Business slowed to a trickle. The stools sat empty. The pool table gathered dust. Stone didn't complain to the town council, and he didn't confront Harrington in the street. He simply kept waking up at 5:00 a.m., brewing the coffee, and sweeping the floors.

But on the fourteenth night of the harassment, after Harrington had walked in, knocked over a display of peanuts, and issued a citation for "obstructing a walkway," Stone finally decided that eleven years of total quiet was enough.

He waited until the cruiser's taillights faded down the two-lane highway. Then, he walked to the back office, unlocked a heavy iron floor safe, and pulled out a leather-bound address book that smelled of motor oil and stale tobacco. He picked up the heavy rotary phone on his desk and dialed a number with a California area code.

It rang twice. A gruff voice answered. "Yeah."

"It's Stone," the old man said into the receiver.

There was a heavy pause on the line. The tone of the voice on the other end immediately shifted from annoyance to deep, absolute reverence. "Brother. It's been a long time. You okay?"

"I'm fine, Mac. But I've got a bit of a pest problem up here in Mil Haven."

"Say the word."

"I don't want any blood," Stone said firmly. "I built a good place here. I just need to remind a young dog that there are wolves in the woods."

Mac chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "Give us three days."

The morning their final mistake caught up to them started like any other. Harrington and his two deputies were parked at the edge of town, drinking awful gas station coffee and complaining about the lack of action in Mil Haven.

Then, they felt it.