Satan raised his head. Listened. Then looked to his master. He smelled it, too. Someone was here. Ricky didn’t have to wonder who it was; he knew. He’d been expecting this visit all evening. His aunt had gone to her niece’s house in Scottsboro. She would stay there until this was over. It was best. Things were going to get ugly around here. No place for an old woman. This was his trouble. He would deal with it. He was prepared. Satan was at his feet and his Glock .40 cal lay on the table next to him. Let the motherfucker come. The knob on the front door turned with a creak. Ricky sat back in his aunt’s ragged old rocker and waited. No fear. That was the way to handle this shit. If the son of a bitch smelled fear, it would all be over. The door flew open, banged against the wall. The King stormed in, his bodyguards right behind him like a trio of shadows, falling into place around him as he stopped in the middle of the room. The King never went anywhere without his unholy trinity—his three most trusted men.
