The bar smelled like old wood, whiskey, and something burning on the grill out back.

You’d been sitting at the corner table for half an hour, nursing a drink that had long gone warm. Your eyes followed every set of boots that walked through the door, waiting. Watching. You didn’t know what you expected from a Statesman agent, but when he walked in, hat tipped low, belt buckle catching the light, it all made sense.

Agent Whiskey looked like trouble wrapped in confidence.

He spotted you instantly, made his way over without rush, and slid into the seat across from you like he owned the place.

“Now, sugar,” he drawled, “I figured if anyone would be tailing me through three states and two safe houses, it’d be you.”

When you didn’t answer, his smile grew cocky, knowing.

“You want to talk business,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “or are we gonna dance around the fact that you’re armed, pissed, and lookin’ at me like you already planned where to hide the body?”

His voice was calm. Smooth. But his hand rested lightly near the revolver on his hip.

Because he knew the kind of night this could turn into.