The Devil's Highway by Timothy C. Phillips

Now you’re here, complicating theirs.”
    “And that’s okay with you?”
    “You ex-military, Longville?” He asked me, instead of answering.  
    I nodded. “Army. I was an M.P.”
    “Thought so,” Garrett said. “I went into the Army, too, because around here, that’s what you do. I was a Cold War soldier. When I got out, I came back here and decided to go into Law Enforcement. I started out as a deputy, up in Van Horn. I’m originally from here in Delgado, though, a native son. I got myself a little experience under my belt. After five years of giving people tickets on I-10, I came back here and ran for sheriff. That’s sixteen years ago, now. And it was all small town sheriff life, after that. That is, up until Tolbert and this Redemption Army crew showed up. Now, it’s like my own little Cold War, right here in West Texas. I want that to be over, Roland. I think Brad’s arrival, and now yours, might contribute to making that happen.”
    The sun was getting low in the Texas sky. Even the compound, sprawled out before us, took on a strange beauty in the desert sunset. I nodded down towards the place, where Cushman and Kiker and Brad awaited.
    “I’m going back down there, tomorrow, Sheriff. And I’m not leaving without Brad Caldwell.”

 
    Chapter 11
     
    After we got back into town, I left the Sheriff’s Office, and grabbed some lunch at May’s Place. I helped myself to one of the steaks that Donnie Mackey trucked in frozen, once a month. I lingered over coffee and my planned second visit to the compound, and decided that it was best to call it a day.  
    I sauntered out into the falling night. A warm breeze was blowing in from the southwest, and there was a pleasant scent in the air. I wondered if could be those colitas the Eagles sang about, and decided to ask Garrett or Hughes about that. I was about three blocks from my hotel, when I heard someone call out to me.  
    “Longville.” There was a strange accent to the voice that I recognized. Kiker.
    I turned. Kiker was walking quickly towards me from across the street. He was also wearing a padded jacket despite the West Texas heat. That told me he had something to hide. I put up a hand.
    “That’s far enough, Kiker.”
    He stopped two paces from me, and we stood there, staring each other down.
    “I came to tell you that you should stay away from the Redemption Army compound if you know what’s good for you. Your kind aren’t welcome there,” he sneered.
    “My kind? You guys don’t like black people?”
    “Your race is not the issue. Personally I do not like blacks, although the Colonel is indifferent to race. You are the problem. You are a trouble maker. Colonel Cushman is a great man, and I will not tolerate you interfering in his work.”
    “Colonel Cushman is a nut, and so are you, Kiker. I could not care less what either of you tolerate.”
    “I’ll teach you, kaffir! ” Kiker snarled, lunging at me, a knife flashing in his hand. The bulky jacket he was wearing to conceal the fact he was carrying also slowed him; he telegraphed the move, and I leaned back, and grabbed his wrist and elbow and pushed him past me, letting the momentum of his lunge carry him into the wall behind me.  
    Pushing his wrist into the wall, I brought all my weight in on the point where the shoulder joins the socket, one, two, three times. The third time he gasped and the knife clattered to the pavement. He went down and rolled. He was quick, but I’ve seen people a whole lot quicker in the North Birmingham projects where I grew up.  
    I kicked the knife down the street and managed to give him a sound right cross on the jaw. From a squat, he tried to sweep my feet from under me, something you see in Kung Fu movies, but it seldom works in the real world. He took a swing at me from a squatting position, an awkward move at best, which put him further off balance. I put a foot on his shoulder and shoved, sending him sprawling.
    Kiker tumbled, dazed, and