“You done poked the bear,” Booker T. said, his voice hoarse and dry.

Bocephus Haynes took a step toward Finn, ignoring the weapon. Adrenaline radiated down his body from his face to his toes. “I called the police,” he grunted.

“No, you didn’t,” Finn said. “Your phone is in the car. You didn’t call anyone. You have no video of this. No tape recording. You’re up shit creek without a paddle.”

Bo took another step closer to Finn. He and Booker T. were now standing side by side, and he could hear the rapid patter of his cousin’s breathing. “You’re not going to kill us, Mr. Pusser. Wouldn’t it be a public relations disaster for a brand-new lending institution like Z Bank if its head of security gunned down two local citizens in the middle of the night? Especially with both of the victims being longtime fixtures of Pulaski and former All County football players on the Giles County Bobcats? You may not realize it being from out of town and all, but folks have a long memory in these parts when it comes to high school football. And with my racially charged past, this little killing would make the front page of every newspaper and media outlet in the southeast if not the whole country.” Bo steadied his breathing and kept his voice low and calm. “You can’t use force to carry out an eviction. It’s illegal. So if you decide to wound us in lieu of killing, I’m going to report you to the sheriff’s office tonight. Then, first thing tomorrow morning, I’ll file a lawsuit against you and Z Bank and set up an interview with the local newspaper to discuss the racist comments I endured from the head of security of the new bank in town.” He paused. “Or you can let us go and avoid all of that hassle.”

Finn squinted at Bo. “You’re an incredible talker, Mr. Haynes. I’m sure you’re an excellent lawyer.” Then he aimed his gun at Booker T.’s left shin. “This is going to sting a little, Mr. Rowe.”

“No!” Bo screamed, lunging in front of his cousin and flinching in expectation of the shot.

But when the sound of gunfire erupted, it didn’t come from a handgun or either of the semiautomatic weapons being held by the two people behind Finn.

Instead, the blasts of a twelve-gauge shotgun crackled through the air. One shot . . . two . . . three. The front windshield of Finn’s black Cadillac Escalade shattered, as did the back glass. The figures behind the longhaired man ducked to the ground.

Finn also crouched but kept his gun pointed at Bo. “You’ve stuck your nose in the wrong person’s business.”