Page 39 of So Far Gone

When the door closed, Chuck turned back to Pastor Gallen. “Just so you know, I’m hoping to not shoot anyone today.”

“And yet you came here with a gun,” the pastor said.

“Well, I didn’t want to be the only girl at the party not in a dress.”

“I think you have the wrong idea about our church, Mr.—”

“Littlefield. Chuck Littlefield. And no, Pastor, I don’t think I do.”

A truck was coming back up the drive, and at first Chuck assumed it was his. “No, no,” he muttered to himself, “what are you doing, Rhys?” But it was a different pickup, an older Ford, that rolled through the open stock gate. From the other direction, the whine of the ATV was coming closer, too.

“So. How do you suggest we handle this?” Chuck asked.

“I assumed you had something planned,” the pastor said, and then he smiled and muttered what sounded like a short prayer.

“Yeah, not so much. How about I promise not to shoot anyone, and you keep your guys coolheaded? Then maybe we can talk this over like normal, rational people, and afterward, you can run me back to town?”

“Run you back to town,” Pastor Gallen said unsurely.

“Because, I’d imagine,” Chuck continued, “the last thing either of us wants is a gunfight between your goose-stepping dipshits and a former police officer.”

“I see.” The pastor looked him up and down. “Sometimes these things can get...” He didn’t finish, though, because the Ford pickup parked in a swirl of dust, and a young, white man in a ball cap hopped out. He wore a handgun holstered to a utility belt, tied low on his leg, like someone who had seen too many westerns. He seemed to sense that something was off, and he looked from Pastor Gallen to Chuck and back.

“Everything okay, Pastor?”

Chuck answered for him: “Everything’s fine. We were just talking about having a cup of tea. Do you like tea?”

“I’m more a coffee drinker.” The man kept staring at Pastor Gallen. He cocked his head, as if waiting for some signal.

Chuck could hear the ATV getting closer, too. Suddenly, this whole thing seemed unwise. Maybe insane. He patted his pocket for his cell phone and realized he’d left it in the truck. Shit! Okay, that was definitelynotsmart.

The red, four-wheeled ATV pulled through the gate and parked at an angle near the pastor’s back door. A heavyset bald man in camouflage—no helmet—turned the key and climbed off the rig. He wore a Kevlar vest and had what looked like a .223 Remington assault-style rifle slung over his left shoulder, resting on his broad back. Hung at his waist were a field belt with pouches for ammunition and a holstered, snapped pistol.

“What’s going on here?”

The man with the ball cap said to the bald one, “Wait, were we training in full field-dress today? Nobody told me—”

“Brother Dean,” Pastor Gallen interrupted, speaking to the bald man with the rifle. “This is Chuck Littlefield. He’s a police officer.”

“Retiredpolice officer,” Chuck said.

“He came with Shane’s father in-law to get the children.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed and his head turned slowly. “Where are they?”

“Rhys just left with his grandkids,” Chuck said.

“That guy lied about me in the newspaper,” Dean told the pastor. “Ruined my reputation. Cost me the county commissioner seat. I didn’t realize that was him yesterday.”

“I don’t know anything about that,” Chuck said. “All I know is that the kids’ mother left instructions that she wanted Kinnick to watch her kids while she was gone, and you guys beat him up for it.”

Dean muttered something, and started for what was apparently his pickup, a black Dodge Ram with a Gadsden flag in back and an Army of the Lord sticker on the tailgate. It was parked with the other vehicles between the house and the chapel.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Chuck said, but Dean just kept walking.

“I’m serious,” Chuck said, and he pulled the Glock from his waistband, spread his legs, flipped the safety, took aim across the yard, and shot the right rear tire of Dean’s truck. The gunshot echoed in the high Rampart fence, the tire deflating with a hiss. Chuck was glad Dean had such big tires on his truck, and that he’d hit one on the first try. It would’ve been embarrassing to have to take two shots. Or to have to get closer.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks. His hand went to his gun belt and his head spun in anger.

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