Chapter Six
Ace
Something felt wrong long before we reached the parking lot.
The sensation didn’t come from anything obvious.
Instinct stirred first, the kind sharpened by years in bar fights, club disputes, and situations where missing a single warning sign meant bleeding.
The Broken Spoke sat ahead in the late morning sun, the same weathered boards and faded paint as always.
The neon sign stayed dark like every other morning.
Even so, the air held a heavy stillness.
Birds usually claimed the oak near the entrance, their chatter marking every morning. Today, silence answered instead.
I shut off the engine and didn’t move. Both hands stayed locked on the steering wheel while my eyes scanned every inch of the lot. No cars. No pedestrians. No movement in the shadows under the overhang. Nothing stood out, yet instinct continued howling.
“Ace?” Marci’s voice came soft from the passenger seat. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”
“Stay in the truck.”
I stepped out, my boots hitting the gravel. Heat pressed down from above, but tension -- not temperature -- stiffened my shoulders. Every muscle went on alert. My eyes took in the roofline, the tree line, the street beyond the lot, searching for threats.
A splash of red caught my attention.
The front door of The Spoke -- the heavy door I had locked myself last night -- was covered in spray paint. Jagged letters streaked downward like blood.
I SEE YOU.
Cold hit first. Anger followed right on its heels. The message had been scrawled fast, fueled by rage or obsession. Fresh enough to shine under the sun.
He had been here.
I heard the truck door slam behind me. “I said stay --”
Too late. Marci rounded the hood and froze mid-stride, her hand flying to her mouth. Her body jerked backward as though the words had physical weight. Before panic could drive her into a run, I moved toward her and placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
“Easy. I need you steady.”
“He was here.”
“I know.” My free hand reached for my phone. “Get in the truck and lock the doors. I’ll check the building.”
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered.
“I’m not going anywhere. I need you safe while I verify we’re alone.”
She backed away, climbed into the truck, and hit the locks.
I waited until the click sounded before approaching the door.
My finger grazed the red paint. Still tacky.
The vandal had come within the last few hours -- while Marci slept in my bed and I stayed awake beside her, watching the wrong doorway.
A muscle jumped in my jaw. Kane answered on the first ring.
“The Spoke got hit,” I said. “Pull security footage. I want timestamps and faces.”
“Ten minutes and I’m there. You calling cops?”
“No. This stays in the club.”
“Understood.”
I finished a full sweep around the building. Windows secure. No signs of forced entry. Just a message designed for shock value, placed where Marci would see it immediately.
From the truck, she watched the door through the glass. Even from a distance, the panic in her posture stood out -- arms wrapped around her ribs, shoulders pulled tight, breathing sharp and shallow. Mercer had used this tactic before. She had seen this pattern somewhere else in her past.
Spade called before I could dial him. “Kane gave me the heads-up. What do you need right now?”
“I need the Mercer file sooner than planned.”
“You’ll have the first batch of papers tonight.”
“Good.”
Spade paused. “If he wants a war, we give him one. Right?”
No hesitation crossed my mind. “Yeah.”
I put my phone away and opened the truck door. Marci flinched, then forced herself to relax when she recognized me.
“Is he here?” she asked.
“No. The building’s clear. Stay close until backup arrives.” I held out my hand. “Come on.”
Her palm landed in mine, ice cold. I kept her tucked to my side as we headed for the door, placing my body between her and every line of sight from the street. The spray paint glared from the wood as we passed.
I SEE YOU.
A pained sound slipped from her lips. She leaned into me briefly, trembling.
I got us inside and locked the door, then took position in front of it. Only after securing our surroundings did I turn back to her.
She stood in the center of the room with her arms around herself, staring at the floor.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes rose slowly. The terror there made something inside me crack. Her past had trained her to expect pain. To expect abandonment. To expect disbelief.
“He wants you afraid. This stunt was meant to shake you. He wants panic because that’s what causes mistakes. Not us. Not today.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, though she didn’t let them fall. “What if he comes back?”
“We’re not waiting anymore. Rebel is almost here. Kane is pulling footage. Spade is tearing through Mercer’s background. Strategy shifts now. We push, not retreat.”
“You really think you can stop him?” Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
“I know we can. You’re not alone anymore. You’re not running.”
Belief didn’t hit instantly. Fear held on too tight. But something new flickered in her expression -- hope trying to breathe again after two years underwater.
I stepped closer, my hands settling on her shoulders, steady and warm. “Mercer doesn’t get to own your life. Not while I’m breathing.”
For the first time since we saw the message, the shaking in her arms began to ease.
* * *
The back office shrank once we both stepped inside, walls closing around a desk buried under invoices and an old monitor Kane set up before heading out.
I pulled the single chair forward for Marci and stayed on my feet behind her, close enough to watch both the door and the screen.
Old habits kept my spine straight and every sense sharp.
Never sit facing a wall. Never narrow your focus so much someone can approach from behind.
The monitor cast a blue haze across the room while the footage rolled backward in jerky fast motion.
The security camera offered nothing fancy, just a basic wide angle of the front entrance and part of the parking lot.
Good enough to catch faces when the lighting cooperated.
Good enough to show who walked up to our door in the middle of the night.
“What time did you lock up?” Marci asked, voice steady enough to tell me she was using control as armor.
“1:47.” I remembered checking my phone before setting the alarm.
I stopped the rewind at 1:30 and let the video play normally.
The bar sat still under night vision -- silent parking lot, security light bleaching everything into harsh white and heavy shadow.
Minutes crawled forward. 1:45. 2:00. 2:15.
My hand stayed on the mouse, ready for anything. Marci barely breathed.
At 2:47, movement appeared on the left side of the screen.
I paused instantly. A figure froze mid-step. Dark jacket, baseball cap pulled low, head angled away from the camera like he knew exactly where the lens pointed.
“Him?” I asked.
Marci leaned forward, fingers gripping the desk. “I can’t see.”
I hit PLAY again. The figure walked with purpose, not sneaking, not rushing. Closer to the door. Closer to the camera. The jacket showed nothing distinctive. The cap had no logo. Work boots, well worn. Shoulders squared. A stride full of confidence.
Three steps from the entrance, he pulled something from his pocket. The spray paint can. Even grainy footage couldn’t hide the shape. He shook it once, twice, unhurried. Like no one in the world could stop him.
Then he turned.
Not fully. Just enough to swing his face toward the camera for a heartbeat before returning to the door. That single glimpse was enough. Marci sucked in a painful sounding breath.
“That’s James.” Barely a whisper.
I froze the frame. Detective James Mercer. The man who had spent two years hunting her. The man who had hurt her and refused to release his grip even after she ran.
I committed every detail to memory. Dark hair cut short. Clean-shaven face. Jawline built to look trustworthy. Broad shoulders. Athletic. Someone who trained regularly. Someone who counted on physical presence to intimidate.
He would learn soon enough what intimidation really looked like.
The video continued. Mercer raised the can and painted with quick movements. I. SEE. YOU. Four minutes to leave a threat meant to hit her straight in the gut. When he stepped back, something in the footage shifted.
He turned to face the camera directly.
Chin raised. Features lifted so nothing remained hidden. The look in his eyes told a story he knew we would understand: I found you. I can reach you. You can run forever and I will stay on your heels.
Then he smiled.
Not a pleasant smile. A predator’s smile.
“Jesus,” I muttered.
A raw sound broke from Marci. “He wants me to stop trying. He wants me to know he can get to me again. Always.”
Mercer left the scene the same way he arrived, casual and unhurried, like he’d done nothing more than take a peaceful walk under the moon.
I rewound. Watched again. Took in every movement, every detail. “You can tell he’s law enforcement. Full situational awareness. Knows camera angles. Executes fast and clean.”
“He served in the Marines before becoming a cop,” Marci said quietly. “Eight years. Two tours.”
Everything clicked into place. All useful skills to him. All useful to me.
I paused the footage on the clearest frame of his face. “Every brother needs his face burned into memory. No hesitation if he shows up anywhere near you or anywhere near the club.”
“He’ll keep coming. You understand that. He won’t stop. He’ll hurt people on the way to me.”
I placed my hands on her shoulders. “Then we finish this before he gets the chance.”
Her eyes widened. Fear flickered there, but determination burned right behind it.
“Show the footage again,” she said. “I want to see if something stands out. Maybe I’ll recognize a detail you miss.”