Purgatory, West Virginia
December 17
Finn woke up spoiling for a fight. He had fallen asleep on the couch again with no recollection of how he’d gotten there. This house was pissing him off, the echoes of happiness and loss, the atmosphere thick with dissonance.
He stood. Fighting a wave of nausea, he steadied himself with a hand on the end table, then grabbed his jacket and headed to the truck. Finn knew where to find a brawl.
The Pitchfork Roadhouse was everything the billboard had promised and less. If not for the sputtering neon beer signs blinking in the windows, it would have been mistaken for a warehouse. Only the P, E, and N of the “open” sign above the door were illuminated. The sole indication the holidays were approaching was a plastic sprig of mistletoe attached with electrical tape to the doorframe. Finn pulled open the rickety screen door and stepped into the cavernous room and, apparently, the 1980s. Rush blared from the speakers; patrons smoked at the bar. A woman who looked like she should be posing on the hood of a Camaro gave him a slow up-and-down. Finn gave her a chin jerk and moved to the bar. Maybe later. He wasn’t here to fuck. With the memory of Charlotte still fresh in his mind, sex would only piss him off more. No, he needed to hit someone, someone who would put up a fight.
At the back of the room, a table of bikers sat enjoying burgers and beers. One of the men had his hand up the waitress’s skirt, palming her ass, but she didn’t seem to mind. She playfully slapped it away and scolded him with a halfhearted, “not at work, Blaze!” The other man laughed. Finn would give it some time. Maybe one of them was a mean drunk. He inhaled, his nostrils flaring. He could almost smell the blood, hear the crunch of bone, feel the pain in his knuckles, the throb of a broken nose.
Taking a seat at the end of the bar, he ordered a draft from the bald bartender with a handlebar mustache. The man took Finn’s money and returned with a frosty mug. The song switched over to a Bon Jovi classic. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Finn thought about the title. To be thought so little of, that your life was of no consequence—a concept foreign to most was disturbingly familiar to him. The drug lord Finn answered to in his undercover work rarely made the distinction. And if Gabriel Lorca specified he wanted someone brought to him alive, it was undoubtedly so that he could kill that person himself. Slowly.
Finn had been a lieutenant, a trusted enforcer in the cartel, and he, too, was disposable. He didn’t need to get discovered as a mole or even commit some unforgivable act. Finn could have been shot over a hand of poker or stabbed by a jealous underling. His death would have been met with a shrug; his body tossed in a ditch.
Dead or alive; it didn’t matter.
“What’s turned you all pensive on this fine evening, son?”
Finn looked up to see Bud had taken the seat beside him. He needed to get his head out of his ass and pay attention. The guys on his SEAL squad would show no mercy if he admitted a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man with footsteps like a Clydesdale had snuck up on him.
“Just enjoying a cold one.” Finn lifted the mug to his lips and eyed the table of bikers over the glass. He flagged the bartender with a five-dollar bill and ordered a beer for Bud.
“Thanks,” Bud said.
Finn looked across the room. One of the bikers was shouting. Ah, excellent, the mean drunk had arrived at the party.
Bud followed his gaze then turned back to Finn. “I don’t know. That guy’s pretty scrawny. Not much satisfaction in knocking his lights out.”
Bud was right. The biker had pushed to his feet; he was barely taller than the guy he was arguing with who had remained seated.
Bud pulled on his nose. “Problem with bikers, they tend to fight in packs. That big dude that the scrawny fella is arguing with? He may want to punch his friend, but he ain’t gonna let you do it.”
Finn scratched his chin. That might work.
Bud played out the scenario with exhausting specificity. “Now, I’m guessing you think you can take them both. And I would agree with that assessment. But after you K.O. Moose and Squirrel, you’ve still got Butch and Snake and Viper to deal with.”
Finn cocked a brow.
“Or whatever the hell their names are. And if I can see that sidearm peeking out from under Viper’s vest, I know you can see it.”
Finn sipped his beer. He’d seen the gun. Dead or Alive.
“Even if he doesn’t pull the piece, I doubt you in your impaired state,” Bud pointed to the wound at Finn’s temple, “would survive an altercation.” Bud spun the stool around and stood. “May not matter to you, but I’d wager it matters to someone.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of the same dirty overalls he had worn earlier. “You’ve already got a cracked melon. You need to ask yourself how much more of a beating do you need to take?”
Bud didn’t wait for a reply. With his back to Finn and a hand in a motionless wave, he walked out the door.
“You gonna drink ‘em both?” The bartender brought Finn’s attention back.
“I think I’m gonna call it a night.” Finn tossed some additional bills on the bar.
Handlebar Mustache scooped them up. “If you’re looking to get laid, some sure-things come in around midnight.” He glanced over his shoulder at the table of bikers. “If you’re looking for something else, then it’s best you head on home.”
A new song came on, the same rock ballad that had been playing in the eighteen-wheeler before the crash. The aging British rocker crooned about how his daughter had changed his life: no high higher than her pout, no buzz better than little arms reaching out. Finn slid off the stool; the fight drained out of him. With a heavy breath, he turned and left the bar, Bud’s words ringing in his ears.
It matters to someone.