Chapter Six
Sadie woke to the smell of old beer and cleaning solvent, her brain taking three full seconds to remember where she was.
Safehouse. Fell's Point. The apartment above the closed bar where Nail had brought her after—
She sat up too fast. The bed creaked beneath her, and across the small room, Nail looked up from the kitchen table where he sat with a phone pressed to his ear.
He held up one finger. Wait.
"—checking the waterfront spots first, but they'll work their way inland. Yeah. Keep me posted." He hung up and set the phone down. "Morning."
"What time is it?"
"Almost noon. You needed the sleep."
She had. After the adrenaline crash, after lying awake for an hour listening to the unfamiliar sounds of Fell's Point outside the window, her body had finally given up the fight. She'd slept deeper than she had in weeks.
Nail, from the look of him, hadn't slept at all. Same clothes from last night, stubble darkening his jaw, coffee cup on the table that had been refilled enough times to leave rings on the wood.
"What's happening?" She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, still wearing her work jeans and the tank top she'd had on under her jacket. "My garage—"
"Still occupied. Mercer left four men there overnight." He picked up his phone again, scrolling through messages. "They haven't touched the Civic. Probably don't know what they're looking at."
Small mercies. Mrs. Patterson would get her car back eventually.
"So what now? We just hide up here while they tear my shop apart?"
"We stay here while I figure out our next move." His voice was calm, but something underneath it had edges. "Fisk isn't stupid. He knows you didn't disappear on your own. He's got people asking questions."
"What kind of questions?"
"The kind that lead here if we're not careful."
Sadie stood up, her muscles protesting the sudden movement. The apartment looked different in daylight—smaller, shabbier, the water stains on the ceiling more visible. But it also looked strategic. Windows on two sides. Clear sightlines to the street. A fire escape she hadn't noticed last night.
"You've done this before," she said. "Hidden people."
"It's part of what I do." He gestured to the coffee maker on the counter. "There's coffee. It's not good, but it's hot."
She poured herself a cup and leaned against the counter, watching him work.
His phone buzzed every few minutes—texts, calls, more texts.
Each time he answered, his voice shifted.
Friendly and casual with some callers. Clipped and professional with others.
And twice, his voice dropped into something cold enough to make her skin prickle.
"You're tracking them," she said during a lull. "Fisk's people."
"I'm tracking everyone." He didn't look up from his phone.
"The bartenders in Canton are telling me which blocks Mercer's crew has already searched.
A dock worker I know saw two of Fisk's vehicles heading toward Federal Hill this morning.
There's a waitress at a breakfast place on Thames who just texted that someone was asking about a female mechanic who might be hiding nearby. "
"How many people do you have feeding you information?"
"Enough." He finally looked at her, and the easy smile was nowhere in sight. "Fisk's operation runs on invisibility. Nobody sees the cars come in, nobody sees the parts go out. But my operation runs on being seen. On being the guy everyone tells their problems to over a drink."
"The bartender thing isn't just a cover."
"It's never been a cover. It's who I am.
" He set the phone down and leaned back in his chair.
"My old man ran Flynn's for thirty years.
I grew up learning to read people, to remember faces, to file away the things they said when they'd had too much.
When the club needed someone who knew how information moved through Baltimore, I was already doing the job. "
Sadie sipped her coffee. It was terrible, but he was right—it was hot.
"So Fisk has muscle and cars and a network of chop shops. And you have... bartenders and dock workers and waitresses?"
"And brothers who'll kill to protect what's ours." The words landed flat, without bravado. Just fact. "Fisk's problem is he thinks force is the only kind of power. He's about to learn different."
His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it, and something shifted in his face.
"Problem?"
"Mercer's getting smarter." He stood, moving to the window. "He's stopped searching randomly. Now he's hitting bars—asking owners if they've seen anything, if they've heard anything."
"Can't your people just lie to him?"
"They are. But Mercer's not stupid. He knows this neighborhood is connected to the club. He's going to work his way through every place on Thames Street until someone gives him something."
Sadie set down her coffee cup. "Then we should leave. Find somewhere else—"
"No." His voice was sharp enough to cut. "Moving now is exactly what he wants. He's trying to flush us out, make us run so his people can spot us. We stay here."
"And if he finds us anyway?"
Nail turned from the window. In the gray afternoon light, his face was all sharp angles and controlled intensity—nothing like the friendly bartender she remembered from childhood.
"Then he's going to wish he hadn't."
The hours crawled by. Sadie tried to sit still, tried to wait, but waiting had never been her strong suit. She paced the small apartment. Counted the water stains on the ceiling. Made a mental list of everything in her garage that Mercer's people might be damaging right now.
Nail worked the phone like an instrument, his voice rising and falling with each call.
She watched him extract information from people who probably didn't realize they were giving it—a casual question here, a sympathetic noise there, and suddenly he knew which streets were being watched and which weren't.
It was impressive. It was also infuriating.
"How can you just sit there?" She finally snapped, around four in the afternoon. "My garage is occupied by car thieves. Everything my uncle built is in their hands. And you're making phone calls."
"I'm keeping you alive." He didn't rise to the bait. "That's the priority."
"I didn't ask you to—"
"Yeah, you did." He set down the phone and stood, crossing the small room to stand in front of her. Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up. "You walked into my bar and asked for help. This is what help looks like."
"Help looks like hiding?"
"Help looks like not getting killed before we can hit back." His eyes were steady on hers. "You want to run out there and fight? There's the door. I won't stop you. But Fisk has fourteen men, and last time I checked, you've got a tire iron and a bad attitude."
"I've got more than that."
"I know you do." His voice softened, just slightly. "I've known since you walked into Flynn's with your chin up and your hands steady, asking for help like it was the hardest thing you'd ever done. You're tough, Sadie. Tougher than most people I know. But tough doesn't stop bullets."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to push back against the logic, against the waiting, against the maddening calm in his voice.
But he was right. She hated that he was right.
"Fine." She stepped back, breaking the tension. "We wait. But if your phone calls don't produce something useful soon—"
"They already have." He checked his phone again. "Mercer's patterns are predictable. He's working a grid, trying to cover ground systematically. Which means I know where he's going to be next."
"And?"
"And the brothers are setting up ahead of him." A ghost of that friendly smile crossed his face. "Fisk thinks he's hunting us. He doesn't realize we're letting him."
The sun dropped behind the row houses, turning Thames Street orange and gold. Sadie watched through the window as the neighborhood shifted into evening mode—bars opening, people walking home from work, the ordinary rhythm of Fell's Point.
Except it wasn't ordinary. Because she could see them now, the watchers. A man in a dark jacket on the corner, trying too hard to look casual. A car that had driven past three times in the last hour. The wrong faces in the crowd below.
"They're getting close," she said.
Nail appeared beside her, looking down at the same street. His shoulder brushed hers, and she was suddenly very aware of how small the apartment was. How close he stood. How the heat from his body cut through the evening chill.
"Yeah," he said. "They are."
"What happens when they find us?"
He turned his head, and his face was inches from hers. That close, she could see the calculation behind his eyes—the constant assessment, the rapid-fire analysis that never really stopped.
But underneath it, something else. Something that looked at her like she was worth protecting. Worth fighting for.
"They don't find you," he said. "They find me. And they find out what happens when you threaten something that belongs to this club."
Something that belongs.
The words should have made her angry. She didn't belong to anyone—hadn't since her mother walked out and her uncle taught her that the only person you could count on was yourself.
But the way he said it didn't sound like ownership. It sounded like a promise.
His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his whole body went still.
"What?"
"Mercer found us." He was already moving, checking the windows, scanning the street below. "He's got a source at one of the bars—someone who owed him more than they owed me. He knows we're on Thames Street."
"How long do we have?"
"His crew is ten minutes out. But the brothers are closer.
" He met her eyes, and the friendly bartender was completely gone now.
In his place was something harder, colder, and absolutely certain.
"They're coming. My information says we've got twenty minutes before this whole block turns into a war zone. "
Sadie's heart was pounding, but her voice came out steady. "What do you need me to do?"
That ghost of a smile again. Approving this time.
"Stay behind me. And when the shooting starts—"
"I know," she said. "Stay down."
"No." He moved closer, and his hand came up to cup her jaw—rough calluses, gentle touch. "When the shooting starts, you run. Fire escape to the alley, alley to the harbor. There's a boat slip at the end of the pier. The brothers will find you."
"I'm not leaving you—"
"You're not staying to watch me work." His thumb traced her cheekbone, and the touch sent electricity down her spine. "Mercer's about to find out why they call us Killers. That's not something you need to see."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she wasn't afraid of violence, wasn't some damsel who needed protecting from the ugly parts of his world.
But his hand was warm on her face, and his eyes were fierce on hers, and somewhere in the last twenty-four hours, this had stopped being about her garage and started being about something else entirely.
"Twenty minutes," she said.
"Twenty minutes." He dropped his hand and stepped back, already reaching for his phone. "The brothers are coming. Mercer just doesn't know it yet."