Excerpt of Feast for Thieves by Marcus Brotherton

Read an Excerpt from Feast for Thieves

Set in 1946 and inspired by a true story, FEAST FOR THIEVES is about an elite incorrigible paratrooper named Rowdy Slater who comes home from WWII, turns his life around, and becomes a minister in a backwoods Texas town called Cut Eye.

That might sound like a cushy job compared to parachuting into Normandy, but Rowdy soon finds out the job is harder than he first thought, and in his new role his problems are only beginning.

Below is an excerpt taken from the book, when Rowdy's past begins to catch up with him.

Enjoy!

"What's wrong?" Bobbie asked. "Doesn't that driver behind us realize his high beams are on?"

"He knows." I kept my voice low, not wanting to alarm the girl.

"How long 'til we get back to Cut Eye anyway?"

"About three hours."

"Pull over and let him pass then." Bobbie fidgeted in her seat. "He seems in an awful hurry."

"He'd pass us if he wanted to." I kept my speed even.

Bobbie craned her head around and looked again. "He's about an inch from our bumper now. That fool could kill us. Please stop, Rowdy. Pull over and see what he wants. Maybe he's in trouble."

"No, he's not in trouble." My voice stayed low.

At first, the first high-speed bump from behind felt like a little tap. Our Chevy twisted slightly, like it was pushed on the pavement. The second bump came harder. Like momentum was building and the car behind us planned to ram us if he hit us again.

"Rowdy!" Bobbie yelled. "I'm scared. Real scared."

The car in back zoomed up behind us again, looked to come close enough to crash into us, then at the last minute veered over into the left-hand lane. The car switched off its lights and accelerated ahead. I tried to make out the type of car it was as it passed by. The night was too dark to tell, although I caught a flash of the paint job. The sides and doors of the coupe were white. The trunk and hood were a darker color. It looked like a brand-new 1946 Ford Super Deluxe Tudor sedan, although I wasn't certain. I'd seen one of those back when I was drifting through Oakland. The police in that city used them as squad cars.

Ahead of us, the car's headlights came on again, and with it, the driver applied the brakes. We swerved to the side trying to get around him, but he swerved too and wouldn't let us through, then he slowed to a stop right in the middle of the highway. We slowed and stopped behind him. I decided to see what the matter was, once and for all. He sat directly in front of us with the motor running. We sat directly behind him. Neither of us moved. I switched the headlights on bright to get a better look.

A bullhorn showed at the driver's window. The horn was pointed back at us. It crackled, and a loud voice boomed through the night air, though the voice sounded a bit garbled.

"Driver and passenger, step out of the truck!"

"That's a police car, Rowdy," Bobbie said. "I think it's the sheriff from Rancho Springs. That's okay, he knows my daddy real well."

"Stay in the car," I said. "We'll know soon enough."

"Driver and passenger," came the bullhorn again. "Step out of the truck!"

"Show yourself!" I yelled out the driver's side window.

The door opened and a figure stepped out. He wore a sheriff's uniform and had his pistol drawn and pointed our direction, although his hat was pulled low over his face. He stood at his car and didn't advance further. "Rancho Springs Sheriff's Department," the figure called out. "Both of you—get out of the vehicle."

"Were we speeding, Rowdy?" Bobbie said. "I didn't think we were going that fast."

"No, this ain't about speeding," I said.

The bullhorn crackled again. "On the count of three, driver and passenger step out of the vehicle. This is your final warning. If you don't come out, martial action will be taken. One . . . two . . ."

"He sounds serious, Rowdy. Let's get out."

"Three!"

I opened my door. Bobbie did the same with hers.

"Driver, get down on the pavement with your hands behind your back," the bullhorn said. The voice was distorted through the horn. "Passenger, step to the rear of the vehicle and place your hands on the bed of the truck."

Slowly I crouched to my knees.

"Driver lay flat," came the voice over the bullhorn.

I could see by the light of my headlights that the man held a Smith & Wesson square-butt military and police revolver. That meant he had six shots to my none. I lay flat on the pavement and tried to keep an eye his direction. Bobbie went behind the pickup truck. The man walked over and snapped handcuffs on my wrists—that much I expected. But when he snapped them on my ankles too, I grew more than a mite alarmed. In a flash I rolled over, trying to sit up. He was already behind the truck, snapping a third set on Bobbie.

"What are you doing?" I yelled. "Hey—where are you going with her?"

Wordlessly, the figure pushed Bobbie up the blacktop. They passed on the shoulder side of the roadway, on the dark side from me. He was pushing her by the back of her shoulders and speaking low behind her ear. I doubted if she had seen his face yet. He put her in front seat of the Chevy truck and shut the door, then walked up to his patrol car, got in, and backed it up in a lurch so it was positioned behind the truck, although off to the shoulder. He got out and walked back over to where I lay, pulled out his revolver and shot twice over my head toward his own car. The patrol car's headlights shattered. Again I tried to roll into a sitting position. I couldn't see what he was doing now, and the cuffs held me fast.

He walked back to his patrol car. The Ford's grill was smoking, and the night was pitch black. I heard him opening his trunk. A rattling sound came my direction. He walked up toward our Chevy truck and chained something fast around my bumper. Then he stood next to me. I moved to head-butt him, but he easily sidestepped me. Again he moved toward me, a chain in his hands, and I moved to swing into him, maybe take him down. A boot came into my ribs and I sucked in air. I felt his hands over my hands. Hot. Clammy. He drug me backward to the bumper of the Chevy truck and linked a chain around my handcuffs—the same chain that was tied to the bumper of the truck.

"Okay, Rowdy," the figure said, and I thought I recognized that voice from somewhere. "Let's go for a little drive." He pushed back the brim of his hat and a small red gleam of taillight caught his sideburns.

Only then did I fully realize who it was ...