Chapter 10 #2
He shifts his weight slightly and sets the tape measure down on the counter before answering.
“Why are you asking about him?” he says carefully.
I meet his eyes.
“Because someone trashed my bar,” I reply. “And apparently this guy thinks intimidation is a good way to introduce himself.”
Murphy lets out a slow breath through his nose.
“That’s kind of what I figured,” he says.
My stomach tightens.
“So you do know who he is,” I say.
Murphy glances around the shop like he’s making sure no one else is within earshot. The place is empty except for us, but he still lowers his voice a little when he speaks.
“People around here have been hearing that name for a while now,” he says. “It’s been floating around town for months.”
“Months?” I repeat. “And nobody thought to mention that to me before someone smashed my windows?”
Murphy gives me a tired look. “Rae, half the town knows about it. The other half pretends they don’t. That’s usually how these things go.”
I fold my arms on the counter.
“Alright,” I say slowly. “Let me ask a better question. How many businesses has this guy been leaning on?”
Murphy studies my face for a moment like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.
Then he sighs.
“Too many,” he says.
“That’s not a number,” I reply.
Murphy scratches the side of his jaw and looks down at the counter before answering.
“Five that I know of,” he says. “Maybe six. Bars mostly. A couple small shops that deal with a lot of cash.”
My fingers tighten slightly against the wood.
“And they’re paying him.”
Murphy doesn’t answer right away.
Which is answer enough.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath.
Murphy rubs the back of his neck.
“Look,” he says carefully, “most of those places are barely scraping by as it is. Somebody like Voss comes along, starts making threats, breaking things, sending guys around to remind people what could happen next… people start making calculations.”
“What kind of calculations?” I ask.
“The kind where they decide a few hundred bucks a month is cheaper than rebuilding their business from the ground up.”
Anger starts creeping up my spine.
“So they just roll over and pay him.”
Murphy lifts one shoulder slightly. “They survive.”
“And the ones who don’t?” I press.
Murphy exhales slowly.
“They get hit harder,” he says. “Windows smashed. Deliveries disappearing. Equipment getting damaged. One place had a truck fire in their parking lot last month.”
The words settle heavy in my chest.
For a moment I just stand there staring at the shelves behind him, picturing The Rust Nail with its boarded windows and that stupid note someone left on the bar.
This wasn’t random.
This was a system.
Murphy watches my expression closely.
“You’re thinking about doing something,” he says.
I tilt my head slightly. “Maybe.”
“Rae,” he says firmly.
“What?”
“That look on your face never leads to anything good.”
I push off the counter and step back toward the door.
“Relax,” I tell him.
Murphy folds his arms across his chest. “That’s exactly what Wayne said right before you walked out of the bar, isn’t it?”
I grin.
“See?” I say. “You two are starting to sound alike.”
Murphy shakes his head slowly.
“You’re going to get yourself into trouble one of these days.”
I pause at the door and glance back at him.
“Already did,” I say lightly. “Someone wrecked my bar.”
The bell jingles again as I step outside.
Murphy’s voice follows me out the door.
“Don’t go starting a war you can’t finish, Rae!”
I stop beside my truck and glance back through the window. Murphy is still standing behind the counter watching me like he knows exactly what’s going through my head.
I lift a hand in a casual wave before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Because the truth is…
He probably isn’t wrong.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit quietly while someone tries to bully this town.
I sit in the truck for a minute after leaving Murphy’s, both hands wrapped around the steering wheel while the engine idles quietly beneath me.
The conversation keeps replaying in my head whether I want it to or not.
Five businesses Murphy knows about, maybe more, and apparently this has been going on for months.
Broken windows, threats, vandalized equipment, and everyone quietly handing over money because they’re afraid of what happens if they don’t.
The more I think about it, the hotter the anger burns in my chest, because someone walked into The Rust Nail, smashed the place up, and left a note like Wayne was supposed to panic and start writing checks.
And the solution everyone seems to be circling around is patience.
Waiting.
Letting the Iron Reapers handle it.
I understand the logic behind that plan, and I know those guys aren’t exactly the type you want on the wrong side of a problem, but that doesn’t make the waiting any easier.
Every time I picture Wayne standing behind the bar staring at those boarded-up windows, something twists hard in my stomach.
The Rust Nail isn’t just where I work. It’s where I spend most of my life, where I know the regulars by name and what they drink, and where Wayne grumbles at me like an irritated dad when I do something he thinks is reckless.
He took a chance on me when I first showed up in town with a truck full of rescue animals and absolutely no plan for my life, and now some asshole thinks he can scare him into paying protection money.
My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles turn pale.
“Nope,” I mutter to the empty truck.
Waiting isn’t happening.
I shift the truck into drive and pull out onto the road before my brain can start offering reasonable alternatives.
Guys like Voss don’t hide, not really. They like people to know where they are, because intimidation only works if everyone understands who they’re supposed to be afraid of.
That means finding him probably isn’t as difficult as it sounds, and after two stops and one uncomfortable conversation at the gas station outside town, I end up with exactly the information I was hoping for.
The clerk hesitates when I say Voss’s name, glancing around like someone might be listening from behind the soda cooler, and then he sighs heavily before scribbling something on the back of a receipt. He slides it across the counter toward me without making eye contact.
Old warehouse.
Industrial park.
Voss Security Solutions.
I fold the paper once and tuck it into my pocket while he watches me like I’ve just announced I’m going to wrestle a bear.
“Appreciate it,” I tell him.
He shakes his head slowly, his mouth tightening.
“Lady,” he says, “if you’re smart, you’ll forget you asked.”
I give him a small smile that probably doesn’t reassure him in the slightest.
“Yeah,” I say. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
The industrial park sits on the far edge of town where the buildings get bigger and the streets get quieter.
Most of the businesses out here close early, which means the place feels half deserted by the time I turn down the last road.
The warehouse is impossible to miss once I spot it.
It’s a big metal building with a faded sign bolted over the front office that reads Voss Security Solutions, and it’s trying very hard to look legitimate even though the place has the same vibe as every shady business front I’ve ever seen in a crime documentary.
“Subtle,” I mutter under my breath.
There are three trucks parked outside and a black SUV sitting near the loading dock, which tells me the place isn’t empty even though it looks quiet.
I pull into the lot and cut the engine, then sit there for a second staring at the building while my brain offers one last chance to reconsider this entire idea.
This is the point where a smarter person might turn the truck around and drive straight back to town, maybe call Cole and let him handle it with the rest of the club.
Unfortunately, I am not currently feeling particularly interested in being smart.
I shove the truck door open and start walking toward the office entrance before my brain can argue any further.
The door swings open easily when I pull it, and inside the place looks exactly like what you’d expect from a company trying very hard to pretend it’s legitimate.
Cheap office furniture, motivational posters about safety on the walls, and a desk near the front where a bored-looking guy in a security shirt is slouched in a chair scrolling through his phone.
He glances up when the door closes behind me, and his eyes narrow slightly the second he realizes he doesn’t recognize me.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
I walk straight up to the desk and rest one hand on the edge of it, leaning slightly forward so he understands I’m not here to browse pamphlets.
“Yeah,” I say evenly. “I’m looking for Lyle Voss.”
The guy blinks like he’s not entirely convinced he heard that correctly.
“And you are?”
“Rae.”
“And why exactly are you looking for him?”
My smile turns sharp.
“Because he trashed the bar I work at.”
The guy leans back in his chair, studying me like he’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke.
“Lady,” he says slowly, “you don’t just walk in here and demand to see.”
“Either he’s here or he isn’t,” I interrupt calmly, folding my arms. “Which one is it?”
He stares at me for another long second, and then he lets out a short laugh like he’s decided I must be out of my mind.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He pushes his chair back and stands up, still watching me like I might suddenly pull a weapon out of my pocket.
“Stay here,” he says. “I’ll see if he feels like talking.”
“Take your time,” I reply.
He disappears through a door at the back of the office, and the moment he’s gone I cross my arms and look around the room again. Cheap desk. Filing cabinets. Fake certificates on the wall pretending this place is a real security company instead of a protection racket.