Excerpt of Feast for Thieves by Marcus Brotherton

Read an Excerpt from Feast for Thieves

"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 ...