“Keller, what are we doing?”

Still using the last name, I see. “This is a safe place to talk. It’s a church. It won’t bite you.”

Tara fixed Nolan with another incredulous look. He was cataloging those for future reference.

“Yeah, it’s a church. In the middle of nowhere. It’s a convenient place for doing God knows what.” Tara gripped the steering wheel of the SUV as the tires crunched along the driveway.

“I thought you were the religious expert,” Nolan said. He shifted in his seat to hide unlocking his door. Just in case.

“Religious crimes. Why do you think I don’t want to be here?” Tara parked the vehicle and kept glancing at the wooden sign in the yard that read Red Creek Baptist Church.

“Well, Pastor Gene hasn’t been committing any crimes. Not lately, at least.” Nolan popped open the door and motioned for Tara to follow him.

Tara climbed out of the SUV but didn’t meet Nolan. She racked her Glock to check for a chambered round, then re-holstered it.

Nolan sighed and, when she finally joined him, led her around the side of the church.

“Now, where are we going?” Tara asked, gesturing toward the front doors of the building.

“Pastor Gene doesn’t live in the church.” Nolan pointed to a small house behind the church. On cue, the porch light came on and a broad figure filled the doorway.

“Nolan? Is that you?” called a husky voice in a wary tone.

“Yeah, it’s me. And I brought a friend.”

“She looks like a Fed,” Pastor Gene said.

Tara gave Nolan a wilting look.

Nolan shrugged. “He doesn’t have the best relationship with law enforcement.”

Tara groaned.

An entryway light flicked on, revealing a tall, rough-looking man with gray hair and a well-manicured beard of the same color.

Nolan stepped onto the porch and glanced up at the round security camera over the door. Nolan had noticed there were three others attached to the church.

“Come in,” the big man said, holding open the screen door. Pastor Gene dropped his phone into his pocket and offered Nolan a handshake as he entered. Then Pastor Gene gave Tara a smile that didn’t make it to his eyes.

“Please, have a seat.” Pastor Gene directed his guests to a small dining table. “Would you like some coffee?”

Nolan gave Tara a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”

The big man put worn coffee mugs on the table and poured the last of the day’s coffee into them. He sat down and looked at his two guests. Soft yellow light poured in from the dim yellow entryway light.

“Nolan,” Pastor Gene said, in a softer tone, “I’m sorry about Nikki.”

“Word travels fast in a small town.” Tara said with a hint of sarcasm.

“Faster if you have a police scanner.” Pastor Gene took a deep draw from his cup and smiled at Tara. “You haven’t introduced me to your friend, Nolan.”

“Right. Pastor Gene, this is Agent Tara Brown with the FBI. She is helping investigate Nikki’s…case.” Nolan pursed his lips and looked at Tara. “Agent Brown, this is Pastor Gene Riley.”

“Those look like prison tattoos, Gene.”

Pastor Gene looked at tiny pistols on his knuckles and the gothic inscription No Condemnation in big, faded letters on his forearm. None of the ink looked professional.

“I spent six years in Colman, for armed robbery, weapons possession, and a host of other stupid stuff. Surely you’re familiar with that facility? ‘Cause you strike me as a South Florida girl.”

“I’m glad you two are getting to know each other, but that’s not why we came.” Tara and Gene looked at Nolan. “Agent Brown is with the FBI’s religious based crimes division. Sheriff Campbell thinks Nikki was mixed up in some Satanic stuff and that’s why she was killed.”

Pastor Gene scrunched his face in confusion. “Scanner said she was shot. The only group around here messing with Satanic stuff is Bobby Clay and his pothead crew. College kids. They aren’t violent. Just stupid.”

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“Well, someone is trying hard to make it look like that’s what’s going on. Where does Bobby hang out?” Nolan gave Pastor Gene a meaningful look and his friend understood who he meant by ‘someone’. Most of Nolan’s friends, few as they may be, had problems with Sheriff Campbell.

“Where’s the best place to make trouble around here?” Gene asked.

Nolan nodded. “Klack Mountain.”

A long silence passed between the men.

Tara said, “What is it about Klack Mountain? Sheriff Campbell said it under his breath like he was summoning the Candyman.”

Nolan sighed and offered a shrug. “Decades of folklore surround that mountain. Some say it’s haunted. Kind of like there’s an ominous cloud hanging over it.”

“Old folks say they found an old Indian Burial ground when they dug the lake. I don’t put much stock in anything superstitious, but you won’t find me driving up that mountain at night.”

“What else is up there?” Tara asked.

“Not much. Old abandoned warehouses. Used to be an old Pulp Mill that shut down years ago.” Gene frowned.

“Did I leave my blue jacket here the last time I stopped by?” Nolan asked. It’s getting nasty outside.”

Gene nodded slowly. “The Italian one? Yeah, I think you did.”

“Great. I’m going to grab it.” Nolan stood and pointed a finger accusingly at Tara and Gene. “Can you two behave for a few minutes?”

Tara shrugged, and Gene smiled.

Nolan wanted his jacket, but there was something he needed more. He had an itch in the back of his mind that he couldn’t shake. Until he made sense of that, he needed his security blanket.

A single lamp burning in Gene’s office was the only light source. Nolan looked over his shoulder to make sure Tara hadn’t followed him. Then he stepped into the office and slid a skeleton key from the top of a bookshelf. He used the key to open the top drawer of an old roll-top desk. He moved a Rural King catalog to reveal a Beretta 92FS. His gun.

A shudder of dread coursed up Nolan’s spine. Reaching for the weapon felt like crossing a threshold he couldn’t return from. It was yet another step along a path he desired to leave behind, but dogged his heels every step of his adult life.

With a sigh, he pulled the weapon free of the drawer. It was heavy and felt good in his hands. His dread vanished, and a euphoria washed over him. This was the best handgun in the world. Nolan had spent the better part of five years with this gun, or one just like it, in arm’s reach. He had worked countless hours with his dad in Quantico and Glynco, or in various Urban Gray sites training with many weapons. Despite his father chiding the 92FS as a relic, or M9 as was its military designation, Nolan always came back to the Beretta.

Nolan worked the slide to make sure a round was chambered. As he clicked the slide release, he heard a commotion from the kitchen. He tucked the Beretta into the back of his waistband and dashed back to the kitchen.

Gene had wrestled Tara to the floor. The big man had Tara in a choke hold and was improving the hold with every passing second.

For her part, Tara was digging her chin into Gene’s bicep to keep him from getting a lock. She also was squirming to get to one knee, no doubt to try to twist out of the hold.

“Gene, what are you doing?” Nolan yelled, resisting the urge to grab the Beretta at his back.

“Nolan, I’m so sorry. They are coming. You’ve got to go. Get out—” a sharp elbow from Tara cut Gene’s words short.

“What are you talking about? Who is coming?” Nolan asked. He wanted to get closer, but the two combatants thrashed violently on the small kitchen floor. One chair was on its back across the room.

“Campbell’s boys. They know you are here. Please go.”

Campbell’s boys? Nolan’s stomach dropped as he worked through the implications. He remembered Gene slipping his phone into his pocket when they arrived. Had he called the Sheriff? That made no sense. Unless they were holding something bad over his head. Gene was a good man with a bad past that was bound to catch up to him. He vowed he would die before going back to prison. The pain he had seen on the man’s face was from more than the elbow he had taken.

“Just go. I’ll hold her,” Gene said. Except he didn’t.

Tara lurched forward with surprising strength, planted a knee on the linoleum and twisted violently.

Gene flopped over Tara’s shoulder and smashed into a table leg, shattering it. The big man scrambled to his knees while Tara wobbled to her feet.

The flash of headlights and the crunch of gravel in the driveway made Gene freeze in place. His eyes went wide, and he dashed for the front door as a pair of car doors slammed.

Nolan was already moving. He had seen the flash of headlights and the two forms pass in front of them.

The roar of a 12-gauge shotgun blew the screen door apart, flinging Gene to the floor before he could secure the front door.

Nolan grabbed Tara in the same moment and spun her to the floor, out of line of sight of the shooter. They landed in a heap and Nolan realized he dropped his Beretta in the chaos.

The pump action shucked as the shooter chambered another round.

Pastor Gene kicked the heavy wooden door closed from where he lay bleeding.

The 12 gauge roared again and shards from the splintered door covered Nolan as he groped for his gun in the darkness. The weapon had gotten pinned under Tara as they tumbled. He whipped the weapon free and spun into a tactical kneeling stance as the shooter kicked the shattered door open and stepped through. Nolan sent two rounds into the shooter’s chest, knocking him back onto the porch.

Nolan slid up from his stance to take a position beside the window. He barely had time to duck before the second shooter blasted the window with his shotgun.

Tara had hit her head on her second trip to the floor and was recovering slowly. The dark stain of Gene’s lifeblood pooled around him.

Gravel crunched outside the ruined front door as the second man retrieved his fallen comrade.

Nolan dashed to Gene’s side, but his friend waved him toward the door.

A vehicle roared to life in a spray of gravel, then squealed rubber as the car, a dark Ford LTD, reversed onto the highway.

Nolan was out the door and unloading on the fleeing car. The back windshield shattered and sparks flew from the Ford as it sped away. The gun clicked empty three rounds too soon, and he looked at the weapon incredulously.

Nolan frowned. He knew a poor carpenter blamed his tools, but something wasn’t right with his Beretta. His face fell as he inspected the weapon.

Tara appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding a hand to the side of her head. “Something wrong with your weapon, soldier?” Tara said dryly.

Frowning, Nolan handed the butt of the weapon to Tara. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”

Tara frowned as she took the Glock from Nolan and laid his Beretta in his open hand.