Sometimes a battlefield.
I park two blocks away and walk the rest.
Inside, the tavern smells like wood smoke, coffee, and beer.
Warm.
Loud.
Alive.
I take a seat at the bar and order a beer.
The bartender slides it toward me without asking questions.
Locals glance my way.
Just once.
Long enough to mark me as new.
Then they go back to their conversations.
Small-town courtesy.
Or small-town surveillance.
And that’s when I see him.
Saint.
I recognize him immediately.
From the surveillance photos.
From the security reports.
From the way he sits at the end of the bar with his back to the wall and his eyes on every door.
He watches the room like it owes him money.
Like every stranger is a potential threat.
He’s bigger than I expected.
Broad shoulders.
Quiet presence.
The kind of man who doesn’t need to prove anything.
And the kind of man who doesn’t miss much.
Our eyes meet briefly.
Just a second.
But it’s enough.
