Quinn saw the Tahoe down the old Tupelo Highway, parked sideways in front of a defunct Texaco station right across from the Traveler’s Rest. Quinn knew the motel, had stayed there when he’d first come back home from Fort Benning, the sign outside still offering COLOR TV, WI-FI & FREE FISHING IN OUR BASS POND. It wasn’t much, but would do until they decided to bring a Ritz-Carlton to Tibbehah County.

Quinn radioed Reggie, who was coming up in the opposite direction, Kenny and Dave Cullison on standby if there was any trouble. He didn’t expect any. If the Neshoba County Fair was any indication, these guys would fold pretty easy, wanting to intimidate more than engage. He slowed about a hundred meters from the Tahoe, turning on his blue lights as he parked, Reggie rolling in behind the Tahoe. Quinn prepared for any quick action, watching the two men seated in the front seat. Neither of them moving, staring straight ahead and trying to look tough.

Quinn approached the driver’s side as he would any traffic stop, the window slowly rolling down. Reggie approached from the back.

“What’s the problem, Officer?” the driver asked, smirking. A little bit of tobacco under his front lip.

Quinn hadn’t seen the man before. This guy was beefy, with a goatee and black glasses, some kind of black do-rag on his head labeled AMERICAN SNIPER. He wore a thick, braided silver chain around his neck like a dog collar. There was another guy in the passenger seat, a lot older, with a short white beard and reddened, chapped skin. He turned to give his best hard, tough look at Quinn. Both wore black military gear, tactical vests, and cargo pants.

As he turned in the passenger seat, Quinn spotted a gun under the older man’s windbreaker.

“You fellas lost?” Quinn said. “Long ride from Tupelo.”

“We ain’t from Tupelo,” the old man said. “I wouldn’t be from Tupelo for all the money in the world. Hellhole of bullshit upon this earth.”

“License and registration.”

“How you gonna ticket a man when he’s parked?” the driver said, snorting. “Y’all in the damn KGB? This is America, last time I checked.”

Quinn glanced over at Reggie, nodding slightly. These guys were a couple of Grade A shitbirds, itching to make some kind of trouble for the sheriff’s office.

“Can’t a man take a drive without being harassed?” the old man said. “That’s what this is. Pure and old-fashioned harassment.”

Quinn looked at the older man, with his yellowed teeth and saggy jowls. He could smell his sour breath from outside the vehicle. His nose bulbous, broken veins across his cheeks, like a professional drinker. “You have a permit for that weapon?”

“Bet your damn ass,” the old man said. The driver stayed silent.