I pulled my truck into the parking lot, the air thick with salt and stale beer. Neon flickered through the bar’s grimy windows, casting red shadows on the pavement. I killed the engine, checked my pistol’s mag out of habit, and tucked it into my waistband. Not that I expected a fight. Doyle was a coward, not a threat. But I hadn’t survived this long by assuming.
Inside, the place was a haze of cigarette smoke and bad decisions. A dozen regulars hunched over their drinks, their eyes sliding over me like I was just another shadow.
Good. I liked it that way.
The bar was a U-shape, scarred wood and sticky rings, with a mirror behind it that showed me my own face—harder than it used to be, eyes like ash, jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. I didn’t linger on the reflection. Didn’t need to see the man I’d become.
Doyle was in the back booth, nursing a PBR and looking like he’d slept in his clothes. His thinning hair was slicked back, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table.
He clocked me as I approached, his watery eyes darting to the door before settling.
“Dane,” he muttered, like saying my name might summon something worse.
I slid into the booth across from him, keeping my back to the wall.
“Talk.”
He licked his lips, glancing around like the regulars gave a shit about his secrets.
“Got something for you. Weird one.”
“Weird how?” My voice was low, steady, but my gut was already tightening. Doyle didn’t do “weird.” He did intel—names, dates, coordinates. The kind of shit I need to keep us three steps ahead of Department 77’s ragged remnants.
He reached into his jacket, slow enough not to spook me, and pulled out a phone. A cheap burner, black, scratched to hell. He slid it across the table, along with a crumpled Post-it note.
“This showed up at my drop. Anonymous. Note said to give it to you.”
I didn’t touch the phone. Not yet. The Post-it was yellow, the ink smudged but legible:Give to Silas Dane. My name in blockletters, no flourish, no bullshit. I looked at Doyle, searching for a lie in his twitchy face.
“Who dropped it?”
He shrugged, too quick.
“Told you, anonymous. No face, no trace. Just the phone and the note in a bag at my usual spot.”
I leaned forward, letting him feel the weight of my stare.
“You check it?”
“Power’s off. No juice, no boom.” He smirked, like he’d cracked a joke. “No explosives, no trackers. Clean as far as I can tell. But, y’know, maybe get your tech geeks to give it a once-over.”
I didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Just stared until his smirk died. He was holding out, but I didn’t have time to play interrogator.
I pulled a manila envelope from my jacket—ten grand in crisp hundreds—and slid it across the table. It vanished into his coat faster than a card trick.
He stood, muttering something about a piss, and was gone before I could blink. Typical Doyle. In and out, no footprints.
The phone sat there, a black hole on the table. I didn’t touch it. Not at first.
I ordered a whiskey, neat, and let it burn my throat while I stared at the damn thing. My gut screamed trap. Department 77 wasn’t subtle—they didn’t leave Easter eggs. But this? This felt personal. Like someone knew I’d bite, knew I’d chase the bait down whatever rabbit hole they’d dug. I’d spent months hunting 77’s ghosts, tearing through their networks, their safehouses, their lies. And now, with Charlie’s sighting of our mother—her face in that window—I couldn’t shake the feeling I was being led. Not my trail, not my choice.
Fuck it.
I grabbed the phone, my thumb hovering over the power button. Doyle said it was clean, but Doyle was a rat who’d sell hisown kids for a payday. If this thing blew, I’d be a smear on the bar’s sticky floor. If it didn’t, I might get answers.
I pressed the button, half-expecting a spark or a beep. Nothing. Just a faint hum as the screen flickered to life, dim and grainy.
A prompt popped up:Facial recognition required.
