Three men in black approached from around the corner, sending Quinn into a crouch, reaching for his gun as he felt a weapon pressed into his spine, the man telling him to move slow and easy, raise those damn hands, or he’d be wandering about this world in a fucking wheelchair. Quinn recognized the voice as the short fella’s from the Neshoba County Fair, turning his head to see Kenny out of the patrol car and on his knees in the flashing blue lights. Four men surrounded the deputy, lashing his wrists in zip ties and forcing him to the ground.

“Howdy, Sheriff,” the man said into his ear, pulling the Beretta off Quinn’s hip and pushing him down the ramp toward the gravel drive. Quinn counted out eight men in total, all outfitted in black combat gear and holding rifles, faces covered in balaclavas as if Quinn didn’t know they were part of the Watchmen Society. He was twenty meters from the woods, maybe fifty to the road running along a creek bed. The wind shook the trees and loose roof of the trailer, Quinn turning back to see the shadow of the woman opening the front door, silhouetted in the frame as she spoke to one of the men. It was Dana Ray. She was holding a cigarette in her hands and looked scared.

“Where’s Fannie?” Quinn said.

The man socked Quinn hard and fast in the back of his head, making him stumble forward, as another kicked out his legs, sending Quinn tumbling down on his back. He quickly found his feet and kicked one man straight in the groin. The fat, squat man had his face covered, but Quinn knew it was him, coming at him with the butt of his rifle, trying to take out Quinn’s head like a piñata. Quinn ducked and rolled. Another man’s boots finding his ribs and kicking hard, the others joining in with hard elbows and kicks, as Quinn got to his knees and covered his face. Some of the kicks connecting with bones and cartilage, Quinn tasting blood in his mouth, as fists and boots flew, taking out his legs every time he tried to get up.

Quinn tackled another man to the ground and punched him right in the throat. Three, four men on his back, trying to get him down. Guns were drawn, and they ordered him to quit fighting or they’d shoot.

In the silence, he heard Kenny yelling and then some scuffling sounds. Someone by Kenny’s patrol car said, “Put that fat fucker in the trunk.”