“You ready?” Bruce Fuller asked his younger brother, Simon.

            Simon nodded, but his wide eyes gave him away. He wiped sandy hair from his face with a sweaty hand, while the other one lingered near his right pocket.

            Bruce sighed. I need to toughen this kid up. Twenty years old, and still scared of his own shadow. “Get yourself together. I do this shit all the time. They’ll never respect you until you do it too.” He tucked his Colt M1911 into his waistband. “Just follow my lead.”

            The two men exited their silver Subaru and marched up to the dilapidated house. Broken shutters hung from the window frames, and several shingles were missing from the roof. The front yard wasn’t much better: uncut grass brushed past Bruce’s knees, and mosquitoes buzzed around the stagnant pool of water filling a rusted wheelbarrow. Even the air stank. The sooner they could be done, the better.

             The rotting wooden front door looked like it might cave in with the slightest touch, but Bruce couldn’t resist an opportunity for theatricality. Smiling, he kicked the door with all his strength. The bottom half splintered off and fell away. Bruce stooped low to fit his tall frame inside, careful not to scrape his bald head on the fractured edges.

            “Afternoon, gentlemen,” said Bruce with a half-smile as he drew his gun.