The sun was setting over Iron Hollow, casting a dull orange light across the horizon as Zane Holt trudged along the town's frayed edges.
His canvas bag hung on his shoulder, stuffed with junkyard scraps; bent pipes, a corroded battery, a coil of copper wire he'd pried loose earlier that day.
His hands were smeared with grease and his stomach ached with hunger. Ten bucks from his last deal had evaporated into a greasy burger and a pack of smokes, leaving him broke and restless.
He needed cash quickly, and the old Sunset Motel was his next mark.
The motel squatted at the edge of town. Its neon sign was a relic, cracked and dangling, the letters too faded to spell anything but decay. Plywood patched the windows, some boards tagged with faded graffiti; names and curses erased by time.
The highway had rerouted years ago, leaving the place to rot, but Zane saw opportunity in its decay. Copper pipes ran through its walls, ripe for the taking, worth a few bucks if he could dodge the occasional cop sweep.
He slipped through a tear in the chain-link fence, the metal catching on his jacket as he pushed past. The parking lot stretched out before him, a barren wasteland of cracked asphalt and weeds, littered with rusted car husks sinking into the ground.
Zane slipped around the back, where the service door sagged on rusty hinges and groaned as he pushed it open.
The air inside was thick and foul; mildew and old smoke, and a sour stench that stuck in his throat.
Dim light filtered through boarded windows, illuminating a hallway littered with trash: broken bottles, greasy wrappers and a mattress sagging against the wall.
He picked the first room on the left, its door splintered off the frame, and zeroed in on the bathroom. Exposed pipes gleamed faintly where the drywall had been ripped away.
Zane dropped his bag with a soft thud, fished out a wrench and got to work. The metal was cold under his fingers as he twisted, the pipe resisting with a low groan before it snapped free with a sharp screech.
He moved methodically, sweat beading despite the chill, each turn of the wrench a small victory. The copper would fetch enough to eat tomorrow, maybe buy a burner phone to dodge Marco's nagging.
A murmur cut through the quiet, low and urgent voices leaking from somewhere down the hall.
Zane froze with wrench mid-turn and his breath catching in his throat. The motel was supposed to be a ghost town. He tilted his head picking up scraps of sound; angry, clipped and too close for comfort.
Instinct screamed at him to bolt, but curiosity, that damn hook pulled harder. He crept to the doorway, peering into the shadowed hall.
The voices sharpened, spilling from a room at the far end, its door cracked open just enough to tease.
He edged closer while crouching low, the floor creaking under his boots. His pulse thumped in his ears, but the voices rolled on, oblivious.
He reached the door and flattened against the wall, straining to listen."—Sinaloa don't wait," a woman barked, her voice tight and fierce, laced with an accent—Mexican. "You move it, or you're done. No retries."
"I'm on it, I swear," a man shot back, his words jittery tripping over themselves. "But the Kings are circling, and Marco's crew's pissed. It's a squeeze man, a real squeeze."
"Fuck Marco," she snarled, venom dripping from every syllable. "He's a roach scrambling for crumbs. You stick to the plan, or you're out. Here; samples for the drop. Don't screw this up."
Something crinkled; plastic, maybe paper, and Zane's gut twisted. He needed to see. He leaned closer, peering through the slit in the door.
A camping lantern glowed on a wobbly table, casting shadows over peeling wallpaper. The woman stood with her back to him, leather jacket stretched tight across her shoulders and hair yanked into a severe ponytail.
The man faced her, a wiry guy in flannel, his hands trembling as he took a small package, fingers fumbling like it burned to touch.
Zane's eyes darted to the table; a baggie lay open with white powder spilling at the edges. His fingers twitched; he had to know.
He waited while holding his breath, until the woman turned slightly, her face still cloaked in shadow, and the man bent to shove the package into a duffel.
Quick as a snake, Zane slipped his hand through the crack brushing the baggie's edge.
A surge hit him; clean and potent, but tainted with a dark edge, like acid eating through metal. Not Marco's weak meth; this was high-grade plus lethal, laced with something that could drop a man in minutes.
His chest tightened. This was cartel-grade poison, far beyond Iron Hollow's small-time games.
The man straightened, and Zane jerked back, his heart slamming against his ribs.
The woman's cold voice sliced through again, and final. "Two days. Don't make me come find you, or Sinaloa sends a cleaner; one who don't talk first."
The man mumbled something pathetic, and the woman stormed out with her boots pounding the floor.
Zane pressed flat against the wall as her menacing shadow swept past and vanishing through the service door with a bang.
The man shuffled after her with duffel swinging and muttering to himself like a cornered rat.
Heavy silence settled.
Zane shakily exhaled and slipped back to the first room.
Sinaloa; cartel, the real deal and not Marco's petty crew. If they were pushing in, Iron Hollow was about to bleed.
He was tied to Marco and tangled in his deals, and this was a freight train headed his way.
He grabbed his wrench and tore into the pipes again, faster now, the clank of metal echoing in the stillness.
Sweat stung his eyes as he stuffed the copper into his bag, the weight grounding him.
But as he turned to leave, a growl rumbled low; a stray dog, lean and feral, was blocking the doorway.
Its fur was matted with ribs sharp under its skin, but its teeth bared in a snarl.
Zane raised his hands, and in a voice steady. "Easy, mutt. We're cool."
The dog lunged a step while barking with spit flecking the floor.
No time to negotiate. Zane scanned the room, and saw a broken window gaped at the back, glass shattered in the frame. Tight, but doable.
He sidestepped, keeping the dog in sight, and hauled himself up with glass scraping his arm as he crashed into the weeds outside.
The dog's furious barks chased him, but he was already sprinting with his bag slamming against his hip.
He vaulted the fence and landed hard, and kept moving, sliding into a storm drain at the lot's edge.
Mud sucked at his boots as he crouched with his chest heaving, and the dog's noise fading into the hum of distant traffic.
He slumped against the concrete, adrenaline leaching out and leaving him tired.
The copper would sell, sure, but what he'd overheard weighed heavier. Cartel shadows stretching into town, a war brewing, and him caught in the crosshairs.
His gift—sensing the drugs—had kept him alive today, but it wouldn't shield him from what was coming.
Tell Marco, and he'd be a loose end to snip.
Stay quiet, and he'd be dodging ghosts in the dark.
Zane climbed out with mud streaking his jeans, and started the trek back to town.
The sky had darkened to a bruised purple.
He was in too deep, past the point of running, and the edge was sharpening beneath his feet.