Chapter 13
The First Hunt from the Bar
The regular's name was Frank, and he drank bourbon with a water back, and he'd been coming to The Lost Hours since before Matt bought the place.
I'd noticed him during my first week—the way he sat in the same stool every night, the way he nursed his drinks for hours, the way his eyes tracked the room like someone who'd learned to watch his back.
He wasn't tall or handsome or memorable.
That was the point. Frank was the kind of man who disappeared in a crowd, who blended into the woodwork, who knew things because no one noticed him standing there.
"You're not from around here."
He'd said it on my third night, when Matt was in the back and the bar was empty except for the two of us.
"No."
"Didn't think so. You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look of someone who's running."
I'd frozen. My hand had gone to the knife in my waistband, the motion automatic, instinctive. Frank had noticed. He'd raised his hands, palms out, a gesture of surrender.
"Easy. I'm not your enemy. I'm just an old man who's seen too much."
"What do you want?"
"Nothing. Just to talk. Just to warn you."
"Warn me about what?"
"There are people looking for you. People who know what you are. People who want to use you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I used to be one of them."
The memory of that conversation had been sitting in my chest like a stone.
I'd thought about it for days—turning it over, examining it, trying to decide if Frank was lying or telling the truth or something in between. Matt had noticed me watching him. Had asked, "You okay? You've been staring at Frank for twenty minutes."
"He knows something."
"Everyone knows something. The question is whether it's useful."
"How do I find out?"
"You ask. But you have to be careful. Frank's not stupid. He's been around. He knows how to keep secrets."
"How do you know him?"
"He used to work for a transport company. Mercy Logistics. They moved... things. People. I never asked for details. He never offered. But he stopped drinking here for a while, and when he came back, he was different. Quieter. More careful."
"Mercy Logistics."
The name landed in my chest like a bullet.
"Do you know where they're based?"
"I know where they used to be. An office in the warehouse district. But it's been years. He might not even remember."
"I'll ask him."
"Bunny."
Matt's voice was sharp.
"Be careful. Frank's not a bad man, but he's done bad things. We all have. The difference is whether we're still doing them."
Frank was waiting for me when I came out of the back room.
The bar was closed. The chairs were up. The lights were off except for the one above the register. Frank was sitting in his usual stool, a glass of bourbon in front of him, his eyes watching the door.
"You're still here."
"I'm always here."
"Matt said you used to work for Mercy Logistics."
His expression didn't change.
"Matt talks too much."
"Is it true?"
"What if it is?"
"Then I need to know where to find them."
"Why?"
"Because I'm looking for someone. Someone who used to work with them. Someone who disappeared."
Frank was quiet for a long time.
"Gabriel Mire."
My heart stopped.
"How do you know that name?"
"Because I helped him disappear. Not on purpose. Not directly. But I knew people who knew people. And I heard things."
"What kind of things?"
"That he went underground. That he's still alive. That he's been hiding from his brother's people for months."
"His brother?"
"Runs the family business."
"Where can I find him?"
"You can't. Not yet. He's protected. He has people everywhere. But I can give you a lead. A place to start."
"Where?"
"There's a warehouse on the south side. Off Meridian. They use it as a drop site for shipments coming in from overseas. You'll find people there who know people who know."
"How do you know this?"
"Because I used to work there. Before I got out. Before I decided I'd rather be a drunk than a monster."
He finished his bourbon and stood up.
"Be careful, Bunny. The people you're looking for—they're not like Matt. They're not like me. They won't hesitate to kill you."
"Neither will I."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"No. I don't suppose you will."
The warehouse was on Meridian, just like Frank had said.
I'd walked for an hour to get there—through the warehouse district, past the abandoned factories, past the homeless camps that clustered under the overpasses. The moon was hidden behind clouds, and the only light came from the security lamps that flickered on the corners of buildings.
The warehouse was dark.
But I could see movement inside.
Flashlights. Shadows. The shape of men moving through the aisles.
I pressed myself against the wall and counted.
Two.
Maybe three.
Maybe more.
I couldn't tell.
The knife was in my hand.
The gun was in my pocket.
The phone was in my other pocket, dark and silent, waiting for a message I didn't remember receiving.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I'm going in."
I moved.
The first man died before he knew I was there.
I came up behind him in the dark, my hand over his mouth, the knife sliding between his ribs. He made a sound—soft, almost like a sigh—and then he was gone, his body going limp in my arms, his blood warm on my hands.
I lowered him to the floor.
The second man was near the back of the warehouse, loading boxes onto a pallet.
He didn't hear me coming.
He didn't see me until I was standing in front of him, the knife still wet, my eyes watching his.
"Who are you?"
His voice was shaking.
"Where's Gabriel Mire?"
"I don't know—I don't know who that is—"
"You're lying."
"I'm not—please—"
The knife pressed against his throat.
"Where is he?"
"I don't know—I swear—I just work here—I just move the boxes—"
"What's in the boxes?"
"I don't know—I don't ask—they told me not to ask—"
"Who's they?"
"Mercy Logistics. The people who run this place. They said if I asked questions, they'd—"
"Where can I find them?"
"I don't know—I've never met them—they communicate through cutouts—they're careful—"
The knife pressed deeper.
"Please—I'm telling you everything—please don't—"
I killed him.
Clean. Efficient.
The way Gabriel had taught me.
Or maybe the way I'd always known.
I couldn't remember.
I never could.
"If anything happens to me, follow the money."
The memory came without warning.
Gabriel was standing in front of me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes the color of winter storms.
"The Institute is connected to a transport company. Mercy Logistics. They handle the movement of assets."
"Assets?"
"People. Girls. Products."
"Where are they based?"
"I don't know. I never needed to know. But if something happens to me—if I disappear—you follow the money. You find Mercy. And you find the people who run it."
"Why would I need to find them?"
"Because they're the ones who will come for you. They're the ones who will try to take you back."
"Take me back where?"
"To the Institute. To the program. To whatever comes next."
"I don't understand."
"You will."
He kissed my forehead.
"You're ready."
I blinked.
The warehouse came back.
The bodies were cooling on the floor. The blood was drying on my hands. The boxes were stacked against the wall, waiting to be shipped, waiting to be delivered, waiting to become someone else's nightmare.
Had Gabriel said that?
Or had I invented it?
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But the words felt right.
The same way the knife felt right.
The same way the kill felt right.
Mercy Logistics.
Follow the money.
I searched the bodies.
The first man had a wallet. Cash. Credit cards. A driver's license with an address I didn't recognize.
The second man had a phone.
Locked.
But I knew how to bypass locks.
The phone took twenty minutes to crack.
I sat on the floor beside the bodies, my back against a stack of boxes, my fingers working the screen. The blood was drying on my hands, flaking off in red-brown pieces, leaving stains on the glass.
The contacts were encrypted.
But the messages weren't.
I scrolled through them—shipping manifests, delivery schedules, names I didn't recognize.
And then I found it.
A message from someone named "Dispatcher."
*"Shipment 47-B en route. Destination: Mercy HQ. ETA: 48 hours."*
*47-B.*
My batch number.
My designation.
My name.
I stared at the screen.
The numbers blurred.
Tears? Or exhaustion? Or something else entirely?
I didn't know.
I couldn't know.
But I knew I had to keep going.
I had to follow the money.
I had to find Mercy.
I had to find Gabriel.
"Daddy."
The whisper was soft.
"Daddy, I found something."
"I found Mercy."
"I found the people who took you."
"I found the people who are going to help me find you."
The walk back to the bar was long.
The city was quiet at this hour—no cars, no pedestrians, no sound except my footsteps and the distant hum of something I couldn't identify. The moon had come out from behind the clouds, casting silver light on the cracked sidewalks, and I walked through it like a ghost.
The basement was cold.
I turned on the lights. The fluorescents flickered, buzzed, cast the room in shades of grey and green. The drain was still there. The pipes were still there. The locked door at the far end was still closed, the bolt cutters resting against the wall where I'd left them.
I walked to the wall.
The map was new—a city map I'd bought at a convenience store, spread across the concrete, held down with rocks I'd found in the alley. I'd marked the locations of my kills with red X's. The warehouse. The office. The building where Rue had died.
Now I added a new name.
Mercy Logistics.
I wrote it in black marker, in letters large enough to see from across the room.
Then I drew lines to the X's, connecting them, trying to see the pattern.
There was a pattern.
There was always a pattern.
I just had to find it.
The shower was cold.
I stood under the spray for a long time, watching the water run pink, then red, then clear. The blood was in the creases of my palms, under my nails, in the spaces between my fingers. I scrubbed until my skin was raw, until the water ran clear, until I couldn't see any trace of what I'd done.
The dress was clean.
I'd left it in the back room, hanging on the hook behind the door. Pale pink. Soft. The kind of dress a girl would wear to a party, or a date, or a job interview. The kind of dress that made me look innocent, harmless, forgettable.
I pulled it on.
The fabric was cool against my skin.
The knife was in my waistband.
The gun was in my pocket.
The phone was in my other pocket, dark and silent, waiting for the next message I didn't remember receiving.