I made it three steps from the truck before I sensed the shift. There was a certain wavelength assholes operate on, like a static buzz in your skull.
I turned and there they were—Luther Bridger and his three shadows, coming down the sidewalk like they owned it. Luther had the same brittle smirk he’d perfected in high school, all teeth and no sincerity.
His friends—different faces, same template—loud in that practiced way, punching shoulders, drawing the eyes of every window they passed. Even at a hundred feet, I could tell they had already started on the day’s drinking.
Probably never really stopped.
I scanned for Newt, out of habit, and caught him at the mouth of the alley between the sheriff’s office and the old post office, motionless and small.
The minute he saw Luther, he shrank further, like he thought the brick might swallow him if he pressed hard enough. All his earlier bravado was gone. He ducked out of sight as Luther’s group came up, eyes locked to the pavement.
I didn’t have to think about it. I found myself angling my body, setting a line between Luther’s trajectory and the alley where Newt was hiding. Marine muscle memory. Shield the asset. Deny the threat a clear line of approach. It was a reflex so ingrained I didn’t even realize I’d done it until Luther altered course to intercept me.
He got within arm’s reach and bumped my shoulder. Not hard, but with intent. His cologne—a nauseating mix of cheap aftershave and even cheaper whiskey—hit before the words did.
“Looking for something, McKenzie?”
I stood my ground. He was six-one and maybe a hundred and seventy-five pounds, but I had three inches and fifty pounds on him, and he knew it. Still, he wanted the ritual. There was a neediness in the way he squared up, like he craved the friction.
“Just doing my shopping,” I said. My voice was flat. Most people hear that tone and back off. Luther just smiled wider, the kind of smile you put on right before you headbutt a guy.
“Funny, I thought your kind only came to town for funerals.” His friends snickered on cue. None of them would look me in the eye.
“That’s cute,” I said. “Is that what passes for wit at Bridger Bank these days?”
Luther leaned in, breath sour. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you?”
“I know I am.” I let him have that, let it hang in the air. The trick with Luther was to starve him of the response he wanted. If you played his game, you lost.
His nostrils flared. He shifted his weight. I did the math—distance, stance, who’d swing first. If it went to fists, I’d have him on the ground in five seconds, maybe less. His cronies would hesitate. One would try to cheap shot, but the other two were already looking for exits. You can always tell the real from the fake in a fight.
He didn’t swing. Instead, he said, “You know, you could have done something with your life. Instead you just—what? Fix broken fences with that freak brother of yours? Waste of a name, if you ask me.”
I almost laughed. “Nobody asked you, Luther.”
He was about to push it further, but then a sound split the morning—a deep, wet rumble that made everyone’s teeth vibrate. My brother Ransom, coming up main street on his Harley, pipes cut open and echoing off the buildings. He was still three blocks away, but the noise was enough to kill the moment dead.
Luther’s buddies peeled off first, muttering half-formed insults. Luther glared at me a second longer, then spat on the sidewalk, a fat brown glob that missed my boots by an inch. “You’re not as tough as you think you are, Sarge.”
I shrugged. “But I’m still tougher than you.”
He started to reply, but thought better of it. He stalked off toward the gas station, checking over his shoulder twice. The bravado had a half-life of about thirty seconds.
Ransom rolled to a stop in front of the hardware store, engine idling like a pissed-off animal. He was bigger than me by a few pounds, broader in the chest, and he had the same eyes—small, sharp, and brown as spent coffee grounds. He cut the engine and flicked the kickstand, then slid off the bike with a grace you’d never expect from a man his size.
“You making friends?” he called, voice pitched to carry.
I shook my head. “Same old shit.”
He grinned, teeth white against his beard. “I heard Luther’s been running his mouth all week. Somebody ought to put him in his place.”
“He’ll put himself there. Just a matter of time.”
Ransom noticed the bag in my hand and the tension in my shoulders. He didn’t miss much. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Just got errands.”
He looked past me, toward the alley. “Is that Newt Bridger?”
