Page 17 of Haunted

“We’ve been stagnant for too long,” I explain. “The market is expanding faster than we can capitalize on. Our competitors are moving in while we’re operating at capacity.”

Tyson’s eyes narrow. “And how much of an increase are we talking about?”

“Triple, minimum. Possibly quadruple by next quarter.”

Lars whistles low. “That’s a lot of powdered sugar for the bakery.”

“That’s why we need Orlov,” I continue. “His connectionsextend beyond anything we could manage through traditional channels. The carnival simply can’t handle that volume.”

I watch the calculations happening behind Tyson’s eyes. He’s a businessman first, despite the carnival facade. The tension in his shoulders gradually relaxes as he processes the numbers.

“Alright,” Ty concedes, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve got a point. That kind of volume...” He shakes his head. “We couldn’t handle triple capacity even if we ran shipments daily.”

“Which would also increase your exposure,” Landon adds.

Ty nods, recognizing the logic. “But we can still be part of the solution. I’ve been developing some new routes through the northern counties. Less surveillance, minimal checkpoints.”

“Go on,” I say.

“With those channels and a few logistical adjustments, we could increase our current volume by fifty percent. Maybe more after a trial run proves successful.” He straightens his posture. “Fifty percent more than what we’re delivering now, at the same quality and discretion you’ve come to expect.”

I consider his offer. A fifty percent increase from the carnival means less reliance on Orlov’s untested channels.

“That would be acceptable,” I reply. “Maintain your usual security protocols. The increased volume doesn’t mean increased risk tolerance.”

Ty extends his hand. “I appreciate the continued faith in our operation. The carnival has never let you down, and we don’t plan to start now.”

I take his hand firmly. “That’s why this partnership endures.”

The handshake seals our arrangement, but the undercurrent of tension remains—not hostility, but a recalibration of our longstanding dynamic.

Knox, ever attuned to the room’s atmosphere, pushes off from his perch and saunters toward Cade, who’s securing the final shipment.

“Hey, mechanical man,” Knox calls out, “you still driving that piece of shit Ford? I swear I saw it parked outside and thought someone abandoned their lawn mower.”

Cade’s expression cracks. “At least my ride doesn’t scream ‘compensating for something’ like that neon monstrosity you call a motorcycle.”

Laughter ripples through the warehouse, dissolving the tension.

This is how it always goes—business first, then the inevitable masculine posturing.

“You still using that pathetic security system at the fairgrounds?” Knox asks Tyson, spinning his knife between his fingers. “My grandmother could hack it with a paperclip.”

Tyson barks out a laugh. “That ‘pathetic system’ caught three of our rivals’ men last month trying to sample our product. They’re currently fertilizing a cornfield outsideMillhaven.”

Phoenix looks up from his laptop. “The visible security is intentionally basic. The real system operates on a closed network I designed myself. Military-grade encryption.” He shrugs. “But please, send your grandma. I could use the entertainment.”

Lars chuckles.” Speaking of entertainment,” Cade interjects, “heard about that job in Springfield? The armored car hit so clean the guards didn’t know they’d been robbed until they reached the bank?”

Landon raises an eyebrow. “Ballsy move in broad daylight.”

“Amateur hour,” Colt dismisses. “They left DNA evidence all over the secondary vehicle. They’ll be in cuffs by the weekend.”

“Not everyone has the means to dissolve bodies in acid,” Knox quips, referencing a solution we all pretend to know nothing about.

I check my watch. “Time to move. The night’s getting old.”

We exchange handshakes and brief nods.

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