“Get out of the car,” said Bubba.

In his mind, he was not in plaid shorts, white tube socks, Hush Puppies, and a Fruit of the Loom white tee shirt that had never been washed with bleach. In his mind, he was in military fatigues, with black grease under his eyes, hair a buzz cut, sweaty muscles bunching as he gripped his weapon and prepared to score two more points for his country and the guys at the hunt club. He was Bubba. He knew the perfect sliver of undeveloped lake property where he could do his duty, having his way with the woman first. Take that, he would think as he drove home his point. Now who’s got the power, bitch?

Police cars turned onto Sunset East. They traveled single file, lights going, in a neat flashing line. Inside the truck stop, several truckers, who believed they had been stagecoach drivers in an earlier life, had lost interest in microwave nachos, cheeseburgers, and beer. They were looking out plate glass, watching what was going on at the edge of the parking lot as pulsing blue and red lights showed through trees.

“No way that’s a rifle,” Betsy was saying as she chewed on a Slim Jim.

“Oh yeah it is too,” said Al.

“Then we should go on out and help.”

“Help which one?” asked Tex.

All contemplated this long enough for police cars to get closer and the sound of chopper blades to be barely discernible.

“Looks to me like Bubba started it,” decided Pete.

“Then we should go get him.”

“You hear about the guns he’s got?”

“Bubba ain’t gonna shoot us.”

The argument was moot. Bubba could feel dark armies closing around him and he got desperate.

“Git out now or I’m going to let loose!” he screamed, racking a cartridge into a chamber that already had one.

“Don’t shoot.” West held up her hands, noting the double feed that had just jammed his gun. “I’m opening the door, okay?”

“NOW!” Bubba pointed and yelled.

West positioned herself before the door as best she could and planted a foot on it. She raised the handle and kicked with all her strength as eight police cars roared in, sirens ripping the violent night. Bubba was slammed in his midsection and flew back, landing on his back, the rifle skittering across tarmac. West was out and on him before her feet hit the ground. She did not wait for her backups. She didn’t care a shit about the big, burly drivers boiling out of the truck stop to help. Brazil leapt out, too, and together they threw Bubba on his fat belly and cuffed him, desperate to beat him half to death, but resisting.

“You goddamn son-of-a-bitch piece of chicken-eating shit!” Brazil bellowed.

“Move and your head’s all over with!” exclaimed West, her pistol pressed hard against the small of Bubba’s thick neck.

The force hauled Bubba away, with no assistance from the truckers, who returned their attention to snacks for the road and cigarettes. West and Brazil sat in silence for a moment inside her car.