Just Evans didn’t know this at the time, but he had two crosshairs sighted on him. Before I got into town, I phoned for backup in case my new protégé decided to get ornery.

I set a pair of surgical gloves, nail clippers, Sharpie pen, and a Ziploc bag on the dashboard of my Range Rover. I looked to Just Evans, who was shaking like the last leaf on a tree.

“It’s not right...” he muttered, to which I replied:

“You know what ain’t right?.”

He stroked the nape of his neck. Met my gaze.

“Shaking babies,” I started. “Not rocking a li’l too hard, as some first-time fathers do. No, I’m talkin’ about sneakin’ into the nursery late at night to work problems out on your own kid.”

His eyes widened to saucers. “How do you --?”

“Till he passes out,” I interrupted. “Now that  ain’t right.”

“How the fuck do you know about that?”

I could see his fingers inch for the hilt of my Ruger.

“I told you: debt trickles down the family tree. I’ve had a few chats with your mom.”

This took Just Evans even further aback. “What?”

“Trust me, given our talks, I can tell ya there’s no love lost between her and the monster hiding on the other side o’ that door.”

He looked away from me to the trailer afar. He crossed his arms and put our conversation on Mute. We just sat there, listening to the wind rustle through the treetops. Birds chirped from their lofty shanties.

Finally, I said: “He hated you both, Robert. So what’s the hold-up?”

“Don’t call me that. That’s his name.”

I pumped the steering wheel. “Look, I get it. My daughter’s got the same disease as your ol’ lady. Girls like them are flames for the moths.”

Just Evans looked askance at me.

“Her last guy was one of the businessy types; could’a sold sand to an Arab. My wife and I thought we had a winner, but this… phew... let’s just say he had a mean streak.”

I stopped to roll down the windows. The sun was turning the inside of my SUV into a hot oven. Or maybe I had altitude sickness, because I recall the AC being on full-tilt.

“I remember picking Boo Boo up at the ER,” I continued. “She tried sleeping pills first, but when those didn’t work, things… escalated.”

I loosened my tie and searched the center console for some antacids. “Always felt somethin’ was off about the guy. But when he’s all smiles in the lobby room as nurses stitch up his girlfriend’s wrists? Mm-mm.”

I popped a couple of Tums into my mouth.

While chewing, I said: “My wife still hasn’t forgiven me for this, but I grilled Boo Boo that night. Hard. You wouldn’t believe the crazy shit that came outta her mouth. Turns out, she wasn’t the only one being tortured by this maniac.”

I shook my head in disgust. No amount of therapy can ever erase what I saw that night.

“He hid his work,” I grimaced. “We had to pull off Quinn’s underwear to find the cuts.”

Just Evans looked as uneasy as my ulcer. “That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Who does that… to a kid?” I asked him, just as I’ve asked God every night since.

I turned to my protégé, eyes brimming with fatherly hatred. He’s seen this look before.

“I invited the bastard to our lake house for some ‘father-son-in-law’ time. We canoed to an island halfway out, which happens to be where my wife and I made Boo Boo.“

“Hold up,” Just Evans interjected. “You did him there?”

“On the spot,” I replied matter-of-factly. “Put a rose on it.”

His lip curled up, as if I’d forced him to drink spoiled milk.

“Everybody owes something,” I told him. “And It’s our job to take what’s owed.”

Just Evans turned once more to his father’s trailer, now tapping the hilt of my gun.

“Are you workin’ me right now?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“What?”

Suddenly, Just Evans whirled around and jammed the Ruger’s muzzle to my chin.

“I said: are you workin me?’”

“Careful...” I warned him. Softly. Very.

He dug the muzzle deeper into my chin, pressing my head into the ceiling.

“Does she know about this?!”

I reached out the window and motioned for my backup to stand down.

“Does she?!” he repeated, the gun quaking in his hand.

“You and I both know she’s smart enough to put two and two together.”

That seemed to calm him down (it didn’t). He lowered the gun and went back to gazing out the window. I was about to apologize for the circumstances, but that was before he punched a crack into the plastic lining of my door.

“This is so twisted, man! What the fuck is wrong with you people?!”

“That’s going on your tab!” I roared. So did my stomach.

I considered backhanding Just Evans, but then his father appeared at the trailer door. His face was booze-reddened and marked by a 10 o’clock shadow and cigarette-stained teeth.

“You cops?” he hollered across the yard.

“Time to open the closet and face your monster,” I told his son.

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck him,” I corrected Just Evans, pointing past him. “His mistakes brought you here. Not me.”

“Y’all better have a search warrant!”

I honestly wanted to know: “How long are you gonna let his past define your future?”

At that moment, a certain darkness fell over my protégé. He looked from the items on the dashboard to his father.

That look on his face. Killer instinct.

His voice dropped to a stage whisper. “What are the fingernail clippers for?”

“Proof’s in the pudding.”

Upon his dumbfounded look, I clarified: “DNA.”

“Hey dumbasses, I’m talkin’ to ya!”

I figured he’d need one final pep talk to bring him all the way over, but Just Evans was done yapping. He sheathed the Ruger under his belt, pocketed everything off the dashboard, and then opened the door.

“Do it inside,” I instructed.

When the deadbeat dad recognized his deadbeat son, he whistled at his guard dog, who obediently rushed into the trailer.

He motioned for Just Evans to come inside.

Rusted latches squealed as Just Evans opened the front gate. His first step into the yard was cautious if not ponderous, like an unwelcome vampire. After that, however, he walked with growing confidence towards his first client.

With an enigmatic smile, the redneck latched onto his son’s shoulder and led him inside the trailer. My protégé shut the door behind them.

I used a fast food napkin to dab the sweat on my forehead. It just got hotter and hotter up here.

“You sure about this kid?” asked BACK-UP ONE as he absconded his cover in the forest.

He propped his Barrett M82 rifle across his shoulders. Started walking for me.

“He’s no chicken dinner,” I replied, stuffing the drenched napkin in a cup holder.

“Then why don’t we just send them both on a vacation?” inquired BACK-UP TWO, approaching the SUV from behind.

He propped his rifle against the trunk and lit up a cigarette. “We still got the mom.”

BACK-UP ONE came to the driver’s side door. Sunlight bounced off his Raybans.

“Did Shay give you the news?” he asked rather coyly.

I was burning up. I undid the first couple buttons of my shirt.

“What are you talkin’ about?”

“She’s pregnant,” he informed me, nodding towards the trailer. “We don’t need ‘em”

Soulless fucks.

I put on a fake smile. “Let’s just wait and see.”

BACK-UP TWO appeared next to his colleague.

The arrogant prick leaned against the door, blew cancer in my face,  said: “You’re not going soft on us, are ya Joe?”

I coughed. “Fuck off. The Agency asked me to train him and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

The back-up laughed at that.

“Whatever you say,” said BACK-UP ONE.

BACK-UP TWO peered over the tops of his shades, looking past me.

I turned the other way to where he was looking to see Just Evans standing at the dark entrance of the trailer. In one hand, he held Ziploc bag containing ten fingernails and a smoking gun in the other.

BACK-UP TWO stamped out his cigarette. “We’ll follow you home.”

Just Evans watched BACK-UP TWO retrieve his rifle.

The two shaded men hit the trail.

He stayed motionless on the porch, unsure what to do next.

“It’s OK,” I assured him. “Get in.”

“Who were those guys?” he asked, opening the passenger side door.

“You’re not the only one in training. They’re tailing me to make sure I don’t kick your ass for denting my ‘boogie ride’.”

“Just get me the hell outta here.”

He tossed the Ziploc bag onto my lap, put the Ruger on the floorboard, and climbed in.

I speed-dialed Boo Boo while starting the car.

It was here that I made a critical mistake.

“Everyone left a couple hours ago,” Boo Boo said on the other end of the call.

“Any leftovers?” I asked while turning to my now official replacement.

“Enough for two?”

Just Evans stared at his dad’s fingernails as they bounced in the Ziploc bag on the dashboard. No expression there. Shell shock.

But then tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

Uh-oh.

My mistake was that I should've made him give me back the Ruger.

“Gotta go. Love you bye, “ I said hurriedly, ending the call.

Just as I did, he quickly leaned forward, grabbed my Ruger, sat upright, and blew holes through his chin, the back of his head, and the roof of my SUV.

I was blinded by the muzzle flash and all the blood, but in honestly, I should've seen them 30 seconds earlier.

The SUV collided with the elk family at 76 miles an hour.

The cow’s neck snapped  in an instant.

We didn’t hit a speed-bump -- it was Mama's legs crunching under the tires.

Her newborn calf tumbled over the hood. His head slammed into the windshield like a meteor.

We hydroplaned into the hard shoulder and flipped twice to a dead stop.

The airbag never deployed.

My eyes fluttered open to see the newborn calf’s head sticking through the windshield. It was still alive. Just barely.

With a grunt, I turned to Just Evans’s corpse.

“You s-stupid son of a bitch…” I gurgled, spitting blood down my chin.

I couldn’t move my head downward, so I used the rear view mirror to check.

A shard of glass the size of no small knife had made a home inches away from my heart.

Good Samaritans stopped by to call 911 and stare helplessly at a dying old man. A few of them were making me famous on Instagram.

It almost killed me to do it, but I needed to know.

I twisted my neck as far as I could… the mother lay in a mangled heap in the center of the road.

But then I saw her son careening into the forest.

A silver Toyota Corolla rolled slowly into view.

BACK-UP ONE waved goodbye as they passed me by. Fucking vultures.

A nihilistic grin worked up my face.

“Day care kids grow up to be wise guys,” I said under my breath.

“You shouldn’t talk,” a bystander warned. “The ambulance's coming up now.”

I wanted to smack the concerned look off his face.

Now I heard ‘em.

The sirens were coming for me, but they weren’t fast enough.

My escort had already arrived.

His antlers rose six feet over the crowd. No one could see him but me.

“The devil is an orphan,” I blurted out, awestruck.

Those were my last words on Earth.