Dutch's answer to the financial pressure came in March.
Not through Cole. Not through three men in a parking lot. He came himself, which was so unexpected that when Rafe got the call from the Saint on watch duty -- Dutch's car, Route 9, heading for town -- he sat with it for a full minute before he moved.
Dutch was sixty-one and had run the Road Kings for twenty-two years and had the quality of men who had outlasted everyone who underestimated them. He drove a black sedan and wore no patches and could have been anyone's grandfather if you didn't know what you were looking at.
He called Rafe from outside the Devil's Spoke and asked to come in. Just the two of them.
Rafe said yes.
They sat at the bar -- no drinks, no theater. Dutch looked older than the last time Rafe had seen him in pe
