CHAPTER 25: CHAPTER 25

The small voice recorder felt like a lead weight in Ace’s jacket pocket as he walked away from The Rusty Anchor. He had Marco Silva’s words on tape – a real, undeniable account of Deke’s extortion. It was proof. But Ace knew it wasn’t the proof the System demanded. The System wanted Deke himself caught in the act. Silva’s information about the Thursday pickup was the key. A dangerous key, but Ace had to turn it. Preparation was everything.

The next afternoon, Ace went back to The Rusty Anchor. The air inside was still thick with the smell of stale beer and wood polish. Silva stood behind the bar, methodically wiping down glasses. He looked up as Ace entered, his expression a mix of weariness and cautious resolve.

"You need something else?" Silva asked, his voice low.

"I need to see the closet," Ace said, getting straight to the point. "I need to know exactly where I’ll be. And I need to test the recorder. See if it can pick up sound clearly enough through that vent."

Silva nodded slowly. He understood the stakes. "Alright." He led Ace behind the bar to a narrow, unassuming door. He fished a key from his pocket, unlocked it, and pushed it open. The space revealed was cramped and shadowy, crammed with cardboard boxes of liquor, stacks of napkins, cleaning supplies, and folded chairs. A faint odor of cardboard and old beer lingered in the air. On the wall facing the bar, a small, dusty metal vent offered narrow slits of visibility.

"This is it," Silva murmured. "It’s a tight fit. When Deke comes, he plants himself right about there." He pointed through the vent slats towards a spot near the end of the bar counter. "From that position, you should be able to hear him clearly. The vent does muffle things a bit, though, so it won’t be perfect. And you have to be like a ghost while you’re in there—completely silent and still. Deke’s real jumpy; he hears everything, so one wrong move and you’re done."

Ace squeezed into the closet. It was uncomfortably small, boxes pressing in on him. He positioned himself near the vent, peering through the slats at the slivers of the dimly lit bar beyond.

"Okay" Ace whispered out to Silva, who lingered by the door. "Why don’t you go stand where Deke usually stands? Talk like you normally would, and say exactly what you told me yesterday. That way, I can see how well the recorder picks it up."

Silva moved to the spot near the end of the bar and took a deep breath. "Testing, testing," he said, his voice slightly hollowed by the vent but still clear enough. "Deke Vance came in here yesterday. He demanded his two hundred dollars and threatened to take my stock if I don’t have three hundred ready next time. He said it’s all for Ramos." He paused, then looked back at Ace. "How’s that sounding through the recorder?"

Ace already had the recorder out. He held it close to the vent grille and pressed the record button. "Good" he whispered back. "Keep going for a minute." Silva repeated the phrases, detailing Deke’s threats and his debt to Ramos.

After about a minute, Ace pressed the stop button on the recorder. He slowly eased back out of the cramped closet, feeling the tight space pressing on his shoulders. Once clear, he hit play on the device. The audio crackled softly, muffled and layered over the steady hum of the bar’s cooler. Despite the background noise, the important words came through clearly: "demanded his two hundred," "threatened my stock," and "all for Ramos."

Ace held up the recorder and showed it to Silva. "It is not crystal clear," he said thoughtfully, "but it’s good enough for what we need. We’ll be able to hear all the threats loud and clear."

Silva let out a small breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. "Alright, here’s the plan. Thursday night, be here by eight sharp. The place is usually dead around then, so it should be quiet. I’ll let you in through the back door." He pointed toward the solid wooden door at the rear of the bar. "From there, you go straight into the closet. No moving around, no making a sound. Just stay hidden and wait until I come get you after Deke’s gone. Got it?"

"Crystal clear," Ace replied firmly. "I will be here at sharp eight o’clock, enter through the back door, and go straight into the closet. I won’t move or make a sound. I’ll stay hidden and wait for you."

Silva met Ace’s eyes, a flicker of fear still lingering deep within, but now tempered by a hard edge of determination. "Kid, make sure our plan goes exactly as planned. Don’t think you are doing this just for yourself it’s for both of us, alright? You don’t get a second chance with Deke."

Ace met his gaze steadily and gave a firm nod. "I understand. I won’t let you down. I will make sure it counts."

The days until Thursday felt like they were dragging on forever. Ace kept busy with small handyman jobs around the Nite Owl fixing a leaking faucet here, patching up a hole in a wall there. It helped keep his hands moving but it didn’t quiet the steady knot of anxiety building in his stomach.

He couldn’t stop checking the recorder making sure the batteries were fresh, the SD card empty, and the buttons working smoothly. He even practiced slipping it out of his pocket silently, like he might need to do at a moment’s notice.

Ace stayed careful, too. He avoided hanging near Deke’s pawnshop. He stuck to busy streets where he could blend in. Every now and then, his Network Ping skill flickered on, scanning for any sign of Deke’s thugs or their vehicles. So far nothing was found.

Thursday finally arrived, heavy with expectation. Ace counted his cash one last time, it was $529.35. He ate a simple meal alone in Room 7, trying to calm his nerves, but sleep was out of the question. His mind raced through every possible scenario: What if Deke shows up with backup? What if he decides to search the bar? What if the recorder fails at the worst moment?

A cold knot of fear twisted in his stomach, but deep beneath it, a fierce resolve burned. Deke had crossed a line by invading his sanctuary. Tonight wasn’t about running or hiding — tonight, Ace was going to fight back.

As dusk settled outside, Ace pulled on his darkest, most forgettable jacket. He slid the recorder into his right pocket, letting his thumb rest lightly on the record button so he could find it without looking. He silenced his phone, took a deep, steadying breath and pushed the fear down. Determination took over. This was it.

He left the motel and boarded the bus heading towards the docks. City lights streaked past the window. He got off a few blocks from The Rusty Anchor and walked the rest, sticking to the shadows cast by the looming warehouses. The familiar tang of saltwater and fish grew stronger.

He reached the alley beside the bar just before eight. The weathered wood of the back door looked solid and unyielding. Ace pressed himself against the cool brick wall, listening. Faint music and the clink of glass drifted from inside.

Click. The deadbolt slid back. The door opened a crack. Silva’s face appeared, pale and strained in the sliver of light from the bar. He didn’t speak, just jerked his head sharply inward.

Ace slipped through the narrow opening, and the door clicked shut behind him, the soft thud followed by the immediate sound of the lock sliding into place. The bar’s noises were a little clearer now—the melancholic twang of the jukebox, Silva moving behind the counter.

Silva pointed silently, urgently, towards the storage closet door, already slightly ajar. Ace nodded once. He moved swiftly and silently across the small service area, slipped through the closet door, and pulled it almost closed, leaving only a hairline crack.

Darkness swallowed him, broken only by thin blades of light slicing through the vent slats. The smells of cardboard, dust, and stale beer intensified. He could hear Silva’s movements, the soft clink of glass. Ace pressed himself against the wall near the vent, making himself small. He drew the recorder from his pocket, his thumb poised over the record button. His own breathing sounded loud in the confined space; he forced it into slow, shallow draws.

He waited. Minutes stretched like hours. He strained his ears, filtering the bar’s background noise. Silva cleared his throat softly. A glass clinked. Ace’s legs began to protest the cramped stillness.

Then, the sound cut through the low murmur. The front door groaned open with more force than before. Heavy footsteps thudded on the wooden floorboards. The jukebox music seemed to dip slightly. A voice, rough and demanding, sliced through the quiet.

"Silva. You got my money?"

Deke. He was here.

Ace’s finger hovered over the recorder’s button. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. The trap was sprung. Now, he needed the proof.