“More than just what he did to Boom,” Quinn said. “These people from the Coast have been wiping their feet in Tibbehah County for years. They’ve been running drugs, guns, and women through here for too damn long.”

“You said it was worse under Johnny Stagg.”

“Not much difference,” Quinn said. “Stagg was just better at keeping it secret. Tibbehah County has been wild and wide open since the white man swindled it from the Choctaw. Same shit, different crooks. If I can talk to Wes Taggart, I might get what I need to stop some of this.”

“But can Lillie find him?”

“Lillie Virgil can find anyone.”

Quinn and Maggie found their way back to the Sunset Strip, a long, narrow shot of two-story cabins perched alongside a hill. All the little coves and streets had names like that. Happy Hollow. Groovy Gardens. Beverly Hills. At night, Christmas lights shone down on the dirt paths, families sitting on their mini porches with their feet on the railings, listening to music and drinking.

Tonight was their last night. Maggie’s mother and sister and her sister’s kids had gone home. There was an Uncle Paul, who didn’t do much but sit on the porch and drink beer and wander down to the track when the horses ran, but he was gone, too. Now it was just Quinn and Maggie. Quinn’s soon-to-be-adopted son, Brandon, was back home with Jean, Quinn’s mom. He was looking forward to finally being alone with his new wife.

“Oh, crap,” Maggie said.

Quinn had seen the men before she had, not slowing a single stride as they walked up onto the Sunset Strip. Five men wearing Watchmen militia gear—black pants, black T-shirts with the rebel flag, and sunglasses—gathered at the mouth of the narrow street, blocking their way, waiting for Quinn. They had short hair and unshaven faces, two of them smoking cigarettes. Their dress and their attitudes tried to imply they were former military. But Quinn knew the difference.

Quinn either had to stop walking or move right through them. If Maggie hadn’t been with him, he’d have head-butted the biggest guy and taken the next one out with a sharp elbow. Quinn had met a hundred guys like this, wannabe Special Forces operators who took online courses and drooled over gun magazines. Quinn appreciated a good gun, but it wasn’t any more than a tool for him.

He reached down for Maggie’s hand and squeezed it. She breathed a little harder and her freckled face shone with sweat. Quinn pulled the Liga Privada from his lips and blew smoke in all their faces.

The men stared at him. A short man, muscled and low to the ground, coughed and swallowed. “You know who we are?” he asked.

Quinn didn’t answer. He just placed the cigar to his lips and drew in some more smoke.