Page 67 of Bar Down

The Rusty Blade sat in the heart of New Haven like it had something to prove—low ceilings, sticky floors, and a beer list longer than its electrical inspection history. The team came here when they didn’t want to be recognized, or when they didn’t care if they were. Its neon sign flickered like it hadn’t committed to staying lit. Inside, the air carried the usual cocktail of sweat, fryer oil, and too many brands of IPA trying to out-hop each other, but the lighting was low, the booths were private, and the back bar had an impressive collection of local beer. Brick walls, warped hardwood floors, and a pressed-tin ceiling gave the illusion of history, like the building had been part of some long-forgotten battle. Marcus liked that. It felt honest—nothing polished, nothing fake.

The bar top was scarred from years of elbows and spilled drinks, and the jukebox was stuck on a rotation of 2000s indie rock that made Marcus feel like he was back in college. The Rusty Blade wasn’t the kind of place that did reservations, but Marcus had claimed the booth in the back like it was his by birthright. It offered a clean line of sight to the entrance and just enough distance from the bar to keep the noise manageable. A space to think. Or stew.

Chenny sat across from him, hood up, sleeves pushed to the elbows. His service dog, Charlie, lay curled at his feet, chin resting on one paw, dark eyes scanning the room. A half-finished beer sweated on the table between them. His phone sat screen-up next to the glass, notifications lighting up every few minutes. He hadn’t picked it up once.

Most of the team had already taken over the back half of the bar. Kane and Liam were arguing over darts. Dmitri had wedged himself behind the pool table, claiming it was “science, not luck” that had won him the last round. Even Sven, who usually ghosted straight back to the hotel after games, was nursing a pint and watching ESPN on the overhead screen with his usual impassive stare. The mood was looser now. Not light, not really, but uncoiling.

Marcus’ glass sat untouched in front of him. Club soda, no ice. He wasn’t in the mood for anything that might blur the sharp edge still humming behind his ribs.

Chenny took a slow sip of his beer, then lowered the glass without looking up. “I know it worked. I saw the code run. The tracker is installed and the hacker’s backup server’s toast.” He tapped his finger once, twice, against the condensation on the bottle. “But I still feel like I’ve got a blinking target on my back.”

Marcus studied him, noting the tightness around his mouth, the restless motion of his fingers. “You don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you covered our asses. You did everything right.”

Chenny let out a slow breath through his nose. Charlie shifted and leaned gently against his leg. Chenny’s hand dropped automatically, fingers weaving into the pit bull’s fur.

“I keep thinking I missed something,” he said. “Like maybe there’s another copy. Or maybe I left a footprint in Reed’s system and now he’s going to reverse-engineer it and nuke my socials or blow up my inbox with clown porn or something.”

Marcus’s lips twitched. “Clown porn?”

“I don’t know what that man’s into.” Chenny finally looked up. “You’ve seen him. He’s the kind of guy who would pay extra for a monthly douchebag subscription.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Chenny shifted in his seat, lowering his voice. “I just don’t like that we don’t know what Reed’s going to do next. And being stuck in limbo while suspended? Not the best combo for someone with an anxiety disorder.”

Marcus gave a single nod, deliberate. “I know.”

Chenny rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t get me wrong.I’m grateful you’re covering the fine. I just... I don’t know, man. I feel off. Like I’m the loose thread someone’s going to tug until the whole sweater unravels.”

Marcus leaned back, arms folded loosely across his chest. “If anything, you’re the thread that kept the whole thing from falling apart.”

Charlie made a soft, low woof under the table, almost like he agreed.

Chenny looked down and gave him a scratch behind the ears. “I think Charlie’s just glad I’m off the ice and not getting punched for a change.”

“You’re a left wing,” Marcus said dryly. “It comes with the job description.”

Before Chenny could reply, the door opened. Marcus felt the change in the air before he turned.

Stephanie walked in, brushing snow from her sleeves, scanning the room like she expected trouble.

She looked tired. Focused. Dangerous in that way she had of making a pencil skirt look like battle armor.

Marcus didn’t move, but something in his chest did.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

Charlie gave a soft chuff in response, and Chenny sat up a little straighter as she approached.

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MARCUS’S BREATH CAUGHT—NOTin a dramatic, rom-com way, but in abody recalibrating to her presenceway. Like his system recognized her before his mind did.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

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