Texas, fights were settled with fists, tire irons, and-occasionally-guns. It had helped that the local sheriff’s deputies usually did their drinking there too.
When Don led church retreats in large metropolitan areas, other pastors he met had trouble understanding everything he faced while shepherding his flock. But to be fair, he didn’t quite understand the problems those city preachers dealt with either. Of course, there was more about gang violence in the news than there was about rural feuds and murders.
Don chose to believe that God gave each of his teachers their own burdens to carry. He also believed that God gave them each the strength and tools to deal with those burdens.
All things considered, Don loved living in Fort Davis, keeping church there, and raising his sons and daughter on the baseball and softball fields. He’d been to the big cities and hadn’t seen anything there that he couldn’t live without.
Shel, on the other hand, seemed bound and determined to see the whole world.
Not see the world, Don amended. Just get off the ranch and stay away.
During his service as a youth minister, as choir leader, and finally as preacher of The Blessed Word Church in Fort Davis, Don had handled everything God had ever put before him to do. By all counts, he’d been successful doing God’s work, and he gave thanks every day that he could make a difference.
But there was one man whose heart Don felt he’d never touched the way God would want it touched. Don had failed time and again, but through God’s grace he had never given up.
And maybe, Don sometimes thought, hoping that he wasn’t being irreverent, I haven’t given up because of that stubbornness I got from Daddy. Maybe his own bloodline will be the end of his reluctance about accepting God.
Tyrel McHenry, his daddy, was the most stubborn man Don had ever met. And Don was there tonight to make another stab at getting through to the man.
7
›› Tawny Kitty’s Bar and Grill
›› South End
›› Charlotte, North Carolina
›› 1737 Hours
“Don’t know why you feel you gotta come on all hard and everything, Victor. We’re all friends here.”
Gazing across the table at Thumper, Victor knew that the man had been in tight places before. He knew how to handle himself. Not just with guns and fists, but with words and emotions as well. He didn’t panic at the first sign of trouble.
That was good and it was bad. The fact that he’d weathered the initial blast meant he had backbone. Now it remained to be seen if he had any brains.
“You don’t like it, maybe you should leave.” Victor kept his voice flat and neutral.
Wraparound shades kept Thumper’s eyes hidden, but Victor knew the man was assessing and reassessing the situation in seconds. The first thing Thumper had to be worried about was how much danger he was in.
Guys that went deep undercover knew from the moment that choice was made that they didn’t have a friend left to them in the world. If they were found out by the gang or organization they were infiltrating, they were dead. If they turned dirty while they were under, unless they had really good evidence to the contrary, they were incarcerated with the same people they had started out trying to lock down. If they forgot for a moment where their loyalty-and ultimately their safety-lay, their lives were worth less than nothing.
Thinking about the situation an undercover agent would find himself in, Victor reflected that it wasn’t far removed from looking for Charlie in the bush. It took nerves of steel to play the game.
Or drugs to mute the fear.
If Thumper had been legit, he should have gotten up from the table and walked out. No biker worth his salt took an insult straight up like that. He’d have been into the wind or he would have busted Victor in the chops.
Unless you figure you’re sitting right next to what you want and you won’t pick up your cards from the table because you think you’re going to win, Victor thought. He was about to disabuse Thumper of that notion.
The biker’s face hardened a little, but it was all for show. Thumper just didn’t know that yet.
“I don’t know what you’re trippin’ on, dude,” Thumper said, “but I don’t appreciate it.”
“I’m gonna lay somethin’ down for you, man, and you can decide if you want to pick it up or if the weight’s too much for you.” Victor’s eyes never left those of the other man.
Thumper glanced away. He didn’t bother to meet Fat Mike’s gaze either.
Victor wondered if Thumper’s cop buddies were listening to the conversation. He didn’t think Thumper was stupid enough to wear a wire, but there had been plenty of time to wire the tavern before the meeting took place. Frankly he didn’t care.
“I know you’re a cop,” Victor stated. For a moment, the accusation hung in the air.
›› 1741 Hours
Thumper turned back to Victor and proved just how good he was at playing the role. He laughed. And he sounded like Victor had just told him a really good joke.
“Dude, I seriously don’t know what you been smoking, but if you got any of it left, I want some.”
“You went to school, right?”
After a brief hesitation, Thumper smoothly nodded and tossed in a devil-may-care shrug. “Sure. Before I got old enough for juvie. After that, it was splitsville for me and the public school system. I was just a product of the state.”
“Is that so?” With his free hand, Victor reached into his jacket pocket and took out a few photographs. He noted that Thumper reached a little more deeply under his own jacket.
From the way Fat Mike moved in his seat, Victor knew that he had his sawed-off shotgun out under the table and leveled at Thumper’s midsection. If the man made a wrong move, Fat Mike was going to blow him in two.
“You ever hear of an East Coast motorcycle chapter called the Iron Goblins?”
Thumper’s face seemed frozen. No emotion showed. “Lots of chapters out there now,” Thumper countered.
“You see, I went to school,” Victor said. “I learned to add, and I learned when things don’t add up. And you? You don’t add up.”
“Maybe I should just call it an afternoon,” Thumper suggested. “I got things to do and places to go.” He slid his chair back.
“If you leave before I’m through talking to you,” Victor stated, “you aren’t going to live to see morning.”
Thumper tried to cover his nervousness by reaching into his jacket for a cigarette.
Fat Mike eased the hammers back on his shotgun. The clicks sounded ominous and loud enough to be heard over the music.
“Chill, bro.” Thumper’s voice sounded strained and brittle. “I’m just going for a packet of cigarettes.”
“Leave your hands on the table where we can see them.” Victor leaned back in his seat and fished out his own cigarettes. He slid the pack across to Thumper, then added his Zippo lighter. “Smoke one of mine. Keep it friendly.”
Thumper took the pack, shook a cigarette out, and lit up. He almost looked calm. Except for the fact that his hands were shaking as much as a man going through the DTs. He breathed out a thick plume of smoke.
“You guys are waaaayyyy too intense, bro,” Thumper said.
Victor smiled, but the effort was cold and calculated. There were people who’d seen that smile who never walked the earth again. He thought he could stop short of that with Thumper. In fact, Thumper-if he could be reasoned with-could make other things much simpler.
If Victor had not been able to figure out a way to use Thumper and his cop connections, he and Fat Mike would have buried the guy tonight. In fact, Fat Mike had been happier with that idea than with what Victor had in mind.
Thumper made a show of smoking calmly. “I’m starting to feel offended. I have to tell you that. That business
