Chapter Twenty
Swift
The bar looked like hell, but it was the kind of hell that meant progress.
Boards stacked along the wall and fresh drywall leaned in corners. The charred section in the back had been cut out, cleaned up, and was now nothing more than a scar waiting to be covered. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly, mixed with sawdust and cleaner.
It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t broken anymore either.
Tempi stood at one of the tables with Britta, papers spread out, bottles lined up like they were taking inventory for war instead of a bar reopening, which, honestly, wasn’t that far off.
“Okay, so if we’re missing three bottles of whiskey and two of vodka, either someone stole them, or they got tossed during cleanup,” Britta said, tapping the paper with her pen.
“Or Twister drank them,” Tempi muttered.
“I heard that,” Twister called from across the room.
“Good,” Tempi shot back. “Then stop pretending like it’s not true.”
Wheels barked out a laugh from where he was messing with a piece of drywall.
Gramps shook his head, muttering something about “children running businesses.”
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching Britta. She moved like herself again. No hesitation. No careful guarding of her shoulder. No slight wince she used to try to hide.
Back to normal.
Or at least as close as we were gonna get with everything breathing down our necks.
That should’ve made me feel better, but it didn’t.
Because normal meant doors opening and people coming in. And danger having a front-row seat again.
I tipped my head toward Twister. “I’m gonna go check on Cord.”
He nodded once. “Yeah.”
I pushed off the wall and headed for the door. The sun hit me the second I stepped outside.
Bright.
Warm.
Blinding after being inside most of the day.
Cord was leaning against the side of the building, arms crossed, head tilted slightly as he watched the street like he was counting every damn person that passed by.
Good.
That’s what I wanted.
I moved up next to him, pulling a cigarette from my pack and lighting it. “How’s it going?” I asked.
Nothing.
I glanced over at him. “You good, brother?”
“Don’t know,” he said.
That got my attention. I took a drag, letting the smoke settle in my lungs before I exhaled slowly. “You wanna cut the shit and tell me what the fuck you’re talking about?”
He nodded across the street. “That guy.”
I followed his line of sight. “There are at least ten people over there, Cord. Be a little more specific.”
“Black ball cap. Dark sunglasses. Jeans. Sitting on the bench.”
I spotted him.
Head down and his eyes on the phone in his hand.
“What about him?”
Cord shifted slightly. “For the past three days… he’s been there.”
That tightened something in my chest. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Like same time every day waiting for the bus or—”
“The bus stop is two blocks down,” Cord cut in, nodding down the street. “He’s not waiting for the bus.”
I watched the guy.
He didn’t move, and he didn’t look up.
Didn’t react to anything around him. Just… sat there.
“Then what the hell is he waiting for?” I muttered.
Cord shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just… weird.”
“How long?”
“At least an hour. Every day.”
I took another drag with my eyes locked on him. “You ever see him look over here too long? Do anything else?”
Cord shook his head. “No. Just sits there.”
That almost made it worse.
Because random people did weird shit all the time.
But patterns? Patterns meant purpose. And purpose meant someone had a reason to be there.
I looked up and down the street.
People walking.
Cars rolling by.
College kids laughing too loud.
Normal.
But that guy… He didn’t fit.
I took one last drag, then dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the pavement with my boot. “Go inside,” I said.
Cord straightened.
“And tell Twister to come out here. You stay with the girls. You, Gramps, and Wheels don’t let anything slip.”
He nodded immediately. “Got it.”
He paused. “Be careful.”
I gave him a look. “When am I not?”
He didn’t answer that. Just headed inside.
Thirty seconds later, Twister stepped out. “There a reason I need to be out here?” he asked.
I slid my sunglasses down over my eyes and nodded across the street. “Guy on the bench. Cord’s clocked him three days straight. Same spot. At the same time. At least an hour each time.”
Twister didn’t look directly. Just scanned the street like he didn’t care. “Could be nothing,” he said.
“Could be,” I agreed. “But I don’t like it.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Me neither.” He shifted his stance slightly. “Let’s go have a chat.”
I smirked faintly. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”
We didn’t go straight at him. That would’ve been stupid.
We headed down toward the stoplight first, crossing with the rest of the crowd like we were just two more guys heading somewhere else.
The street was picking up.
End-of-day traffic. College kids flooding the sidewalks. Music from somewhere down the block.
Laughter.
Phones.
Noise.
Too many moving parts.
We crossed over and started back toward the bench. Twenty feet out. Fifteen. Ten, and then chaos. A group of college girls practically slammed into us.
“Sorry!” one of them giggled, grabbing onto Twister’s arm like she’d just found her next bad decision.
Another one laughed, eyes flicking between us like we were part of some kind of show.
“You guys look like trouble,” one of them said.
“No shit,” Twister muttered under his breath.
I shifted, trying to move through them, but they swarmed.
Perfume.
Laughter.
Phones shoved in faces.
Hands brushing arms.
Typical college girl chaos turned up to eleven.
“Excuse us,” I said, my voice flat.
“Aw, don’t be like that,” one of them pouted.
Twister finally peeled one off his arm. “We’ve got somewhere to be,” he said, his tone just sharp enough to cut through the giggling.
That seemed to do it.
They scattered, laughing as they went.
The second they cleared, I looked at the bench, and it was empty.
“Son of a—” I scanned left. Right. Up the street.
Nothing.
“Where the fuck did he go?” Twister snapped. “There!” he shouted a second later.
I followed his gaze.
At the stoplight was the guy.
He’d turned, and for a split second, he looked right at us.
And something in my brain clicked. I knew that face. It was the guy I had clocked a few nights ago by Britta’s apartment.
“Get him,” Twister barked.
We took off.
Boots pounding pavement and people shouting as we shoved past them.
The guy didn’t run.
He walked like he knew exactly where he was going.
Like he wasn’t worried.
That pissed me off more than anything.
We closed the distance, and then a black SUV rolled up out of nowhere. The back door swung open, and the guy slipped in like he’d done it a hundred times. The door slammed, and the tires screeched as it pulled away from the curb. They blew the red light and took off down the street.
“Son of a bitch!” I shouted, skidding to a stop.
Twister slowed beside me, breathing hard.
We both watched the SUV until it disappeared into traffic.
“What the fuck is going on?” he muttered.
I ran a hand over my face. “That’s the guy,” I said.
“What guy?”
“The one near Britta’s apartment. Walking around the night before the drive-by.”
Twister went still. “Not a coincidence,” he said.
“Not even a little.”
“Hey!” Gramps’ voice cut across the street.
We looked back.
He was standing in front of the bar, phone in his hand, face tight. “Nugget just called!” he shouted. “Someone threw a brick through the clubhouse window again!”
Everything inside me went cold, then hot.
“Of course they are,” Twister growled.
And just like that, whatever game The Ledger was playing? It wasn’t subtle anymore.