participant in this colossal mistake. Prior to this, a savvy lawyer could ensure that he wasn’t charged with Munchel’s murder spree, and a sympathetic jury might even let him off for wasting the pervert. But he’ll get the death penalty for what he’s doing right now.

The temperature has dropped, the wind picking up. Swanson wipes the sweat off the back of his neck, finds it cold as a mountain stream. He’s on his stomach, legs behind him, and his right pants cuff has ridden up, exposing his calf to the cool night air. He wastes a moment reaching back, covering his skin, and his shirt untucks and bares his belly to the breeze.

Noise, to his right. Swanson tries to swing the cumbersome TPG-1 around, gets the barrel hung up on the ground. He moans in his throat, getting onto his knees, ready to run for it.

“Easy, Swanson. It’s me.”

Pessolano.

“Dammit! You scared the crap out of me! I could have shot you!”

“Hard to shoot while running away.”

Swanson thinks about correcting him, about insisting he was adjusting his position for a better shot. For some reason, even with everything going to hell, Swanson wants the respect of his men. He’s still team leader, still the one calling the shots.

But instead of making excuses he takes control, asking, “Why didn’t you contact me over the radio?”

“Didn’t come here to talk.”

Pessolano hands something to him. A scope.

“Night vision,” Pessolano says, “to see inside the house.”

Swanson takes it. Of course Pessolano has night-vision scopes. If everyone in the house turned into vampires, Swanson would bet that Pessolano also came equipped with stakes and garlic. “Did you give one of these to Munchel?”

“I went to his spot. He wasn’t there.”

Swanson frowns. “Munchel is gone?”

“Said he wasn’t there, didn’t I?”

“I heard shots coming from his direction a minute ago.”

“That was me. I put a few into that refrigerator. That’s a seriously heavy-duty appliance. I may pick one up for myself.”

Swanson feels like a kite in a high wind, his string unraveled to the end and ready to break.

“Maybe we should go too,” Swanson says.

Pessolano hawks up a big one, spits it in the grass where Swanson had been lying.

“I got the cop,” Pessolano says. “Head shot.”

Another cop dead. Swanson feels like cringing, but doesn’t. Pessolano is wearing those stupid yellow sunglasses, and Swanson doesn’t know if he can see his expression in the dark. So he forces himself to say, “Good work. Then we can get out of here. I bet Munchel got bored and went back to the bar.”

“We’re staying,” Pessolano says.

“Why? The cop is dead.”

“There are witnesses.”

“How can there be witnesses? They can’t see us. We’re two hundred yards away.”

“Munchel said the cop had an infrared scope.”

“Munchel’s gone!” Swanson yells. “How do we know he was telling the truth?”

“Vehicle approaching,” Pessolano says.

They both drop to their bellies. A dark sedan rolls into the cop’s driveway and parks behind the other three cars.

Pessolano begins unfolding his bipod, setting his rifle up.

“What are you doing?” Swanson hisses.

Pessolano pulls back the bolt and loads a round. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“We don’t even know who it is!”

“Who cares?”

Swanson stares, overcome with impotence, as Pessolano shoots out a tire on the sedan. The car shifts into reverse, but Pessolano puts two quick shots into the engine, forcing a stall. The driver parks the car, kills the headlights. Swanson uses the night-vision scope, sees a portly man get out on the passenger side, opposite the rifle fire. The man has a badge hanging around his neck.

Another police officer.

“It’s a cop,” Swanson hisses. “He might have called for backup.”

Pessolano slaps another magazine into his Alpine.

“He didn’t. I’ve been watching.”

“But he still can. I’m sure he has a radio in the car.”

Pessolano squeezes off another shot, and the sedan’s window shatters.

“Not anymore,” Pessolano says.

Swanson looks behind him, in the direction of their truck. He can still run for it. He’s only killed the one pervert. He’s still one of the good guys.

“I don’t have a shot on the fatty,” Pessolano says. “I’m changing position. Cover me.”

Swanson continues to stare off into the darkness, away from the mayhem going on around him.

Pessolano’s voice is soft, menacing. “During Desert Storm, we executed deserters.”

Swanson turns back, locks eyes with Pessolano. Though Swanson knows diddly-squat about the military, he’s pretty sure that they don’t kill the people who run away. They get court-martialed, or arrested, or something less serious. He wonders, not for the first time, if Pessolano has been lying about his war record. Or if the man has even served at all.

“Are you threatening me?” Swanson asks.

“We started this war,” Pessolano says. “We have to end it.”

Jen leaps into Swanson’s mind. His sweet, innocent, damaged wife. She isn’t aware of Swanson’s plan, has no clue he just killed the man who attacked her. It’s supposed to be a surprise for her birthday. He’s pictured the scene in his mind a thousand times: He shows her the newspaper, she sees that it’s finally over, that she can finally go back to the way she used to be, then he admits that he’s the one who pulled the trigger, and she embraces him, calls him her hero, and everything goes back to the way it used to be.

Will Jen still think he’s a hero if he kills a bunch of cops? Will she understand that the only way to see this thing through is if some innocent people die?

No. Jen will never understand that. She will never forgive him.

“Are you going to cover me or not?” Pessolano asks.

Swanson makes his decision. A decision Jen can never know.

“I’ll cover you,” he tells Pessolano. “Just show me how to change scopes.”