Looking the door over, he tried to determine the security measures at this entrance. There would be dead bolts and multiple chain locks, and there would be a drop bar or a “dead man,” a large metal shank that secured the door to the wall.

Court knew he would not be entering through that door unless someone on the inside wanted him to, and he didn’t see much of a chance in that.

He banged four times, and the dog in the backyard barked like a maniac.

Seconds later, a four-inch-high and twelve-inch-wide slit opened in the center of the door at chest height, firing a bolt of light across the porch. From the inside, Court heard the loud metal music, and above that a voice high and harsh like a coffee grinder. “What the fuck you want?”

Court leaned down to look into the slot. A bald-headed, shirtless man in his thirties stood back a few feet from the door. His chest and neck were tattooed and glistening with sweat. He held a lit cigarette in his left hand.

Pure white trash.

Court looked over the ink on the man’s chest quickly. The numbers 1 and 2 rode high above his left pec. Court knew the significance. The numbers represented the first and second letters of the alphabet. AB.

This asshole was Aryan Brotherhood.

Court also noticed the man was hiding something in his right hand behind his thigh.

“I said, what do you want, fuckhead?”

“I need a hit.” Court was winging it; he didn’t know the street lingo for meth these days; he’d been out of the States for several years and had never bought meth in his life. He saw the paranoia in the white supremacist’s eyes now as the man realized this wasn’t one of his regular street dealers.

He said, “Get lost.”

“Your guy told me to come here. He said he ran out of stuff.”

“What guy?”

“Skinny dude over at the Exxon on Savannah.”

A younger man stepped up behind the bald man at the door. He had stringy hair and was wearing a wifebeater, and his arms were sleeved with shamrocks and the number 12. He also had 88 on his neck, and Court knew these numbers were representations of the eighth letter of the alphabet. HH.

Heil Hitler.

Charming.

The younger man said, “He’s talkin’ ’bout Junior.”

“Junior, that’s right,” Court confirmed helpfully.

The bald-headed man reached back and punched the kid in the wifebeater in the chest, then shoved him out of Court’s line of sight. He turned back to Court, his eyes wide with both suspicion and anger. “Fuck you. Get off my porch.” He moved his right hand from behind his hip and exposed a black AK-47 assault rifle with a folded stock.