The Swamp Killers

by Sarah M. Chen

  “Information.” Settle showed the guy his badge.

  The bartender’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want to know?”

  “I’m looking for a guy.” Settle described Milici, looks and behavior, careful to watch the bartender’s face for any sign of recognition. When he mentioned Milici liked to flash his cash, Settle noticed a flicker.

  “What did this guy do?” the bartender asked.

  Settle smiled. “Just need to talk to him is all.”

  The bartender exhaled. “Yeah, okay. Guy like that was in here last night. Did just what you said. Big spender, lousy tipper. Had a woman on his arm, but that didn’t stop him from playing grab-ass with the local talent.”

  “Any idea where he’s staying? Maybe you overhead something?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Anything out of the ordinary that you do remember?” Settle reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty, handed it to the guy. He’d replenished his supply after meeting with JoJo.

  “Thank you, sir.” The bartender stuffed the bill into his front apron pocket.

  “Thank the taxpayers.”

  “Uh huh. Well, my memory seems to be coming back a bit. There was something a little odd, now that I’m thinking about it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Right after your guy and his woman left, another dude left, too. Like maybe he was following your guy. Didn’t really put it together until now. Busy place like this, it’s hard to register everything that goes down in real time. But now that you’re asking…Yeah, I think that’s how it was.”

  “What did this second guy look like?”

  “Tall. Ripped. Dangling earring. Badass, if you ask me. Just nursed a single beer the whole night, if I recall correctly. At least he left a decent tip.”

  Settle handed the bartender one of his cards. “I’m staying up the street. If either of those guys shows up, will you call me please? The taxpayers would be very grateful for that kind of help.”

  The bartender smiled. “Sure. I’m a civic-minded guy.”

  The next morning, Settle woke up and downed four Advil. He hadn’t had much to drink last night as he scoured the clubs looking for Milici, but the loud music and the few beers he did have conspired to make his head pound. What he wanted now, more than just about anything, was a cup of coffee. And not the hotel room shit. Something from a chain that specialized in coffee. He remembered a Starbucks on the next block.

  He tugged on some clothes, left his room, rode the elevator down to the lobby. He was staying in some low-budget Holiday Inn knock-off, one just like all the rest. On his government salary he couldn’t afford to live large. Especially the way he augmented his informants’ payouts with his own cash. Settle knew he had a bad habit of getting emotionally attached to his CIs, but he felt for JoJo and wished there was something more he could do for the man and his struggling family.

  Settle crossed the small lobby, ignoring an urn of brownish swill labeled coffee set out near the registration desk. He pushed through the entrance doors and was hit by a blast from an inferno. Not even nine a.m., and the day was already shaping up to be brutally hot and humid. He turned right and headed for the Starbucks, walking slowly to baby his still-recovering back.

  He got about ten yards when a big man fell in step next to him. “Hello there, bucko. Take a right down the next alley, and nobody will get hurt.”

  If this was just a random mugging, Settle might have pulled his piece and neutralized the situation immediately, but a mugger with any sense whatsoever wouldn’t target someone as large as Settle. He had a feeling his questions last night stirred up some cockroaches. “Sure thing.”

  Thirty more yards, and they veered into a block-long, empty service alley.

  Settle shrugged the man’s hand off his arm and turned to face him. The first thing Settle noticed was a dangling silver earring shaped like a pistol. Pleased to meet you, Pistol the Hitman! “What can I do for you?”

  “What can I do for you?” Pistol repeated in a mocking tone, then laughed, evidently not used to being spoken to so politely. He was tall and broad through the shoulders, with a narrow waist like an Olympic swimmer, not an ounce of flab.

  The service weapon on Settle’s hip felt reassuring. He hadn’t survived for as long as he had by being careless, or macho, or out to prove a point. He’d survived by being calm and methodical, with a large helping of skepticism thrown in. He couldn’t tell if Pistol was packing, but with his nickname, Settle assumed the worst. He stood tall—as tall as he could with a gimpy back. “Now would be a good time to tell me what you want. Or I’m going to walk away. I need my morning coffee.”

  “Tough guy, huh?” The words came out more tentative than Pistol probably intended; his bravado seemed to be thawing fast.

  “Come on, I don’t have all day.” Any other punk, Settle would have already been on his way, but he needed to know where this was heading.

  Pistol sneered, as if he was trying to buck up his courage. Then he reached behind him, pulled a gun from his waistband. Pointed it right at Settle’s chest. “I know you’ve been asking around about Timmy Milici. You can forget him. Not your problem. I’ve got everything under control.”

  “You do, huh?” Settle allowed himself a small smile.

  “That’s right. You just crawl back under your rock, and we’re good.”

  “Look, Pistol, I know who you are. A second-rate hired gun.”

  At the mention of his name, Pistol’s eyes dilated, then snapped back to normal size.

  “Listen, Milici is mine, and if I come across you again, you’ll be mine too. What we call in the business a freebie.” He jiggled his gun in the air, punctuating his point.

  Settle knew Pistol said freebie, not feebie, but he figured now was a good time to identify himself. “I’m FBI. Special agent.” He held up one hand, open palm, so Pistol would see it was empty. “Gonna show you my credentials.”

  Pistol’s eyes grew wide again, and this time, they stayed there. “Go on, let’s see. Slowly.”

  Settle withdrew his badge from his pocket. Held it up. Luckily, it didn’t say Disability Leave anywhere on it.

  Pistol lowered his gun but didn’t put it away. “Bartender didn’t tell me you were the law.”

  “Maybe you should’ve paid him more,” Settle said. “Why don’t you crawl back under your rock? Leave Milici to me. You don’t want to get into any trouble yourself. I mean, more than pulling a piece on an FBI agent.”

  “Man, I got no beef with you. In fact, you never saw me.” Pistol turned on his heels and walked—briskly—out of the alley and out of Settle’s sight.

  Settle put away his badge and continued to Starbucks. He just wasn’t right without his morning jolt of caffeine.

  “You said that there was some serious cash if I located Milici, right?” JoJo asked for the tenth time.

  “Just relax. Have I ever failed to take care of you when you’ve delivered?”

  “Naw, you always been straight with me. How we’re friends, I guess.” JoJo looked sideways at Settle from the passenger seat. “We friends, right?”

  “Of course. Now, chill, okay?” Settle got a call about two hours earlier from JoJo, and after he’d told the man to calm down and talk slowly so he could understand, JoJo told Settle where Milici was reportedly crashing. JoJo had spent most of the time since their meeting at the bowling alley contacting his street network, trying to get a bead on Milici. His persistence finally paid off. Somebody heard that a dude from Atlanta—in trouble with his mob—had commandeered a buddy’s getaway cabin out toward the Okefenokee.

  They continued on their quest, driving along narrower and narrower roads, through smaller and smaller towns, until it seemed as if they’d left civilization altogether.

  “We getting close, boss?” JoJo asked.

  “According to the GPS, we’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Nineteen minutes later, Settle bro
ught his car to a stop on a slight rise overlooking the cabin, which sat at the bottom of a natural amphitheater. Heavy brush, brambles, vines, and scrubby trees formed a barrier between the road’s shoulder, where they’d stopped, and the cabin. Because of the elevation, though, most of the property was visible from their vehicle.

  A black Escalade sat in front of the cabin, at the end of a winding gravel driveway.

  From their vantage point, they couldn’t see any activity, but that didn’t mean squat. Settle didn’t really expect to see Milici on his knees out front planting daisies.

  “What now?” JoJo asked. “Gonna call for backup?”

  Under different circumstances, Settle would have called for assistance. But he was going rogue here, and despite cornering a fugitive federal agent—presumably—he wasn’t sure how the local law enforcement officials, or even agents from the nearest field office, would feel about him playing cowboy.

  Besides, Settle still wasn’t one hundred percent certain what he was going to do when he confronted Milici. Haul him in? Or administer a more permanent solution?

  He stared at the cabin. Something was nibbling at the back of his brain. “Did your source say if Milici was here by himself?”

  “Got the impression that Milici was alone, but I also heard he was traveling with a woman, so…” He shrugged. “Sometimes my sources don’t always get the details right.”

  They’d passed a white sedan parked on the side of the road, about half a mile back. When they’d driven by, Settle assumed it had belonged to someone fishing or gator hunting. Was it possible it belonged to Pistol?

  Settle turned to JoJo. “You tell anyone else Milici was holed up here?”

  JoJo’s eyes did the two-step. “No, sir.”

  “Goddamn it.” Settle had interrogated enough criminals and liars to know truth from fiction. “Who did you tell?”

  JoJo didn’t answer. He also didn’t meet Settle’s gaze.

  “Did you tell Pistol?”

  JoJo shifted in his seat to lean back against the door, as far from Settle as he could manage. “I didn’t want you to destroy your life.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t want you to kill Milici. Killing a man ain’t easy. Oh, the killing part ain’t so difficult. It’s the living with the act that’s the hard part. I know, Ell. I know.” JoJo shook his head somberly. “’Sides, you don’t want to do nothing to risk your career. Your pension. Close to taking it now, I imagine. Begging you, don’t kill him. Don’t.” Genuine concern colored JoJo’s face. “Promise me, man.”

  Settle had never shot a suspect in the line of duty. Or anywhere, for that matter. But he’d been around others who had, and JoJo was right about what a killing could do to a man. “I’m not going to kill Milici. Not what we do at the Eff Bee Eye. My plan is to bring him in, let him face justice. Trust me, facing trial as a traitorous agent would be worse for him than a quick death.”

  Until this very minute, though, Settle hadn’t known, for sure, which way he was leaning. But he had a sworn duty, he’d dedicated his life to justice the way justice ought to be dealt, and he figured he wasn’t going to destroy an entire career to settle a personal vendetta, no matter how much his ex-partner had fucked him over.

  He glared at JoJo. “Explain something. If you didn’t want me to kill Milici, why bring me here at all?”

  JoJo’s gaze fell to his lap, and he mumbled something.

  “What?”

  He raised his head slightly. “I did tell Pistol that Milici was here, Ell, I did. Well, actually I told a guy who knows a guy who told Pistol.” JoJo jerked his head over his shoulder. “Fact, that’s probably his car we passed, ways back. I just wanted the reward. Hell, I need the reward. Figured Pistol would be done with his business by the time we got here, and we’d find the body, and that’d be good enough for me to get paid. I’m sorry.”

  “Shit. Stay here.” Settle pointed at JoJo and growled at him. “I’m not kidding.”

  JoJo shrank against the door. “Got it.”

  “Just be cool, okay?” Settle unlocked his door, hoisted himself out of the car, drew his service weapon, and lumbered toward the cabin.

  Ordinarily, Settle would have gone right down the incline, through the dense brush. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line and all that, but not with a bad back and bushes and trees and uneven terrain factoring into the equation. He figured he was more valuable upright and sixty seconds later, than stuck in a bramble patch with a twisted ankle and seized-up back.

  He aimed for the mouth of the gravel driveway, trying to keep low, jogging as fast as his back would allow. As he ran, he kept expecting a gunshot to pierce the woodsy silence and tear through his flesh, but none came. Was Pistol hiding someplace, just waiting for Milici to emerge from the house before he popped him? Or had Pistol somehow gotten inside and started torturing his ex-partner before killing him?

  Another possibility arose in Settle’s mind. Maybe JoJo’s source was full of shit and Milici wasn’t anywhere near here.

  No matter which scenario proved to be right, Settle had to assume the worst. When he reached the mouth of the driveway, he started down the side of the gravel driveway, trying to balance speed with silence while keeping out of sight.

  He stopped twenty yards from the front door and took cover behind a tree. He glanced at the car, up on the rim of the amphitheater bowl, but it was barely visible. He hoped JoJo wouldn’t get bored and decide to come “help.”

  Settle turned his attention back to the house. No sounds came from within. No movement behind window shades. Only a few squirrels zipping around in the trees. If his life were a movie, this was the moment when the ominous soundtrack that signaled impending doom increased in volume.

  Settle pondered his choices. He could walk up, knock on the door, and hope Milici answered, wondering why his ex-partner had come calling. He could try to kick the door in, but his back started aching just thinking about it. Or he could wait things out, see what developed.

  But if Pistol was already inside, how long could he afford to do nothing?

  Just as Settle was prepared to knock on the door and try to reason with his ex-partner, a rustling behind him caught his attention. He spun around to see JoJo carefully picking his way down the hill, bending back branches as he traversed the direct-line shortcut from the car.

  Settle waited as JoJo finished his trek through the underbrush. “I told you to stay in the fucking car,” Settle said, keeping his voice down.

  JoJo leaned in, close to Settle’s ear. “He’s here.”

  Settle’s gut started rolling. He didn’t think JoJo was talking about Milici now. “Who?”

  “Pistol. In the backyard. I saw him from the car. He’s waiting in the bushes just like you.”

  Bad news: Pistol was here. Good news: Pistol hadn’t killed Milici yet.

  “Get your ass back to the car,” Settle said to JoJo. “And keep your head down.”

  Settle waited for JoJo to start back up the hill, then turned to the matter at hand. He had to get to Pistol before he attacked Milici. As many problems that might be solved if Pistol killed his ex-partner, Settle knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he let that happen.

  He began circling in the direction of the backyard, keeping behind the tree line. The terrain was flatter here, in general terms, but there were still roots and holes and rocks to avoid. Each uneven step sent a small jolt reverberating along Settle’s injured spine. When he wrapped this up, he was going to soak in a hot tub for a week.

  A large, out-of-shape man, a bad back, the need for stealth, and irregular terrain added up to slow going. But as long as Pistol didn’t begin his assault on the house, it didn’t matter if it took ten minutes or two hours. Silence was the key.

  After what seemed like an eternity and a half, Settle had finally worked his way far enough around the house to survey the backyard. Mostly open, grassy la
nd, ringed by vegetation. He scanned the brush, searching for Pistol. The growth was thick, but there were gaps in the foliage where Settle could see for a distance.

  In his mind, he laid out a grid and systematically began a visual search of the area, left to right, farther to closer. About thirty yards away, something popped. Something that didn’t fit with the rest of the woodland scenery. Sunlight glinting off a silver earring, perhaps?

  Settle stared at that spot and gradually was able to fill in the missing pieces of the picture. Pistol was crouching or kneeling behind some brambles, staring at the house, probably planning his next moves, exactly as Settle had been not ten minutes ago.

  As long as Pistol kept his attention trained on the back of the house, Settle’s plan was simple. Ambush from behind. He tracked to his right, slowly, carefully, about fifteen yards. The undergrowth was slightly thicker here, and he encountered more of an upslope, so once again, Settle took his time. He lost sight of Pistol but kept the man’s relative position fixed in his memory. He kept circling until he figured he was behind his quarry, maybe twenty-five yards or so.

  He peered through the bushes, trying to regain his target. He glanced over his shoulder, to the top of the rise, but couldn’t see the car. Bad angle. He wondered if JoJo was watching the whole thing unfold from his vantage point on high, and he wished they’d rigged up some kind of communication system so he could relay how close Pistol really was.

  Absent that, Settle would just have to trust his gut. He turned ninety degrees and advanced, hoping to catch Pistol directly from behind. With each step, he held his breath and prayed he wouldn’t snap a twig underneath that would give away his presence. Where he’d been going slowly before, now he was moving in total slo-mo, doing his best to ignore the increasing agony in his back.

  Another five excruciatingly slow steps. Gun up, finger on the trigger. Pistol had to be close. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck.