The thick, humid air of a summer in a Florida swamp smelled so strongly of plants and tropical flowers, seasoned with a hint of rotting mulch, that it reminded me of unhappier times. Times when I thought I had a future in the military, serving my country and all that patriotic crap. Times when I thought I’d find someone to care about, marry her and raise kids and maybe feel like a normal human being.
Being dead inside was better.
Being dead inside meant I could lurk in a tree and study a multi-million-dollar house in the middle of a mucky bug-mobbed Florida swamp and count how many people I needed to murder without getting all teary-eyed.
Yes, there’s other ways to rob a house. But hiring a man called Stabbity Joe as part of your team pretty much eliminates the whole “plausible deniabil
