A Swollen Red Sun Read Online Free

be careful. See him tomorrow.
    He ignored the nervousness inside him and drove to the only place he could think of to hide the money.
    Bo Hastings hit two triples and a double before the pain in his back became so great he had to take to the bench. He was sweating profusely from the Percocet he’d taken before the game.
    Bo’s back had snapped like a dry piece of kindling when that beast drove his hooves into his spine. He never should have lived. Never should have walked if he did live.
    But Bo was a survivor with a champion bloodline that went back four generations of law enforcement. The call was an inevitable one he’d fought his whole life.
    After the accident, being a cop was all he had left. He was a broken man with limited options, and the shoes he was meant to fill were clearly defined by each generation that wore them—his father being the generation that ruined the legacy his grandfathers worked so hard to create.
    Bill Hastings kinked the chain in a way that could not be unkinked.
    “You OK, babe?” Becky wrapped her arms around her man, but he pulled away.
    “I’m sweaty, hon.”
    She smiled and said she didn’t care. Said his sweat was sexy.
    Then she laughed. Loud and infectious. Her friends laughed, too. The high school volleyball coach patted Bo on the back and told him he had his hands full.
    The man who owned the lumberyard grinned and walked up to the plate.
    All of them laughed. Everyone loved Bo Hastings. He was the all-American boy.
    They smoked crank until it got too dark to see what was burning and what was scorching, and finally admitted to themselves that the old man wasn’t going to make the run. Jerry Dean blamed Jackson. Told him he should have known.
    “How would I know? I’m sittin’ here with you, ain’t I?”
    “Cuz he’s your uncle?”
    “Yeah, well, ain’t no need ta remind me ’bout that, Jerry Dean.”
    The old Chevy cranked slow but finally turned over, and Jerry Dean smashed the gas pedal. The lifters rattled as the old truck lurched from the woods and crawled up to the asphalt. Jerry Dean clutched it, found second, and the worn-out bastard coughed and sputtered, then pulled strong like a good Chevy ought to.
    He had a mess on his hands if they did not get those tanks. The kind of mess a man got hurt over if things went wrong. People he ran with were hard people from the hills and the woods. He had partners to consider.
    Jerry Dean Skaggs dealt with a family who cooked crank with the anhydrous he supplied. Strange knoll dwellers from Goat Hill. A hard vicious man named Butch Pogue who was violent and cruel. More so than Jerry Dean had ever thought to be.
    Butch had killed a man once. Done time for it. But he found the Lord in Algoa and had repented of his sins. Now he called himself a reverend, though Jerry Dean thought that was far from true.
    Jerry Dean knew he was wading in the devil’s pond with Butch Pogue. Even the deputies didn’t venture up Goat Hill without good reason.
    He hit third and wondered if he should go back to his trailer. His boat was upriver at his cousin’s, the place Jerry Dean parked his truck in case he had to run.
    His day had gone to shit in a hurry once he’d seen those pigs at his trailer, but even with a busted door, they could not go inside. Not without a warrant.
    He wasn’t concerned about the stash in the litter box, either. Not even a cop would look there.
    They drove back roads to the sounds of Jamey Johnson bawling through the speakers, and Jerry Dean reached for a half joint in the ashtray. He looked at Jackson and dusted off the roach. “We gotta make some kind of move if he don’t get them tanks.”
    Jackson shook his head.
    The radio lights blinked and the CD player died momentarily, then returned to life, and the cab filled up with a quick burst of orange. Jerry Dean lit the joint and puffed a few quick hits to get it going. He took another and handed it to Jackson, who ignored it.
    “Take it.” Jerry Dean held his hit