Business

It’s never Ted I talk to on the phone.

I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to the same person twice. Sometimes it’s a man, sometimes a woman. Doesn’t matter. They all sound like they’re reading from something they don’t understand.

This time it’s a woman.

No small talk. No hesitation.

She gives me the addresses. Empty buildings, according to her. No people. No casualties. Ted knows I don’t do those.

She hangs up before I can say anything clever.

I stare at the phone for a second after the line goes dead.

“Charming.”

When it comes to work, Ted keeps his distance. Always has. Layers between him and the people doing the job. Burners, middlemen, voices that don’t belong to anyone.

Smart.

Annoying, but smart.

I slip the phone back into my pocket and let the job settle in.

Ted wants me to bomb downtown Mercantile Falls.

Not metaphorically. Not creatively.

Literally.

Dynamite.

The buildings are supposed to be empty. That part matters. Ted knows my rules.

Supposed to be.

I let out a slow breath through my nose.

“Alright,” I mutter. “Sure.”

On the surface, it makes sense. Ted buys low. Real low. And there’s nothing lower than a dead main street in a town nobody’s thinking about.

Mercantile Falls fits that bill.

Old buildings. Empty storefronts. The kind of place that closes up before dark and doesn’t bother turning the lights back on.

You knock a few structures down, clear the rot, sell the dream of something new—Ted makes his money.

Simple.

Clean.

Except Ted doesn’t do anything simple.

And nobody uses dynamite anymore.

I head out to the barn. My supplies are always kept there.

I rub the backside of Ms. Vegas. She’s kind of sweet on me.

The place is cleaner than the house. Downstairs, anyway. No tools hanging on the walls. No equipment. No clutter. Just open space and fresh hay that looks like it was laid down this morning.

Doesn’t even smell like a barn.

More like someone’s idea of one.

I stop just inside the doorway.

There’s a crate sitting in the center of the floor.

The loft doors are open, and a strip of fading sunlight cuts through them, landing right on the crate like a spotlight.

I stare at it for a second.

“If I was a superstitious man,” I say, “I’d call that a bad sign.”

I pause.

“…which is unfortunate, because I am.”

I step forward and drag the crate out of the light.

No reason to tempt anything.

I pry it open and take a look.

Dynamite.

Real, old-school sticks. Paper-wrapped, wired, stacked neat.

I do a quick count.

“Fifty-two.”

I whistle low.

“That’s excessive.”

I pick one up, turn it over in my hand.

Looks fine. Standard size. Standard weight.

That doesn’t mean much.

Dynamite’s a funny thing. Treat it right, it does exactly what you want. Treat it wrong, it does whatever it feels like.

And I don’t know who’s been “treating it right” before it got to me.

“Okay,” I say, setting it back. “So transportation’s going to be a problem.”

I glance back toward the house, then out at the road.

My bike’s not going to cut it.

No way I’m balancing a crate of dynamite, steering, lighting fuses, and throwing at the same time.

I’m good.

Not that good.

I close the crate and stand there for a second, thinking.

The last of the sunlight slips off the floor behind me.

Twilight.

Right on schedule.

“I need wheels,” I say.

And then, because my brain never shuts up—

“I also need a soundtrack.”

I pull my phone out, check the time.

Kristy Lee should be coming on soon.

There’s nothing special about her.

That’s the thing.

She doesn’t sound like she’s trying to be anything. No fake energy. No over-the-top radio voice. Just… there. Talking about music like it matters, even if sometimes I get the feeling it doesn’t matter to her as much as it should.

That part bugs me a little.

In another life, I could’ve done that job.

Spinning records. Talking between tracks. Letting people think the night had a rhythm to it.

Now it’s all playlists and automation. Same songs. Same order. Day after day.

But Kristy Lee—

She’s real.

Or at least she sounds like it.

And for whatever reason, she’s become my thing.

Every job, I call in a song.

Every job goes right.

I skip it?

Something goes sideways.

I don’t question patterns that work.

I head back out, fire up the bike, and ride toward Mercantile Falls.

The air cools as the light drops. Fields give way to neighborhoods, and neighborhoods tighten into something cleaner, quieter.

Suburbia.

Manicured lawns. Matching mailboxes. The kind of place where people notice things that don’t belong.

Like me.

I roll through slow, eyes scanning.

I need something open. Easy access. No roof in the way.

I spot it halfway down the block.

Midnight-blue Jeep Wrangler. Soft top already folded down.

I slow as I pass it, glance over.

“Perfect.”

I keep going another block, turn, and circle back.

First problem—my bike.

I can’t leave it out in the open. Not here. It’ll stick out like a confession.

I find a spot between a large tree and a wooden privacy fence, deep enough in shadow to disappear from a casual glance.

I kill the engine and step off.

“Stay,” I tell it.

I walk back toward the Jeep, hands in my jacket pockets, trying to look like I belong anywhere near this street.

I don’t.

I never do.

People see me, they make decisions. Big guy. Long hair. Leather jacket.

They don’t wait for details.

Fine by me.

Saves time.

I reach the Jeep and try the handle.

Unlocked.

I grin.

“Sometimes it pays to be lucky.”

I slide in, shut the door quietly.

No alarm.

Even better.

I pull a small drill from my jacket, along with the painter’s screwdriver.

Technically mine now.

I paid for it.

I get to work on the ignition. Quick, efficient. Not the movie version. This takes a little effort.

A minute later, I use the screwdriver and the engine catches without a fight.

I sit there for a second, hands on the wheel.

“Alright,” I say softly.

Then, under my breath—

“Let’s try not to die tonight.”

The Jeep idles smoothly.

I pull away from the curb, heading back toward the barn, toward the crate waiting in the dark.

Toward downtown Mercantile Falls.

Fifty-two sticks of dynamite.

A quiet main street.

And a song I haven’t picked yet.

I tap my fingers against the wheel, thinking.

“Yeah,” I murmur.

“We’ll figure that out on the way.”