He’d known Roman since high school, when Roman had weighed about a buck ten soaking wet, with scraggly hair way too long, always in his eyes. He’d looked like a goddamn scarecrow. A nerdy scarecrow. Other than an old hooker they’d fucked together in Dryden (at least Roman had paid for her), Johnnie knew for a fact that Roman hadn’t gotten laid as a teenager. He’d spent most of his time jerking off to his daddy’s titty magazines. He’d been a stutterer, too, getting all tongue-tied when he was nervous. He couldn’t look a girl in the eye back then, and barely could now. But lifting a few weights (popping a few ’roids), having that rat’s-nest hair shaved down to a fine, sleek stubble, and carrying a silver shield and gun on your hip did wonders for your social standing.

Johnnie figured Roman owed him, owed him big, since he was the one who’d brought him on to the sheriff’s department and gotten him into the Tejas unit. Come to think of it, he’d turned him into a man, and frankly, fucking Johnnie’s girlfriend behind his back was a shitty way to pay him back for all that kindness.

That was all about to change.

Roman was about to get another chance to settle up with his old friend Johnnie.

—

THE CLUB WAS PAINTED bright blue and red, all the harsh lights making Johnnie’s head hurt, and the music was too goddamn loud.

The music was bright, too, if there was such a thing.

But tonight, loud was good, since if any of these fuckers were wearing a wire, that jungle bunny music drowned out most of what Johnnie was saying.

They were sitting at their usual table in the back of El Diablo Norte. Johnnie, as well as Roman, Chavez, Ortiz, and Ringo—the bloody heart of the Tejas unit. Johnnie had bought all the drinks, so the others knew they were there to talk real, not police, business. But their guns and badges were visible here (like they always were), shining just as bright in the lights that were sharp enough to cut glass. Everyone knew who they were and how they “owned” this place, like they owned most of Terrell County, so no one would ever say a word to them no matter how drunk they got, or if they waved their guns at some piece of shit who pissed them off. It bothered Johnnie, though, that Roman kept stealing glances up at the stage, where Rae was again defying gravity with that ass of hers. Johnnie could swear he even saw her smile at that cocksucker, which meant he was going to have to slap it right off that bitch’s face later.

All he could do now was chew his matchstick harder and take a long drink of the warm Pacífico he didn’t want.