They could hear the barking and howling before they even got out of the truck.
“This is going to suck ass,” Phoenix said.
Slider thought about Bosco back at home. Bosco, who would roll over onto his back to get a belly scratch, and who came running every time Slider opened the freezer door because he loved to chew ice cubes, and who often fell asleep with his droopy head propped on a stuffed animal squirrel the boys had picked out for him. Yeah, this was going to suck. The last thing Slider wanted to see was an animal getting hurt.
They piled out, Caine and Slider in baseball hats and Phoenix wearing a brown cowboy hat that hid the scar on the side of his face, cowboy boots, and a pair of black-framed glasses. They weren’t perfect disguises, but none of them looked like they normally did, and Slider hoped that would be enough.
Even as they made their way toward the barn, a few more cars pulled into the field, and the noise coming from inside made it seem like this was going to be a decent-sized event. That suited Slider just fine, because it meant a bigger crowd to get lost in.
A blue pickup—a blue Datsun—sat at the end of one row. Satisfaction rolled through Slider as he nudged Caine’s arm and pointed. “Heads-up.” Curt Davis was here, just like they hoped he’d be. Now they’d just have to be careful about being spotted by him.
“Fucking perfect,” Caine said, his tone like ice.
Two men stopped them at the door, small 301 tattoos on their necks identifying them as part of the Crew. “Name?”
“Chuck Mason,” Caine said. Their master of new identities for their protective clients no doubt had a few set up for himself as well.
The men gave the three of them a once-over and waved them in.
“Jesus,” Slider bit out under his breath. It was as bad inside as he feared. Fighting pits filled the barn’s four corners. Maybe twenty square feet, there was nothing fancy about them—they were constructed simply out of plywood fencing that stood about three feet high. A pair of dogs fought in three of the pits, and thirty or forty spectators stood around each one, cheering and yelling and booing. A betting booth stood at the center, and a concession stand filled the far wall. People milled around both and wandered up the center aisle.
“Who could eat?” Phoenix said. He wasn’t wrong—the stench of animal blood and other bodily fluids hung in the air.
“Come on,” Caine said, leading them to stand at the railing of the closest fighting pit where it appeared a fight was about to begin. Blending in necessitated acting interested, so Slider braced his arms on the edge and paid close attention to the two pit bulls being restrained on leashes in opposite corners. Deep lines had been scratched diagonally into the dirt in front of each corner.
As they watched, a referee supervised each dog getting washed down with sudsy water from the same bucket. Listening to the chatter of other spectators, Slider learned that was to remove any chemicals or poisons that a dog’s owner might put on the coat to make the opposing dog sick, which just proved how truly twisted this whole thing was.
“Okay,” the referee called out, his voice drawing new attendees. “We’re playing by Cajun Rules, gentlemen. Let the show begin. And may the best dog win.”
Slider assumed the men holding the leashes were the dogs’ owners, and as they released the pit bulls into the ring, both men stepped back into their corners but stayed in the pit. The dogs went at each other so hard it made Slider sick. They bit, snarled, tackled, and jumped. As their attacks landed, new bloodstains soon joined older, faded ones on the floor. The owners in the corner shouted commands and encouragements, and it was clear that one dog was a favorite among the gathering crowd.
Something caught Slider’s eye on the opposite side of the fighting pit—a kid. Maybe Sam’s age. Watching the fight. “Who the hell would bring a kid to this?” he asked Phoenix.
“That’s some messed-up shit.” Phoenix leaned in closer, so his words wouldn’t carry to the other spectators. “I’m gonna wander. Take some pics. I’ll text if I see Davis and get what we need.”
Slider nodded and watched as Phoenix moved away, his hat tilted down low. Turning to Caine, he said, “No one of interest here. Wanna move on?”
At the next fighting pit, the dogs appeared in bad shape. “How long’s this been going on?” Caine asked a man at the fence.
“Thirty minutes,” the guy said. “They have great fucking stamina, don’t they?”
“Yeah, man, they do,” Caine said, leaning over the fence a little like he was interested. Slider scanned the crowd around this pit, but still didn’t see who they were looking for. His phone vibrated in his pocket.