Delta Justice

The rain came down.

Jack Beauregard sat in the passenger seat of the Explorer, watching water sheet across the windshield while his partner ran the wipers on intermittent. Across the street, the abandoned apartment complex was a ruin of plywood boards and sagging chain-link, where copper thieves had cut it. The parking lot was cratered with potholes that had become small lakes in the downpour. Lightning flickered somewhere over the city, turning everything white for half a second before the darkness slammed back down.

"Movement, second floor, northwest corner."

Jack's partner, a younger marshal named Torres, pointed toward a window where a shadow had crossed behind broken blinds. Jack keyed his radio.

"All units, we've got visual confirmation. The subject is inside the structure. Torres and I are moving to the main entrance. Ramirez, take the rear exit on the east side."

"Copy that."

Jack opened the door and stepped into the rain. It hit him, warm and heavy, soaking through his jacket before he'd taken three steps. The pavement was slick under his boots, oil sheen rainbowing in the puddles. Thunder rolled overhead, long and low, vibrating in his chest.

Torres moved up beside him, weapon already drawn and held low against his thigh. They crossed the street at an angle, using parked cars for cover out of habit, even though the street was empty. The smell of rain on hot asphalt mixed with something chemical leaching from the old buildings. Decades of industrial use left stains that the weather couldn't wash away.

The chain-link gate stood open, hanging crooked on broken hinges. Jack went through first, sweeping right while Torres covered left. The courtyard was a wasteland. Stripped playground equipment, overturned shopping carts, broken glass everywhere that glinted in the occasional lightning flash. Water poured from a broken gutter, creating a waterfall down the front of the building.

Jack took the stairs. Second floor, northwest corner. His boots made wet sounds on concrete. A door stood ajar fifteen feet down the exterior walkway, yellow light showing through the crack. He moved toward it, Glock up now, finger indexed along the frame. Torres stacked up behind him.

The door exploded outward.

Marcus DeWitt came through at a dead run, twenty-five years old and wearing a North Face jacket that probably cost more than Jack made in a week. His eyes went wide when he saw Jack, and he didn't slow down. Just vaulted the railing and dropped eight feet to the courtyard below.

"Federal marshal! Stop!"

Jack was already moving to the railing. Marcus hit the ground, stumbled, caught himself against a dumpster, and took off running toward the street. Jack grabbed the railing and swung himself over, dropping down behind him. His knees absorbed the impact, rain still hammering down, and then he was running.

Marcus cut left between buildings. Jack followed, Torres somewhere behind him, calling out their position over the radio. The alley was narrow, filled with debris and standing water. Marcus kicked a garbage can backward without looking, and Jack hurdled it without breaking stride. Lightning flashed again, closer now, and Jack saw the chain-link fence at the end of the alley.

Marcus didn't slow down. He hit the fence at speed and went up like he'd practiced it, pulling himself over the top bar in two smooth movements. Jack reached the fence five seconds later and followed, the wet metal slippery under his hands. His jacket caught on the top and tore, but he was over and dropping down on the other side while Marcus disappeared around the corner of a warehouse.

The industrial district stretched out in every direction. Old factories and distribution centers, most of them empty, with broken windows and loading docks sealed with corrugated metal. The pavement was buckled and cracked, weeds growing through the gaps. Rain created rivers in the gutters, carrying trash and oil toward storm drains that couldn't keep up with the volume.

Jack rounded the corner in time to see Marcus duck through a broken loading dock door, the metal peeled back, its edge jagged. The warehouse loomed three stories high, corrugated sides streaked with rust, roof partially collapsed on the south end. Jack moved to the door and stopped, pressing his back against the wall beside the opening.

His radio crackled.

"Torres to Beauregard, I'm two minutes out."

"Copy. The subject entered a large warehouse structure on Foster Avenue. I'm making an entry through the loading dock on the west side."

"Wait for backup."

Darkness waited beyond the broken door, broken only by lightning flashes coming through holes in the roof and shattered windows up high. The sound of rain on metal was deafening. A constant drumming that would cover footsteps and voices.

He went in.

The warehouse floor was open and vast, concrete scattered with broken pallets and old machinery stripped for scrap. Pigeons burst from the rafters overhead, their wings loud in the enclosed space. Water dripped from a hundred places where the roof had failed, creating pools on the floor. Jack moved along the wall, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. His flashlight beam cut through the rain-thick air, picking out rust and shadows.

A sound (metal-on-metal) came from deeper in the building.

Jack moved toward it, weapon and light tracking together. The smell in here was bad: mold, rust, animal droppings, and something chemical that caught in the back of his throat. He crunched through broken glass. A catwalk ran along the second-floor level, accessible by metal stairs in the northeast corner. Another flash of lightning showed him someone moving up there.

Jack reached the stairs and started climbing. The metal was slick with condensation and rust, each step making a wet scraping sound despite his attempt at stealth. Rain came through a hole in the roof directly above the stairwell, sheeting down. He pushed through it, and water ran down his collar in a cold stream, making his shoulders tense.

The catwalk stretched forty feet from the stairs to a dead end at the far wall. Marcus stood fifteen feet away, his back to a structural pillar. The expensive jacket was soaked through, and his hair plastered flat to his skull. He was breathing hard, chest heaving.

"Federal marshal. Show me your hands."

Marcus raised his hands halfway. They were shaking.

"My uncle—"

"I don't care about your uncle. Hands all the way up. Do it now."

Senator DeWitt's nephew. Jack had read that in the briefing file, a federal warrant for cocaine distribution and failure to appear. The senator's office had been making calls, applying pressure, trying to get the case dismissed. It hadn't worked. Federal warrants don't care about political connections.

"You don't understand. He can make this go away."

"Your hands. Last time."

Thunder crashed overhead, close enough that the catwalk vibrated under Jack's feet. Marcus's right hand dropped toward his waistband instead of going up.

Jack saw the gun coming out.

Marcus's hand was closing around the Glock's grip. The barrel starting to come up. His face twisted into something that might have been desperation, determination, or fear.

Jack fired three times, center mass, the shots so close together they almost sounded like one continuous roar in the enclosed space.

Marcus went backward off the catwalk.

He fell without making a sound, or maybe Jack couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears. The body hit the concrete floor twenty feet below with a wet thud that Jack felt through the metal under his feet. Then there was just the rain hammering on the roof, the pigeons resettling in the rafters, and the smell of gunpowder mixing with rust and mold.

Jack kept his weapon trained on the body while he keyed his radio.

"Shots fired. Subject is down."

Torres burst through the loading dock door thirty seconds later, weapon up, sweeping the space. Jack guided him with the flashlight beam to where Marcus lay on the concrete. A dark pool was spreading around the body, mixing with rainwater dripping from above.

Torres checked for a pulse, already knowing what he'd find. He looked up at Jack and shook his head.

"Medical and backup are en route."

Jack holstered his weapon and stood at the catwalk railing, looking down at Marcus DeWitt. Twenty-five years old. Senator's nephew. Cocaine distributor. Dead because he'd reached for a gun instead of putting his hands up.

The fifth person Jack had killed in twelve years as a federal marshal.

Lightning flashed again, and for just a moment, the warehouse lit up bright as noon. Every detail sharp and clear, the body on the floor, the rain coming through the roof, Torres standing with his hand on his radio, and Jack's own shadow stretched long across the catwalk.

Then darkness returned, and the thunder rolled in behind it.

***

Jack stood outside the warehouse while the crime scene techs processed the scene, rain still coming down but lighter now, more of a steady drizzle than the earlier deluge. Red and blue lights from Atlanta PD vehicles reflected off every wet surface, turning the industrial wasteland into a wash of red and blue. The medical examiner's van had arrived fifteen minutes ago, and two men in rain ponchos were unloading a gurney through the rear doors.

They'd covered Marcus with a white sheet. It was already soaked through, clinging to the outline of the body underneath.

Jack's jacket was still on, still wet, but he'd stopped noticing. His Stetson sat crown-down on the Explorer's back seat where he'd set it before entering the warehouse.

An Atlanta detective had taken his preliminary statement: name, badge number, brief description of pursuit and shooting. The detective had been professional, almost bored, writing everything down in a waterproof notebook with practiced efficiency. Now, Jack was waiting for IA to arrive and make it official.

"You good?"

Torres stood beside him, dry now because he'd grabbed a rain poncho from one of the patrol units. He held out a bottle of water.

"Yeah."

Jack took the water but didn't open it.

The medical examiner's van pulled away, taillights disappearing into the rain. Jack watched it go. He rolled his shoulders, a familiar ache settling between the blades.

An unmarked sedan pulled up, and two men in suits got out with umbrellas. Internal Affairs.

***

The interview room in the federal building was windowless and cold, with the air conditioner running full blast despite the rain outside. Jack sat at a metal table across from two IA investigators. One older, with gray at his temples; one younger, with wire-rim glasses. A recorder sat between them, red light showing it was active.

"Deputy Marshal Beauregard, can you describe in your own words the events leading to the discharge of your service weapon at approximately 3:47 PM today?"

Jack ran through it. The surveillance operation, Marcus spotting them and fleeing, the foot pursuit, entering the warehouse, and encountering the suspect on the second-floor catwalk. The order to show hands. The subject reaching for a weapon instead of complying. The decision to fire.

"And you felt your life was in immediate danger?"

"Yes."

"The subject's weapon was recovered at the scene, correct?"

"Yes."

The older investigator made notes while the younger one watched Jack's face. They were good at their jobs, trained to spot lies and inconsistencies. But there were no lies and no discrepancies. Jack had fired because Marcus DeWitt pulled a gun on a federal marshal. The shooting was clean.

"We're aware that the subject was related to Senator Richard DeWitt."

"His nephew. I read it in the briefing file."

"Did the political connection factor into your tactical decisions?"

"No."

The younger investigator leaned back in his chair.

"This is your fifth shooting incident in twelve years of service."

"Yes."

"All ruled justified."

"Yes."

They asked more questions: about his training, his mental state, and whether he'd received counseling after previous shootings. Jack answered each one wholly and directly, giving them nothing to question. This was the ritual that came after. The forms that needed to be filled, the boxes that needed to be checked, the institutional ass-covering that followed every time a federal officer discharged a weapon.

After two hours, the older investigator turned off the recorder.

"You'll be on administrative leave pending the investigation, but I don't anticipate any issues. The shooting appears justified based on your statement and the physical evidence."

Jack got to his feet. His clothes had dried into uncomfortable wrinkles, and his boots squeaked on the tile floor.

"How long for the investigation?"

"Shouldn't take more than a few days."

Three hours later, Jack sat in his supervisor's office on the fourth floor while rain streaked the windows and Atlanta's evening skyline blurred into gray. Deputy Marshal Thomas Jacobs was in his fifties, wearing a pressed white shirt with his tie loosened, reading through a file folder he'd been given about an hour ago.

"IA cleared it."

Jack's gaze lifted.

"Already?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. A fatal shooting usually meant weeks of administrative leave.

Someone had pushed this through. Officer-involved shootings meant weeks of administrative leave with psych evaluations, multiple interviews, and formal review boards. This had taken six hours.

Someone with leverage.

"Straightforward case. The subject was armed, refused to comply, and presented a clear threat. But yes, someone pushed this through faster than normal protocol." Jacobs closed the folder and set it aside. "We've got a different situation."

The administrative leave Jack had been expecting wasn't coming. Something else was happening instead.

"Federal Judge Harrison Caldwell was found dead in his chambers in Jackson, Mississippi, three days ago. Poison in his coffee. FBI and state police haven't gotten anywhere with the investigation, and the U.S. Attorney's office is requesting additional resources." Jacobs pulled out another folder and slid it across the desk. "You're being reassigned to the case as the marshal liaison."

Jack didn't touch the folder.

"Mississippi."

"You grew up there. Greenwood, right? Might be useful to have someone with local knowledge."

Mississippi. Billy's grave. Ten years.

"I haven't been back in ten years."

"Which is why this is a good opportunity. Your father was the sheriff in that county. You understand the local dynamics better than an agent flying in from D.C."

"When do I leave?"

Jacobs looked relieved that Jack wasn't arguing.

"Take tomorrow to get your things together. Drive down Friday morning. You'll be working with Deputy Marshal Elena Santos out of the Jackson office. She's expecting you."

Jack rose and picked up the folder.

"Understood."

"Jack." Jacobs's voice stopped him at the door. "I know Mississippi's complicated for you. But this case is important, and you're the right person for it. Judge Caldwell was investigating casino corruption, and whoever killed him has political protection. We need someone who can't be bought."

"I'll get it done."

***

Jack's apartment was on the third floor of a complex off I-285, identical to a hundred other units in similar buildings. He unlocked the door and stepped into silence. The living room held a couch, a coffee table, and a television he rarely watched. The kitchen had a coffee maker on the counter and not much else. No photographs on the walls, no books on shelves, no signs that anyone actually lived here beyond sleeping and showering between shifts.

He moved to the bedroom and pulled a duffel bag from the closet. Clothes went in first—jeans, shirts, his spare boots. Toiletries from the bathroom. His service weapon and extra magazines were secured in a case. Everything he needed fit in one bag because he'd learned a long time ago to travel light. The Army had taught him that, and the Marshals had reinforced it.

His phone buzzed. A text from Torres:

IA cleared it already. That was fast.

Jack didn't respond. He set the phone on the dresser and stared at the duffel bag, already packed, ready to go. Mississippi waited four hundred miles west: cotton fields and humidity, family graves and old shame, the Delta where his father had been sheriff and then a disgrace.

He picked up the phone and called the storage facility.

***

The Chevelle sat under a car cover in a climate-controlled unit that cost more per month than some people paid for rent. Jack pulled the cover back and looked at a midnight-blue paint job with a white racing stripe running from hood to trunk. 1970, restored over the course of three years from a rusted shell to something beautiful and dangerous. The only thing he owned that mattered.

He ran his hand along the hood, feeling the smoothness of the paint job he'd done himself. The engine was a 454 with a four-speed transmission, rebuilt from parts he'd collected across a dozen junkyards and online auctions. The interior was black leather, cracked in a few places but maintained well enough.

Jack opened the door and slid behind the wheel. The smell was oil and leather and time. He turned the key, and the engine turned over immediately, settling into a rumble that made the whole car vibrate. He let it warm up while he disconnected the battery tender and gathered his tools from the wall pegboard.

Tomorrow morning, he'd drive this car west toward the place he'd spent twenty years running from.

He turned off the engine and covered the car again. Then he locked the storage unit and drove his government sedan back to the apartment.

***

At 2:47 AM, Jack sat at the kitchen table with a Zippo lighter disassembled in front of him. The overhead light created a circle of brightness in the dark apartment while rain continued outside, lighter now but steady, tapping against the window.

The lighter was a 1967 model, with a brass case tarnished but solid, and a flint wheel frozen from decades of disuse. He'd found it in an antique shop in Virginia six months ago, stuck in a box of junk behind the counter. Now he worked on it with small tools. Cleaning the wheel assembly, replacing the flint, and running a wire through the wick tube to clear accumulated debris.

Five people dead. All justified. All necessary according to the law, the policies, and the training that governed the use of force. Marcus DeWitt had pulled a gun, and Jack had fired, and now a senator's nephew was in the morgue instead of walking around. Tomorrow, there would be phone calls from DeWitt's office, pressure applied through channels, and questions about whether it was really necessary to shoot.

The answer was yes. The answer was always yes, because the alternative was letting them kill you, and Jack's job was to go home alive at the end of the shift.

He reassembled the lighter, testing the flint wheel until it sparked cleanly. Then he filled the fuel reservoir and let it sit for a few minutes before trying it. The first click produced a spark. The second click caught, and a small flame appeared, steady and bright.

Jack closed the lighter and added it to the collection in the kitchen drawer. Fourteen lighters now, each one connected to a case, each one representing a moment when he'd needed something mechanical to work on while his mind processed things it couldn't fix.

He made coffee even though it was almost three in the morning, sitting at the table while the rain continued and the apartment stayed dark except for the one overhead light. Mississippi waited. The Delta, where Billy had been sheriff, where Jack had grown up learning what it meant when men with badges came to the door early in the morning. Where his father had taken money from Claude Thibodaux's casino organization to pay for cancer treatment that didn't save his wife anyway.

Where Billy had died ten years ago, and Jack had stood at the funeral and felt nothing except the desperate need to leave and never come back.

Jack poured the coffee and positioned himself at the window, watching rain fall on identical buildings in identical rows.

The kitchen clock showed 3:15 AM when he finally went to bed.

He didn't sleep.