Stanley Jackson watched the six young men milling around in front of the drink coolers at the Westside Quik Mart. The convenience store clerk often worked the third shift alone. At six foot three and 245 pounds, he was only ten pounds heavier than when he'd wreaked havoc as a defensive lineman for the Campbellton High Colonels. Stan had received scholarship offers from a handful of small colleges, but he'd injured his right knee in a motorcycle wreck the summer after graduating from high school, and the opportunity to play football in return for a free education evaporated like the mist on a May morning in Georgia.

The store clerk glanced up at the surveillance camera that was aimed at the back of the store. The video feed linked directly to the security company headquarters in Atlanta. The unblinking eyes of the cameras recorded a twenty-four-hour-a-day reality show boring enough to cure insomnia. There were two cameras inside the store and one outside. The camera that was supposed to cover the cash register hadn't worked in over a month.

Stan recognized two of the teenagers: Deshaun Hamlin, a quick and agile point guard on the high school basketball team; and Greg Ott, a regular customer who often came into the store with his stepmother. The other young men were strangers. One of the strangers opened the door of the cooler and took out a thirty-ounce bottle of malt liquor.

"You have to be twenty-one to buy beer!" Stan called out. "And that means a valid ID!"

Deshaun left the group and placed a plastic bottle filled with orange sports drink on the counter in front of the cash register.

"What you up to, Deshaun?" Stan asked. "I haven't seen you down at the rec center recently."

"I'm trying out for a summer league AAU team next month if my left shoulder is healed up by then," he said.

"What happened to your shoulder?" Stan asked.

"Dislocated it going up for a rebound a couple of weeks ago. Worst injury I've had since I broke my arm when I was a kid."

"You're still a kid," Stan answered with a smile. "And I can dunk on you anytime I want to."

"Only if I didn't steal the ball first," Deshaun replied. "Wait a second. I need to pick up a snack for my grandmother."

Deshaun stepped over to the nut rack. The other four young men had scattered, making it impossible for Stan to keep an eye on what they were doing. The oldest of the strangers approached with the bottle of malt liquor. Tall and lanky with a small goatee, he appeared to be in his midtwenties. He placed the alcohol on the counter with a five-dollar bill beside it.

"Ring it up," he said in a slow, deep voice. "You can keep the change."

"That's not how it works," Stan replied. "You show me an ID, and you keep the change."

Stan glanced past the man as two of the other teenagers came together in front of the meat snacks. Petty shoplifting was a constant problem at the store, and the expensive meat products were a popular item to steal. The man at the cash register took a battered wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans and fumbled through it. Stan could see a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills.

"Dude, I must have left it at Greg's house," he said. "We walked over here together. That's where my car is parked."

Greg Ott came over to the counter. "He's cool, Stan," Greg said. "He works for a trucking company hauling freight to Birmingham. He's got his CDL license. You know I wouldn't lie to you."

"Maybe so," Stan replied. "But I still need to see his license if he wants to buy this bottle."

Deshaun returned to pay for his sports drink and a bag of pistachios.

"Let me know when the season starts," Stan said as Deshaun gave him a ten-dollar bill. "I'd like to come watch a game."

"We'll be playing our home games at the Franklin Gym."

"Cool. Did you walk over here?"

"Yeah."

"You'd better get going. A storm is coming."

"Remember, I'm fast," Deshaun replied with a grin. "I can outrun lightning."

"Get outta here," Stan said.

When Deshaun moved out of Stan's line of sight, the clerk saw one of the unfamiliar teenagers slip a pack of premium beef jerky into a pocket of his baggy black pants.

"You have to pay for that!" Stan called out.

"Calm down," the man with the goatee said, raising his hand. "Bring that up here, son. I'll pay for it even if this clown isn't going to sell me anything to drink."

"Watch your mouth," Stan said.

"Listen, brother," the lanky man said with a smile. "Customer service is important."

The teenager placed the beef jerky on the counter and backed away. Deshaun moved toward the door.

"I'm taking off," Deshaun said to Greg. "Will I see you later at my grandma's house?"

"Swing by my place first," Greg replied. "There's something I want to show you."

"Okay."

Stan scanned the package of beef jerky. "That will be $8.29," he said.

"What a rip-off," the stranger replied as he reopened his wallet and placed a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the counter. He picked up the jerky and tossed it to the boy.

"Get, before I make jerky out of you!" he said to the teenager.

Greg and the other three young men left. Stan could see them standing in front of the store, where they huddled on the sidewalk before moving away. Stan touched the bottle of malt liquor.

"Put that back in the cooler where you found it," he said to the man with the goatee.

"That's your job, boss. And make sure you do it soon. It's no good if it isn't ice cold. I'll come back later to pick it up."

"With an ID. And leave your attitude in the parking lot," Stan responded, his temper rising.

Stan opened the cash register so he could count out the change from the purchase of the beef jerky. He picked up a quarter and reached for the smaller coins he needed.

"Don't stop," the man said. "I want it all."

Stan glanced up as the stranger shattered the malt liquor bottle. Amber-colored liquid spewed all over the counter. The man leaned over the counter and slashed the right side of Stan's neck with the jagged remains of the bottle. Blood spurted from the wound.

His eyes wide, Stan reached forward to grab the robber with his left arm, but the man slammed the remains of the bottle into the top of the clerk's hand. Stan cried out in pain and staggered backward. The stranger leaned over the counter and snatched all the twenties, tens, and fives from the drawer. Stan pressed his bleeding hand against the wound on his neck. The room began to spin, and he passed out. As he fell, Stan knocked over a rack of cigarettes behind the counter.

* * *

Officer Luke Nelson slowed to a stop as the traffic light turned red. He glanced down at the picture of Jane that he kept on the console when he patrolled alone. The photograph had been taken on a breezy evening at Hilton Head during their honeymoon. Wearing a peach-colored sundress, Jane stood barefoot in the sand. Her blond hair swirled away from her face, and her blue eyes shone with new love and the promise of future joy. When Luke glanced at the picture it also reminded him that Jane would be praying for him.

Luke moved the seat of the new police cruiser so that his feet comfortably rested on the gas and brake pedals. The vehicle still had a new-car smell, and Luke took in a deep breath. He was surprised when the chief offered to let him use the car for the night. As the city of Campbellton's newest officer, Luke usually drove a car whose next destination was the auto...