Burn pov
The bar was dimly lit, the smell of cheap beer and cigarette smoke thick in the air. A few men were scattered around, hunched over their drinks, their eyes flicking up at us as we walked in. The place was quiet, a few murmurs of conversation, but nothing worth listening to. It wasn’t much different from the countless other dive bars I’d been in over the years. Same worn-out stools, same sticky floors, same tired faces.
But this wasn’t a social call.
I scanned the room, looking for anyone who might have the answers we needed. The bartender, a guy in his fifties with a graying beard and a faded shirt, glanced our way but didn’t say anything. He knew better than to mess with us. We weren’t here to drink, and he knew we weren’t the kind of customers you crossed.
“Spread out,” I sa
