“Dragged him to the clubhouse,” Dagger says. “Told the old president we had a new prospect.”
Mason looks around the room. “Best bad decision I ever made.”
The laughter fades and the mood shifts back to business.
Dagger’s expression hardens again. “Wayne was there that night. He never called the cops. Never asked questions. Just cleaned up the broken glass and told us to take the fight outside next time.”
Mason nods once. “That bar’s part of club history,” he says. “Which means if somebody thinks they’re going to start leaning on Wayne for protection money, they’re going to learn real quick that they picked the wrong place.” His eyes move across the table until they land on me. “Ghost.”
I meet his gaze.
“I want you to ride out there tonight. Sit in for a while and see who’s showing up.”
Dagger adds, “Find out who they are.”
Mason finishes the thought calmly. “And take care of it.”
I nod once. “I’ll handle it.”
Mason watches me for another second before nodding back. “That’s what I figured.”
The meeting moves on after that. Mason covers a few other things involving shipments and territory chatter, and he shuts down an argument between two prospects before it gets out of hand. I stop paying attention not long after that. My part in the conversation is already finished.
By the time church ends, the sky outside is already dark.
The ride to Harlan takes about forty minutes. The highway is mostly empty at this hour, and the steady vibration of the bike beneath me makes the miles pass quickly. I don’t rush. Jobs like this aren’t about speed. They’re about patience. You show up, you sit quietly, and you watch long enough for people to forget you’re there. That’s when they start making mistakes.
The Rust Nail isn’t hard to find. The place sits just off the main road on the edge of town, an old brick building with a neon beer sign buzzing in the window. The parking lot is half full with pickup trucks and a couple sedans that look like they’ve seen better days.
I park under a flickering streetlight and kill the engine, the truck settling into silence around me. My fingers stay wrapped loosely around the steering wheel for a second longer than they need to, my shoulders easing back against the seat while I listen to the quiet outside. The night air hums with crickets somewhere in the grass beyond the gravel lot, and every now and then the distant rush of a car passing along the highway drifts faintly through the darkness.
Quiet place.
Small towns always settle early, especially during the week. Most people are already home by now, eating dinner or sitting on their couches watching whatever’s on television. The only places still open this late are the ones meant for people who aren’t ready to go home yet.
I push the door open and step out, the gravel crunching under my boots as I make my way toward the bar.
The moment I step inside, the noise rolls over me.
Music hums through a set of worn speakers mounted near the ceiling, the bass vibrating faintly through the floor while voices rise and overlap across the room. Somewhere near the back wall a set of pool balls crack together, followed by a couple low cheers from whoever just made a shot. The air smells like fried food and beer, the kind of scent that clings to wood and never quite leaves no matter how often the place gets cleaned.
Working-class bar.
Places like this tend to look rough around the edges, but they run on simple rules. People show up after work, drink a few beers, maybe play a game of pool before heading home. Nobody asks too many questions, and nobody causes trouble unless they’re looking for it.
Most of the people inside look local.
Farmers still wearing dusty boots sit around a table near the windows, their hats tossed beside half-empty pitchers of beer. Two truckers lean against the far end of the bar watching a muted baseball game flicker across the television above them. Nobody pays much attention when I walk through the door.
Just the way I like it.
Being noticed usually means someone wants something. I’d rather take a seat, watch the room, and figure out who’s who before anyone decides to involve me in their problems.
My shoulders stay loose while I move deeper into the bar, but my eyes start working automatically.
Front door behind me.
Bathrooms down the hallway.
