Swamp Murder

Swamp Murder. 74

Wang's Pov.

He dressed in silence, each movement calm, deliberate, like he'd already detached himself from everything here, including me. The sound of his zipper, the soft rustle of fabric, it all grated against the tension sitting in my chest.

When he was done, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror — not at me — and said, "We should get going soon. Dre's probably waiting."

"Yeah," I muttered, grabbing my shirt, forcing it over my head just to give my hands something to do. "I'll check the setup on the yacht."

Zhan nodded once, expression unreadable. "Good." He started toward the door, then paused. For half a second, I thought he might say something — maybe throw me a line, maybe even curse me out — but instead, he just said, "You should rest, Wang. You look tired."

And then he left.

The door clicked shut, soft but final, and the silence that followed was heavier than any scream.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands on my knees, staring at the floor.

Tired? Maybe. But it wasn't fatigue. It was guilt — the kind that seeps into your bones and stays there until it eats you alive.

"Just one more night," I muttered to myself. "Then I'll make it right."

Even I didn't know if that was a promise or a lie.

By the time I stepped out of the room, the air had shifted, quieter, heavier, as though the house itself was holding its breath. Dre and Ezra were in the living room. Dre sat on the arm of the couch, scrolling through his phone, while Ezra leaned against the wall, pretending not to stare at him. The silence between them said more than any argument could.

Zhan was at the window, arms folded, eyes fixed on the city. His jaw was tight, his reflection ghostlike against the glass.

"We leave in thirty minutes," I said, my voice low but firm.

They all looked up.

"Everything's on the yacht, drinks, food, the... equipment," I added. No one needed me to explain what equipment meant.

Dre stood. "And the guests?"

"They'll meet us there," I said.

Zhan turned around slowly, his expression unreadable. "And after?"

I met his gaze. "After," I said quietly, "we end it. All of it."

Ezra exhaled, rubbing his hands together. "Then let's go play gods, boys."

No one laughed. Not this time.

I haul the duffel up onto my shoulder and feel the weight of it like the last piece of the plan falling into place. Inside: cuffs, cables, extra batteries, a few syringes I hope we never use, and the little toys that make people tell the truth when everything else fails. Practical things. Clean things. Tools for a tidy ending.

As we stepped outside, the evening breeze hit us, cool, salty, and heavy with the scent of the ocean. The city lights bled into the horizon, and for a second, it looked almost peaceful.

"Two steps ahead," I tell myself, tasting the words. It's not arrogance. It's a ledger balanced in my favor. Routes pre−booked, transfers queued with timers, drivers briefed to wait at precise coordinates, and a backup rendezvous if anything goes sideways. I left nothing to chance. Not this time.

I sling the duffel in the bus. Ezra lingers with a last text, gentle lies wrapped in charm. Dre climbs in, restless energy pretending to be calm. Zhan slides into the back, while the others are in the middle, and the silence between us is clean and focused.