Free City of Heretics by Heath Lowrance

chains on his legs and arms. His head was hidden in the hood of a heavy ski coat. He kept his face down.
    From up the block, they watched the circus. Crowe had the back seat of the Hummer to himself, and had to peek between Chester and D-Lux to get a good view.
    When the procession was a few steps from the transport van, Crowe said, “Okay then. Head around to the back of the building. That’s not Murke.”
    “How you know that?” D-Lux said. He was a big, wicked-looking guy with a shaved head and a neck as thick as Crowe’s torso. His heavy fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel.
    “Head around the back,” Crowe said again.
    Grumbling, he put the Hummer in gear, flipped on the radio, and in the best tradition of the sort of people who drive Hummers, did an illegal U on Main Street. Rap came blaring out of the car’s rear speakers, thumping too hard and rattling the windows and seats.
    Chester irritably stabbed the off button with his finger. “Turn that shit off, man. We got work.”
    D said, “Motherfucker, you don’t touch a black man’s radio. If I turn the fucking thing on—“
    “D, shut the fuck up,” Chester said.
    D shut up, but he didn’t look happy about it.
    They turned left onto the next street, just in time to see the real transport van nosing out of the alley behind the courthouse and hooking left, toward the river. Tricky boys, those Sheriff’s Department cops.
    “There it is,” Chester said. “The fuck, man, don’t you see the goddamn thing?  Stay on it.”
    D scowled. “You wanna watch yourself, Paine. I ain’t having it. I ain’t having you disrespecting me.”
    Crowe said, “Both of you, shut up.”
    D timed the traffic flow nicely, swung the Hummer into the next lane without getting them killed. One guy in a VW van had to slow down two or three miles per hour because of them. He honked his horn uselessly, and D flipped him off.
    They were about four vehicles behind the transport van. Crowe said, “Good. Don’t get any closer, we aren’t exactly unobtrusive in this monstrosity. Concentrate on the road. Chester, call the other guys. And keep your eyes on the van, you’re navigating.”
    Chester said, “No shit. In the meantime, why don’t you just chill back there, huh?”
    Crowe said, “Good idea,” leaned back in his seat, and bit into the apple he’d brought with him. He didn’t get fresh fruit in prison, and in the few days he’d been free he’d developed a real taste for it.
    Chester snapped open his cell phone and barked at the person on the other end. There were two of them, a couple of Vitowers lower-ranking goons, ordered to follow them and do exactly what Chester told them to do.
    The weight of a revolver pulled the pocket of Crowe’s new overcoat out of shape. It was a Colt .38, with a three inch barrel. In his other pocket were a handful of speed re-loaders. A good reliable caliber, nothing fancy. If he had to shoot it he knew it wouldn’t let him down.
    The transport van got on 51 from Riverside, by the DeSoto Bridge, headed east. The monstrous glass Pyramid reflected the churning Mississippi to their left. D did a good job staying a few car lengths behind.
    There wasn’t much traffic on the freeway, so Crowe said, “Fall back a little, D,” and miracle of miracles D did what he was told without complaint. The weather had warmed up a little that morning, and all the clinging ice was gone, but the sky looked washed-out and tired, as if it had had quite enough.
    The transport van took 14 up to the 40 connection, passing the exits for North Parkway, Jackson, Chelsea. Where 40 headed east, the freeway opened up and very quickly they left the city behind them.
    For a long time, they rode in silence. The deputies had chosen 10:30 in the morning to avoid any remnants of rush hour, and it had paid off, especially heading away from the city. They kept a steady clip, about seventy miles per, not having to do too much weaving or changing lanes. Crowe,