Then Fenrir's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. "We'll talk about my daughter later."
"Yes, sir."
"But for the record—you hurt her, and I don't care whose son you are. Understood?"
"Understood. But I won't. I'd die first."
He holds my gaze for a long moment, then nods.
Fenrir turns his attention back to the road.
Hakon glances back at me, eyebrows raised.
I ignore him.
Ulf's grinning like this is the most entertaining thing he's seen all week.
"So you and Ingrid—" he starts.
"Not now," I cut him off.
"But—"
"Not. Now."
He shuts up.
The rest of the drive passes in tense silence.
Soon enough, we’re at our destination.
The bar sits just off I-10, maybe twenty miles from the Georgia border.
Dive bar doesn't begin to cover what this place is.
Neon sign flickering, parking lot full of eighteen-wheelers and beat-up sedans, the kind of place where people come to disappear into bottom-shelf whiskey and bad decisions.
Perfect for trafficking operations.
Transient population, nobody asks questions, cash only.
We park at the edge of the lot, scope it out for a minute.
"Remember," Fenrir says. "We're just here to listen. Observe. Gather information. We don't engage unless absolutely necessary."
"And if we see something we can't ignore?" I ask.
"We use our judgment. But the priority is intel. We need to know how big this operation is, who's involved, when the next shipment moves. One rescue won't stop the network."
I nod, even though something in my gut twists.
Logic says he's right, but logic doesn't account for looking a kid in the eye and walking away.
Inside, the bar smells like cigarettes and stale beer.
Country music plays too loud from a jukebox in the corner.
Maybe thirty people scattered around—truckers at the bar, a few locals playing pool, couples in dark booths.
