Chapter 2

Deep into the night, I hit the center of town.

Most of the storefronts lining Main Street were shuttered. At the corner sat a few lifted Ford Raptors, their beds casually littered with empty beer bottles and loaded guns.

I stopped in front of a dive bar called the Iron Horse.

Deafening heavy metal and the rough, cursing shouts of men bled through the walls. It was the only joint in town still open—the designated watering hole where the Caldwell family's muscle collected their pay and killed time.

Arthur didn't know the exact location of that slaughterhouse. I needed a guide.

Catching my reflection in the glass window, I messed up my hair, making myself look even more disheveled. I couldn't risk being recognized.

Right now, I was nothing more than a washed-up drifter looking to drown his sorrows.

I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.

The air was thick with cheap smoke. A crowd huddled around a pool table, and the booths lining the walls were packed with men. They openly wore pistols on their hips, barking at each other in loud, profanity-laced tirades. There were no cops to keep them in check, because they owned the town.

Keeping my head down, I squeezed past a few thugs who were already slurring their words, and claimed a dark corner at the far end of the bar, right by the hallway to the restrooms.

The bartender, a heavy-set guy with dreadlocks, wiped down a glass with a dirty rag, sizing me up out of the corner of his eye.

"The cheapest tequila you got."

The bartender didn't say a word. He blindly grabbed a rocks glass from under the counter, poured a splash of some watered-down clear liquid, and slammed it down in front of me. Alcohol splashed onto the back of my hand.

Without looking up, I slowly pulled the glass toward me and settled into my shadowed corner.

The large circular booth at my two o'clock caught my attention.

Five men sat there. Their table was littered with empty beer bottles, crumpled cigarette packs, and half-eaten baskets of fries. Dead center sat a massive guy with a full beard and a long jagged scar near his right eye. A revolver lay casually on the table right next to his hand.

"The court order drops first thing tomorrow morning," the scarred leader grinned. "Boss Clint says we roll two bulldozers in tomorrow and level that overgrown, piece-of-shit ranch for good."

"About damn time. If we didn't have to play by the book to keep the state off our backs, I would've torched that rotting cabin a long time ago."

I tightened my grip on the glass.

"Honestly, boss," a heavily tattooed enforcer leaned in, "I almost felt bad when we took the place over three years ago. That bitch, Sarah...? She was actually pretty hot."

"Hot my ass," a skinny thug sneered. "When I told her to sign the deed, the stupid cow actually spit in my face."

The booth erupted in roaring laughter.

"I just remember it was pouring that night when we dragged her into the barn," another chimed in. "When we strung her up, the bitch didn’t shed a single tear. Didn’t even beg us for mercy right up until she took her last breath. Fucking psycho."

Amidst the sleazy giggles, the scarred leader lazily picked up a freshly opened beer.

As he raised the bottle to take a swig, the flickering neon lights of the bar hit his right hand.

Squeezed onto his pinky was something entirely out of place: a woman’s platinum diamond ring. Because it was far too small, the band dug deeply into the thick flesh at the base of his finger.

My eyes locked onto the ring. It was Sarah’s.

Years ago, I drained three months' worth of savings at a jewelry store just to see the look on her face when she put it on. Yes, they were wearing it as a sick trophy.

Blood rushed to my retinas, my vision turning red at the edges. My right thumb involuntarily pressed hard against the rim of my shot glass.

The tattooed guy pounded the table, shifting the subject. "Speaking of which, Logan’s unlucky little bastard, Leo, has been stuck in old witch Martha's slaughterhouse for three years now."

For a second, my heart literally stopped beating.

"Kid’s gotta be pushing ten, right? I swung by the west side of the slaughterhouse last month to see the old hag and got a look at him," the skinny guy grinned, shaking his head. "Little brat is just skin and bones. Martha had just beaten him with an iron hook 'cause he didn’t wash the dead pig guts clean enough. Looked like a mangy, hairless stray dog."

"That crazy old bat Martha is gonna kill that kid sooner or later," a previously quiet thug chimed in. He tossed a five-dollar bill onto the table. "I bet he doesn’t survive this winter. Last Friday, Martha dumped a pot of boiling hot water straight into the slop trough. Heard she almost blinded the little shit."

"Put me down for five, then." The leader roughly slid a bill under his beer bottle. "I bet he doesn't even make it past this month. Martha was complaining yesterday that the kid's running a high fever and can't even scrub the pig troughs anymore."

"Hahaha..."

Another round of raucous, mocking laughter burst from the table, accompanied by the harsh clinking of glass bottles.

I picked up my glass, downed the last drop of the cheap liquor, and set it back on the bar.

I had gathered enough intel for the night.

Sitting in the shadows, my eyes calmly swept over the five men in the booth.

Just then, the scarred leader took a huge gulp of beer and choked, coughing violently. Cursing under his breath, he craned his neck, looking for a place to spit.

His clouded, bloodshot eyes landed on me.

He stopped coughing. It looked like he had just found himself some entertainment.