Quinn stared down into the car, keeping a safe distance between himself and the open window. Reggie had already pulled his sidearm, standing there behind the Tahoe, waiting for Quinn to give an order. The driver looked into his rearview mirror and shook his head. “Y’all really taking the affirmative action thing serious,” he said. “How many white men would kill to have that job?”

“How about you just quit talking for a while,” Quinn said. “Let your brain catch up with your mouth.”

“We got a dang lawyer,” he said. “Whole damn team of ’em.”

“Damn straight,” the older man said. His skin was pinkish, his small eyes bright blue and beady like a pig’s. “Goddamn right.”

“Both of you, step out of the vehicle,” Quinn said, motioning for Reggie to take the older man on the passenger side. He didn’t like the look of either of them, both of them shifty and nervous, not exactly the types to think something through.

“In all my life, I ain’t never been treated like some kind of criminal,” the driver said, crawling out. “A white man has rights in Mississippi.”

“License and registration.”

Quinn watched the driver reach for his wallet, slow and easy. The man’s stubby fat little hands shaking a bit as he handed over the cards. Quinn gave them a quick glance, asking the driver to move toward the front of the vehicle, Reggie doing the same with the passenger, keeping the two in the headlights of Quinn’s truck. It was nearly dark, sky going orange and purple now, with black shadows down the highway.

Quinn spotted Tashi Coleman standing out by the motel registration desk, watching them. Her arms hugging her waist as if she was cold, wanting both men to see her and know she wasn’t afraid.

“What’s your name?” Quinn asked the older man. Already knowing the driver was Joseph Gibson. Ugliest damn driver’s license pic he’d ever seen. The man looked like he had a live wire switched up his ass as the photo had been taken, hair sticking up and eyes bugging out of his beefy head.

“Norm Southwell.”

“Concealed permit, Mr. Southwell?”

Southwell reached for his wallet and handed Quinn a card.

“This is a hunting license.”

“What’s the damn difference?”

“Plenty,” Quinn said. “Keeping that automatic under your jacket is a felony. You didn’t announce it when I came up on the vehicle. Please place your hands on the truck.”