LITMIR.BIZ

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around that moon, casting a milky sheen over the rows of ripening corn and the hay bales that gave the wind its earthy sweetness. The land belonged to Bill Walsh, the farmer who’d called the cops a few weeks ago when Brandon had had some of his Harley-riding friends over.

      Turning the corner, Brandon saw the glowing tip of a cigarette and the silhouettes of two men leaning against a Chevy Camaro. He knew who they were: Doc Thompson, a war veteran who’d done two tours in Iraq. And Mike “Cutty” Davis, who got his nickname from downing a fifth of Cutty Sark in less than a minute. Brandon had met them both in prison.

      “Goddamn, McBride, what took you?” Doc said. His southern drawl seemed even thicker tonight. Maybe he’d been drinking. Doc liked to drink.

      “I was busy.” Brandon turned on the lights in his garage. His Harley-Davidson Fat Boy rested on its kickstand. A second Harley he’d won shooting pool at a dive bar outside New Orleans lay on a blue drop cloth. The bike had exhaust problems, which was probably why the guy had offered the hog as collateral.

      “Busy?” Cutty sneered. “I can guess what that looked like.”

      “I swear, that boy trims more bush than a buzz saw,” Doc said approvingly. He had a craggy, intelligent face that didn’t really go with the drawl. His gray hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. The sonofabitch could tell a story though, which had been a real blessing because there wasn’t a damn thing to do in prison except eat, lift weights, horde smokes and try not to get shanked in the laundry room.

      Brandon grabbed a pair of pliers off the bench. “You’ve got a dirty mind. I was at Bible camp.”

      Doc chuckled and ground his cigarette butt with the heel of his boot. “Praise the Lord.”

      Cutty got a beer out of the refrigerator and then pinged the cap at Brandon, which made Doc laugh again, although Brandon didn’t. He saw the aggression in it, but didn’t say anything. Not yet.

      “You had time to think over what we talked about?” Doc asked him. “If we’re going to move on this, we gotta do it soon.”

      Brandon picked up a length of tailpipe and inspected it for damage. Doc always had some game he was running. Most of the time it was bullshit, and this one sounded like bullshit, too. Trouble was, Brandon’s funds were dwindling, and now he had a whole new problem: April and the great state of Texas were about to crawl up his own tailpipe. If he didn’t lawyer up soon, they’d try to take Matthew away from him.

      It was the only thing that had the power to unnerve him. He felt that worry gnawing rat-like at his gut.

      But there was no point telling Doc that. Doc didn’t give a damn about family. To him, life was nothing but hot pussy and cold beer.

      “This idea you got,” Brandon said. “How carefully did you think it through? Nobody pulls bank jobs anymore. There’s never enough money in the till, cameras are everywhere, and dye packs are way too easy to slip inside a bag.”

      “That’s the beauty of it,” Cutty said excitedly. “Doc’s got that girl on the inside. She’s gonna make sure we maximize the score.”

      Brandon took the pipe over to his workbench and snapped on an overhead crane light. “Why don’t you two just do it?”

      “It’s going to take two men to cover the guards, the tellers and the customers,” Doc said. “And a third man to grab that cash.”

      Brandon shook his head. “If you’re going to risk getting tossed back in the cage, the money’s got to be juicy. But this isn’t juicy. It’s stupid.”

      Cutty bristled. As a short guy, he was always bristling. But the truth was the truth, and Brandon wasn’t someone who only saw what he wanted to see, no matter how badly he needed the money. Too much risk, too little reward.

      “I’m out,” Brandon said. “If the score’s not there, I’m not there.”

      “Maybe it’s your fucking balls that aren’t there,” Cutty muttered, putting the bottle to his lips.

      Brandon’s pulse rate went up. Cutty loved to shoot his mouth off. The smart thing to do would be to ignore his dumb ass, but since when had he, Brandon McBride, ever done the smart thing? One time he put a guy in the hospital for two weeks just for calling him half-breed.

      He knew Doc was watching now to see how he’d respond, not that he gave a fuck what Doc thought. But honor meant something. At the end of the day, it was pretty much all you had.

      He set down the tailpipe and turned toward Cutty, who was eyeing him warily over the bottle.

      “What do you know about balls, Cutty?” he asked softly.

      Cutty gave a nervous laugh. “You’re missing out is all. Business opportunity like that. Don’t know why you’d pass it up.”

      “Because it’s stupid.” Brandon slammed him backward on the hood of the car, one hand clenched around his throat. “Just like you.”

      The beer bottle rolled off the car and then clattered to the driveway. Brandon sent it flying with the toe of his boot. All his attention was focused on exerting just enough pressure on Cutty’s windpipe to make him remember how dangerous it was to run his mouth. Cutty clawed at his throat, eyes bulging. Brandon squeezed just a little bit harder.

      The state of Texas didn’t have a throat to choke, but Cutty did. It felt pretty good.

      Brandon heard footsteps behind him and saw Matthew standing there, looking horrified and confused. Matthew hated violence. His cheek was bleeding and his T-shirt was ripped up the front where a small gash showed.

      Brandon let go of Cutty and said, “Dammit, Matt, how many times I gotta tell you not to ride without your helmet?”

      Cutty sat up, still clutching his throat, and rasped, “What the hell, McBride?”

      Doc pushed away from the car. His eyes had a glint in their depths that Brandon recognized for what it was: a reckoning.

      You, too? Brandon thought. Bring it on, old man.

      “See you around,” Doc said before getting in the car. Cutty climbed inside the passenger seat, still holding his throat. They backed down the driveway and then took off, dust swirling in the red eyes of their taillights.

      Brandon took a closer look at his brother.

      Matt had red eyes, too, and they weren’t from riding without a helmet.

      “You’re stoned,” Brandon said accusingly.

      Matthew shrugged his shoulders. “Big deal.”

      Brandon advanced on him so angrily Matt backed up to the workbench and sat down hard. “I told you a thousand times to stay away from that shit,” Brandon said. “You gotta be on your game. Stay focused.”

      “Says who?”

      “Where’d you get it?” Two-stoplight towns like Cuervo didn’t have drugs in them. Brandon’s jaw was clenched so tight his teeth hurt. Matt had done some stupid things, but he knew better than this. He had a future in motocross and had already won a few races.

      “What the hell do you care?” Matt said. “You were in juvie when you were my age.”

      “Yeah, but not for drugs, you dumbass.” Brandon tilted Matt’s face to one side so he could get a better look at his scrapes and bruises. “Now who’d you get the shit from?”

      Matt glared up at him, but Brandon knew he’d spill. His kid brother may have been a pain in the ass, but he wasn’t crazy.

      “There’s a guy,” Matthew muttered. “Usually hangs out down by the corner store at the gas station. Sometimes he buys beer for the under-agers.”

      Brandon dragged out the first aid kit and popped it open. “This guy gotta name?”

      “I dunno. He’s got a tattoo on his arm about this big.” With his fingers,

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