My hand tightens on the gun. “Try again.”
He forces a laugh. “Buddy, I’m telling you, ain’t no woman been in here today.”
“That’s a lie,” I say.
He blinks — too slow.
I raise the gun. Fire.
The first shot is deliberate, a warning. The bottle rack behind his head explodes, glass raining down. The bartender screams, stumbles back, hands raised high. Patrons dive for cover, one man hitting the floor so hard he knocks over a barstool.
I stay still.
“That was a warning shot. The next one goes through your skull. Tell me where she is.”
His hands shoot up. “Okay! Okay! Fuck, just don’t shoot me.”
“Talk.”
“She was here,” he sputters. “Earlier today. Met some guy for drinks, had one with him, and left with him. She seemed all messed up.”
My chest tightens. I can barely breathe.
“He drugged her?” My words are a growl.
“Look, man, I didn’t know what was happening.”
There’s something in his voice that grates at me. Something unforgivable.
“Try again,” I growl.
“I… Look, I just did what I was told. I didn’t know he was going to…”
His eyes shift, dart, his voice hitches in just the right way that tells me his role in this is more than he wants to tell me.
“I told you not to lie to me.” I fire. The bullet slams into his leg. It’s a flesh wound — I know how to aim. Still, the bartender collapses screaming, clutching at the wound while blood wells thick and hot between his fingers. My voice is a snarl. “You have one more chance. Next one goes in your head.”
“I’m sorry!” he sobs. “I didn’t want any trouble, and this guy, fuck, he was fucking trouble.”
“Keep talking.”
“He gave me this stuff, told me to pour, told me to put it in her drink. Then… then he took her.”
“Where did he take her?”
“I don’t know!” he screams. “I swear I don’t know.”
I raise the gun again and aim at his head.
“Wait. Wait!” he howls. “Oh, fuck. Fuck, it hurts. Look, he paid with a credit card. A fake one — but maybe, maybe you can track it. I’ve still got the info… I took it down because it was so fucking suspicious.”
My pulse kicks into overdrive. “Show me.”
He scrambles behind the bar, blood smearing across the counter as he digs through receipts with shaking hands. Finally, he yanks one free.
“H-here,” he stammers. “It’s a fake card. Registered to William Hickok — like the cowboy — but maybe it’s something? Oh, fuck, just please, just take it and go.”
I snatch the receipt. Oh, it’s something. A lead. A thread I will pull until the whole fucking world unravels.
