Chapter Forty-Two
Breaker
The dead man’s car coughs and shudders as I push it toward the edge of town, the battered hood rumbling with the sound of hollowed-out pistons and misaligned gears.
Everything about this heap is wrong — the cheap air freshener dangling from the rearview like an executioner’s noose, the crusted stains on the seat, the floor mat littered with spent sunflower seeds and cigarette butts.
My hands are slippery with blood, and my left wrist is swelling and screams with every pothole I plow over.
I cradle it against my chest, steering single-handedly down the road while the GPS barks directions at me in a mechanical voice.
When I reach the destination, I slam the car into the gravel parking lot hard enough that the tires spit rocks. I’m out before the engine even fully dies with a gun in hand, wrist throbbing, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my chest.
I shove the door open with my shoulder.
A dingy bell above the entrance rings as I step inside.
The bar is nearly empty, just some rough-looking locals in Carhartt and two guys shooting pool. Music hums low from a busted jukebox. The bartender stands behind the counter, drying a glass.
Everyone freezes.
They all stare — at my blood-smeared shirt, at my limp wrist, at the gun I don’t bother hiding.
The bartender swallows. “You, uh… need help with something?”
My voice is a rasp. “Yeah. I’m looking for a woman.”
His eyes flick nervously. “We got a waitress, but she don’t start work till later, when it gets busy.”
“Not that. Not her.” I slam my good hand on the counter.
Bottles rattle and patrons flinch. Some guy shifts in his booth until I shoot him a look that freezes him in place.
No one moves, no one leaves until I’ve got what I came for.
“Small. Curly hair. Kind eyes. Perfect smile. She was here earlier.”
He shakes his head too quickly. “Nope. Haven’t seen anyone like that.”
This is the part of a man’s life where you find out if you’re still human, or if you’re something else. I stare at him long enough that the silence becomes a black hole.
“Are you sure about that?”
He looks away. “Don’t want trouble. Just trying to run a business.”
My hand tightens on the gun. “Try again.”
He forces a laugh. “Buddy, I’m telling you, ain’t no woman been in here today.”
“That’s a lie,” I say.
He blinks — too slow.
I raise the gun. Fire.
The first shot is deliberate, a warning. The bottle rack behind his head explodes, glass raining down. The bartender screams, stumbles back, hands raised high. Patrons dive for cover, one man hitting the floor so hard he knocks over a barstool.
I stay still.
“That was a warning shot. The next one goes through your skull. Tell me where she is.”
His hands shoot up. “Okay! Okay! Fuck, just don’t shoot me.”
“Talk.”
“She was here,” he sputters. “Earlier today. Met some guy for drinks, had one with him, and left with him. She seemed all messed up.”
My chest tightens. I can barely breathe.
“He drugged her?” My words are a growl.
“Look, man, I didn’t know what was happening.”
There’s something in his voice that grates at me. Something unforgivable.
“Try again,” I growl.
“I… Look, I just did what I was told. I didn’t know he was going to…”
His eyes shift, dart, his voice hitches in just the right way that tells me his role in this is more than he wants to tell me.
“I told you not to lie to me.” I fire. The bullet slams into his leg.
It’s a flesh wound — I know how to aim. Still, the bartender collapses screaming, clutching at the wound while blood wells thick and hot between his fingers.
My voice is a snarl. “You have one more chance. Next one goes in your head.”
“I’m sorry!” he sobs. “I didn’t want any trouble, and this guy, fuck, he was fucking trouble.”
“Keep talking.”
“He gave me this stuff, told me to pour, told me to put it in her drink. Then… then he took her.”
“Where did he take her?”
“I don’t know!” he screams. “I swear I don’t know.”
I raise the gun again and aim at his head.
“Wait. Wait!” he howls. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, it hurts. Look, he paid with a credit card. A fake one — but maybe, maybe you can track it. I’ve still got the info… I took it down because it was so fucking suspicious.”
My pulse kicks into overdrive. “Show me.”
He scrambles behind the bar, blood smearing across the counter as he digs through receipts with shaking hands. Finally, he yanks one free.
“H-here,” he stammers. “It’s a fake card. Registered to William Hickok — like the cowboy — but maybe it’s something? Oh, fuck, just please, just take it and go.”
I snatch the receipt. Oh, it’s something. A lead. A thread I will pull until the whole fucking world unravels.
“You better hope this is something.”
Then I shoot him again, this time in the foot.
He shrieks, curling in on himself like a dying animal. “What the fuck was that for?”
I walk toward the door, looking back just long enough to say:
“For being a despicable, cowardly piece of shit. You drugged an innocent woman and let a fucking predator take her. You’re lucky I’m in too much of a rush to give you the fucking punishment you deserve.”
I step outside, grip the receipt so tight it crumples, and start toward Pike’s car.
“Hold on, Sparrow.”