Jerry relaxed and eased his lanky six-foot frame to the ground. He sat cross-legged, watching the red-faced sheriff get up off the ground, still holding the cannon in front of him.

“You can put the gun away, man. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Oh yeah, boy, you goin’ somewhere.” The pot-bellied officer dusted off the front of his pants and shirt but didn’t put the gun away. His tone was almost jovial, and the speech was well rehearsed.

“Definitely goin’ somewhere. Prob’ly up to Reidsville for a goodly portion of your life. Either that or out to the farm for a while.”

Jerry knew what he was talking about. The county ran a small correction unit for the lesser criminals, a condition forced onto many county law enforcement agencies by the overcrowding of the prisons and the ever-increasing numbers of felons. He’d heard some bad things about that place. He’d talked to a boy who had spent fifteen months out there for passing a bad check, and the boy had told Jerry he’d leave the country before he’d let them put him back in that rathole. The inmates were forced to work twelve-hour days in the truck patches raising vegetables, and he told Jerry that most of the money from the sale of the produce went right into Cecil Taylor’s back pocket. The boy also hinted that there were some people who went inside and never came back out. At least, not alive. He thought about all this as Taylor crossed the small patch of ground between them and stopped in front of him.

“Stand up!” The words came up from his pot gut in a wheeze. He wore a small, thin smile on his cruel lips.

Jerry stood up slowly and waited while Taylor walked in a small circle around him. His mind raced as he tried to figure a way out of this. The only chance he had was to get away right now—hit the sheriff with his fist or get the gun away from him. If the cop ever got him to the jail it would be all over. He didn’t even want to think about spending the next few years in Reidsville.

“You fuckin’ bikers think you can just do like you please, don’t you?”

Jerry didn’t answer.

“Dirty, greasy scum.” The words made the blood rush up Jerry’s neck and turn his face red. It was now or never. He whirled and threw his fist, but the fat man had already anticipated it. He stepped aside with a practiced motion and let the punch go over his shoulder, bringing the barrel of the gun down on top of Jerry’s skull. A light flashed inside his head and his brain shorted out. He didn’t even feel it when he hit the ground.