A few months ago, Quinn had cut back a portion of the fencing and closed it back up with metal clamps. He opened it for Boom and himself, and left it open if they needed to haul ass.

The temperature had dropped down to ten degrees, and Quinn wore a black Smith & Wesson shooting jacket, Under Armour thermals, and a black wool sweater with black paratrooper pants and his Merrell boots. He carried his Beretta, a combat knife, a Leatherman tool, and a Remington pump shotgun. Boom wore his old camo Guard jacket and carried a Colt .44 Anaconda, although lately he’d taught himself how to balance and shoot a shotgun using a special harness.

They followed the path nearly two klicks before turning off the road and finding the vantage point Quinn always used to watch the planes land and take off, keeping a log of their tail numbers, with times and dates. He never got any closer than maybe five hundred meters up the hill but had logged in a lot of activity since early November, when the landing strip had been resurfaced and the Quonset huts rebuilt.

Quinn got down on one knee and aimed a pair of Bushnell night vision binoculars. The airstrip was lit up, with tiny blue lights along the runway, and there was a bright white light coming from one of the huts. Three pickup trucks and an SUV were parked along the main road coming from Stagg’s front gate. Ice had gathered on the old oaks and scraggly pines. The wind was cold as hell, shooting through that narrow valley and rattling the brittle branches. Quinn passed the binoculars to Boom and took out a small notepad from his jacket, writing down the tag numbers on the trucks and the SUV.

“Tennessee plates,” Boom said. “Johnny been spending a lot of time in Memphis?”

“Johnny goes to the money,” Quinn said. “He seems to have lost interest in the Booby Trap and the Rebel. He’s there maybe two, three days a week. Most of the time, he’s out of Tibbehah County.”

“Who’s he working with?”

“Don’t know.”

“You gonna lay all this on the Feds?” Boom said.

“When I can find someone to trust,” Quinn said. “The last Feds who came to Tibbehah and I didn’t get along. They blamed me for the cartel action around here and bought Stagg’s bullshit.”

“That was your own damn fault,” Boom whispered, handing back the binoculars. “You screwing one of their goddamn agents. Woman was mad as hell when you kept stuff back from her.”

“I’ve made a few mistakes in my life.”

“Shit, Quinn,” Boom said, “a few? You get a case going against Stagg, how about you keep your dick in your pants?”

“Lesson learned.”

“What else you need?” Boom said. “Ain’t no reason for that motherfucker to have this set up without moving drugs or guns or pussy, right?”

“Not sure what he’s moving,” Quinn said. “Lots of times, I just see a lot of fat cats from Jackson flying in for a quick-and-dirty at the Rebel. They get their pecker pulled and they’re on the next flight out. Sometimes Stagg brings some girls out to the huts here.”

“Men got to fly to get their peckers pulled?” Boom said. “That’s some hard-up shit.”

There was some motion by one of the Quonset huts and Quinn peered down along the roadway where the cars had been parked. Three black males in big jackets, two of them with hoods up, walked out to the SUV, a black Escalade, and stood by the hatch, smoking cigarettes. Quinn again shared the binoculars, then handed them back, the men crawling into the Cadillac. They cranked the ignition, turned on the headlights, but just sat in the road. Exhaust poured from the rear of the vehicle.

“Never knew Johnny Stagg to work with black folks,” Boom said, “unless they was mopping the floor at the Rebel or cooking that chicken-fried steak.”

“He’s got black girls working the pole at the Booby Trap.”

“Good man,” Boom said. “Progressive as hell.”

“Those boys don’t look like politicians,” Quinn said.

“Nope.”

“I’ll run their tag,” Quinn said. “I bet that SUV is stolen. A throwaway for whatever they’re taking over state lines.”

“Never knew you racist,” Boom said. “Driving while black.”

“Guilt by association.”

“You want to get down closer?” Boom said. “I don’t give a fuck. Let Stagg’s boys come on out and say hello.”

The SUV finally knocked into gear and made a U-turn away from the huts and back down the road to the exit of Stagg’s compound. Quinn nodded to Boom and they followed a little zigzagging trail down the hillside, worn smooth by deer, to the road, where they walked in the shadows to the main hut. The hillside was steep, Quinn and Boom walking sideways to keep their footing.

The hut was windowless, the front door shut against the cold. The big metal building vibrating to the sound of rap music playing inside. Quinn smiled and Boom just shook his head. “Johnny Stagg got him a little juke out in the country,” Boom said. “Shaking that ass?”

“His property,” Quinn said. “He can do what he likes.”

“Got his black friends coming down from Memphis,” Boom said. “How you like to see Johnny Stagg shaking that bony white butt?”

Quinn was silent. He held up a hand as the front door to the Quonset hut opened and a girl stepped outside. She was young and black, wearing a rabbit fur jacket and tall white leather boots. She lit up a cigarette and leaned against the metal building. She looked exhausted.

“Ten degrees,” Boom said. “Must be hot up in there.”

Quinn used the binoculars again where he and Boom crouched in a little ravine and could see the girl’s hair, face, and neck were damp with sweat. She finished the cigarette and walked back into the hut, the door slamming behind her, and not twenty seconds later Stagg’s boy Ringold walked out and stood in the wide swath of light coming from a security light.

He had on dark utility pants and boots, an Army-green fleece jacket, and a green watch cap over his bald head. He looked to the airfield and checked his watch and moved out of the light and into the darkness by the airfield. He had a weapon in his right hand. As Quinn scanned Ringold with the Bushnells, he recognized a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun. The weapon could shoot eight hundred rounds a minute, often holding a thirty-bullet clip.

Quinn put his hand to Boom’s shoulder. Boom and Quinn stayed stock-still.

Ringold walked out onto the airfield, looked to the north, the small blue lights stretching out far into the distance. He was a shadow, machine gun in his right hand, as he moved back to the Quonset hut, still pumping with rap music, and shut the door.

“Feds probably don’t give a shit about Stagg running pussy.”

“Those boys didn’t come all the way from Tennessee for tail,” Quinn said. “There’s plenty of that in Memphis.”

“Wonder who’s doing the buying and who’s doing the selling?” Boom said.

Diane got up early the next morning, earlier than usual, to run by the Sonic and get a Breakfast Burrito for her mother. Her mother lived in an assisted-care facility just down the road from county hospital. Her memory had gotten worse and worse, a radio frequency that would sometimes come in strong and clear and other times faint and distant. That morning, the signal was medium, her mother needing a little prodding when Diane walked in. There was a big warm smile from the wheelchair, her mother sitting crooked in a flowered housecoat, looking out the window, but there was that hesitation of recognition. “Mom, it’s me. Diane.”