“You’re full of damn shit,” Southwell said, mouthing off but doing what he was told. “I know why you’re here. I’ll have you know those two girls come to harass Senator Vardaman at his rally. They didn’t have no right to push their way through permitted folks and start asking a bunch of crazy-ass questions. That rally was a private event for the senator’s fans and friends. They weren’t on no list. And we got one of those fucking free speech zones or whatever you call that shit over by the bathroom. They want to run their Yankee mouths and pop a squat, they can go to it. They nearly knocked the senator’s teeth out with that big microphone of theirs. We videoed the whole dang thing.”

Quinn nodded, pulling the man’s gun from an inside pocket of his jacket. A fully loaded Ruger SR9 with a nitride finish.

“You’re crazy,” Norm Southwell said. “You know what kind of shit you’re gonna stir up?”

Quinn kicked the old man’s legs wider, his military pants wrinkled and sagging off his bony ass, the crack of his butt showing. The back of his neck thick with white unshaven hair. He had on unlaced military boots and a sheathed knife on his belt. The man was mumbling something unintelligible under his breath as Quinn took the knife, turning for a short moment to spit down on Quinn’s polished boots.

“You can’t arrest him,” the younger, fatter man said. “He didn’t do nothing wrong. You don’t need no carry permit in Mississippi. That’s right. That sure is right. Governor done signed it and everything. You hear me?”

“He had it in his waistband,” Quinn said. “Not in a holster and not in plain sight. You need a concealed carry permit to do that. It’s the law. You want to stick around and bail him out in the morning? Glad to find you a comfortable place to sleep at the sheriff’s office.”

Joseph Gibson glared at Quinn, still wearing his sunglasses at dusk, standing there like he was about to do something he wasn’t. Quinn stared right back at him. He knew the type, a man with no mission in life who found comfort in the well-oiled machinery of a gun. People like that just kind of wandered, pissed off at the world, convincing themselves of any lies filling their ears. All the damn gear and weaponry Gibson bought online would never make a soldier out of him. A good soldier fought with training and purpose, not with costumes and props.