“The righteous and virtuous, the beauty of woman, young and sweet!” someone shouted with a microphone.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and applauded.
Then, from the church just across the street from the park, there came a procession.
It was of young women, all dressed in white with garland crowns of flowers on their heads.
The guitarist played a joyous piece. The young women in the procession smiled as they made their way toward a podium set up just behind the barbecues.
There was a man standing on the podium in front of a microphone. He was wearing robes that weren’t really priestly; they were more like something an old druid might wear.
She strained to see his face. His robe had a hood.
She started to inch around the tree, just a bit.
That’s when she felt the nose of a gun in her ribs. She heard the sound as the gun was cocked.
She hadn’t heard a thing; not a single crinkle of leaves, nothing. Then again, she’d been listening to the singer, paying heed to what was happening in the park...
Still, she should have known better; she should have been aware!
“So, you decided to come. But not to join us—to spy on us!”
She knew the voice. It was Phin Harrison. The friendly, flirtatious biker from the bar.
“You just won’t believe what we do to gun-toting spies around here,” he added.
18
Hunter saw Phin Harrison as he moved in on Amy.
He was afraid to let out a shout and alert the man; these people weren’t rational—he might well shoot Amy before being shot himself.
He moved with all the stealth—and speed—he could muster, coming up behind the man, determined that he would disarm him with surprise. He’d shoot him if he had to, but the fear remained that neither he nor the bullet could move fast enough.
Hunter was on him, his Glock just about at the man’s back, ready to demand that Phin drop his weapon, when Amy moved.
She had been staring at the man, probably sizing him up. And then she made her move, slamming his gun arm with a sudden slicing movement of her own; Phin let out a yelp of pain and surprise.
His gun slipped from his fingers.
Hunter leaped to retrieve it lest the man recoup quickly. Phin made a lunge for Amy, but Hunter was there, and only too happy to slam him back against the tree with a tight grip to his throat.
“You just threatened an FDLE agent, Mr. Harrison. You’re under arrest,” Amy said.
She had cuffs out; Hunter released the man before he could do damage. They both had weapons now, and Phin didn’t.
But they’d been seen from the park; Hunter was aware that man in the robes at the podium had beckoned to a group of men behind him.
The entire populace of the park was turning to look into the woods.
Phin Harrison knew that.
He smiled. “Another spy!” he said quietly. “On my land. Stand your ground, buddy. This is my property right here—I own this land, and I have the right to stand my ground when someone is trespassing and might be dangerous. But screw the law, guys, you’re badly outnumbered.”
“No, he’s not.”
Hunter smiled; it was Roger Dawson who had spoken. He had followed behind the two of them.
“Phin Harrison,” said another voice. Detective Ellison.
Ellison continued with, “Threatening a state and a federal officer. You will be coming with me.”
“You have no right—”
“We saw a threat of fatal danger. We have every right,” Ellison said.
Amy clicked the handcuffs onto Phin Harrison; Detective Ellison reached for him.
The crowd in the park was still.
Hunter looked at Amy; with a nod, she indicated that he should look behind him, behind Detective Ellison and retired agent Roger Dawson.
There were at least eight armed agents from the FBI coming through the trees.
“Take me in—you go on and take me in. And then I’ll be suing your asses and having your badges. You are on private property. My private property.”
“We’ll let the courts settle it all,” Hunter told Phin. “Feel free. This is private land? We’ll go on down to the park and see about that barbecue.”
Phin stood silent. Hunter moved past him, handing Phin’s gun off to Dawson, a “thank you” in the nod and smile that he gave him.
He started through the remaining trees and down the embankment that led to the road and the park.
But as he moved, the robed figure backed off the pedestal. Hunter started to run.
A woman thrust a small boy of three or four in his path. He swerved. The whole population of the park was moving, intent on blocking his way.
He reached the barbecue grills and was met by the bartender from the biker bar.
“Hey, man, what’s your hurry? How about a few of the best barbecue ribs this side of Memphis?”
The figure in the cloak, the leader, was gone.
The girl with the guitar had also disappeared.
Hunter noticed the kid from the bar—the one who had really been too young to be in there ordering a drink. Chase Colby.
Next to the tall, beefy bartender, he was very small, and looked very young.
“Told you—he’s an FBI goon. They just don’t let law-abiding citizens alone,” Chase said.
“I am with the federal government, and I think everyone should be concerned. A woman was found not far from here, brutally murdered,” Hunter said.
“Yes, and you should be out finding her killer, not disturbing peaceful folks at a barbecue,” the bartender said.
“She was killed in this town,” Hunter said.
“By an interloper—like you!” Chase told him. “And you’d better let Phin go. He was just protecting what was his. And that’s our right—we protect what is ours.”
The crowd had dispersed. The girls with their flowery crowns and white gowns were gone, having hurried back to the church.
Hunter could see that the group of young men who had been about to rush up the embankment to come to Phin’s aid were backing away, as well—across the park in the opposite direction.
But he’d gotten a look at them.
And he was certain he’d seen Chase’s brother, Jayden, among them. Along with Ethan Morrison’s sons, Ezekiel and Aaron.
There was nothing more that he could do here now. It had been a town barbecue, nothing illegal in that.