Page 51

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.