For 20 years, I was the quiet neighbor who mowed lawns and never raised his voice.

Underneath was my old Louisville Slugger baseball bat. Ash wood. Weighted.

I picked it up. I gave it a test swing. The air hissed.

I looked at my reflection in the dusty window of my truck. The eyes staring back weren’t the eyes of John the gardener. They were cold. They were dead. They were the eyes of a man who had hunted in the dark for a living.

I didn’t wait for him to come to me. That’s a defensive strategy. I was Special Forces. We don’t defend. We assault.

I got in my truck. I didn’t turn on the headlights. I knew the way to Mark’s mansion on the hill. I knew the way to hell.

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