CHAPTER 26: CHAPTER 26

Ace froze in the cramped darkness of the storage closet, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. From just feet away, Deke’s rough demanding voice vibrated through the thin wooden door and the metal vent slats. He is here. It’s time to act.

His thumb found the small, plastic record button on the device. Taking a steadying breath to calm the storm inside him, he pressed it firmly. A faint click echoed softly in the cramped darkness, followed by a tiny, steady red glow flickering to life on the edge of the recorder. Recording. He held his breath, pressing the device flat against the cold, unforgiving metal vent grille. Suddenly, every sound in the bar the creak of old floorboards, distant bursts of laughter, the low, relentless hum of the jukebox felt impossibly loud, amplified by the suffocating silence surrounding him.

Out in the dimly lit bar, Deke’s voice dripped with impatience and menace. "Well? Quit starin’ like a landed fish, Silva. Where’s my three hundred? Ramos ain’t got time to wait around, and neither do I."

Ace heard the nervous shuffle of Silva’s feet against the worn floorboards, the hesitant, uneven rhythm betraying his unease. Then came the sharp clink of a glass being set down harder than intended, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a warning. Silva’s voice emerged strained, tight with fear and frustration.

"Three hundred? Deke, last time... last time you said two hundred. And you said three hundred next week. That’s still days away! You can’t just change the deal like this" Silva argued, desperation creeping into his tone.

"Plans changed now" Deke snapped, his voice sharp and cold as steel. Ace could almost see the sneer twisting across the man’s face, the menace behind his eyes slicing through the dim light. "Ramos needs the money now. Consider it an advance. Or maybe..." His voice dropped to a low dangerous rumble, thick with threat, "maybe you need a little demonstration. A reminder of what happens to places that hold out. You remember those pretty bottles you like so much? What do you think will happen if Ramos’s patience runs out?"

Silva’s voice trembled, barely steady, each word weighed down by desperation. "I remember, Deke. Believe me, I remember. But... three hundred? Tonight? That’s... that’s impossible. Business is dead. I barely scraped together enough just to pay rent this month!"

Deke’s tone went flat and cold as steel, his words sharp and hard as if tasting something bitter. "Not my problem." He spat the sentence out, leaving no room for sympathy. "Your problem is paying for the privilege of staying in one piece. You want me walking out of here empty handed? You want me to come back later with a couple of associates who don’t have my delicate temperament? They might think smashing a few bottles is child’s play. Maybe they will start smashing you too."

Ace heard the sharp metallic clang of the cash register being yanked open, the sudden noise reverberating loudly through the quiet bar. The harsh echo seemed to spotlight the tension in the air. Seconds later, the rustle of bills being pulled out followed each note separated carefully, with tense, deliberate movements that betrayed Silva’s desperation.

"Here" Silva said, his voice heavy, thick with defeat but edged with a simmering rage that threatened to boil over. "Two hundred and seventy five. That’s every dollar in the register right now, Deke. I swear on my mother’s grave."

"You think I’m running a charity or something?" Deke scoffed, irritation and disbelief cutting through his tone. "This ain’t no damn negotiation, Silva. You’re short on money and that’s not going to fly."

"I know, I know" Silva rushed out, desperation creeping into his voice. "Please, Deke, it’s everything I have got. I swear I will make up the twenty five next week, on top of the regular three hundred. That’s three twenty five total. You have my word."

Ace heard a low, dissatisfied grunt from Deke. He pictured the man snatching the cash roughly, crumpling the bills between his fingers. "You better," Deke growled, voice thick with warning. "Next Thursday, I will come and collect the three hundred, plus the twenty five you owe me tonight. Total is three hundred twenty five, remember that. And don’t even think about stiffing me, Silva. Ramos patience is thinner than cheap paint. You don’t pay, it won’t be me you answer to. He will send guys who make my crew look like a Sunday school choir. Understand me?"

"Yes, Deke," Silva whispered, his voice barely audible, trembling. "I understand. Next Thursday, three hundred and twenty-five. I won’t forget."

"See that you don’t" Deke said, his tone ice cold. Ace heard the heavy thud of boots moving away from the bar, then stopping short. Deke’s voice sounded out again, sharper and suspicious "This place feels a little off tonight. You alone back here?"

Ace’s blood ran cold. He clutched the recorder in a white knuckled grip, pressing himself tighter against the wall and the stacked boxes, willing himself to disappear. He screamed in his mind, Don’t breathe. Don’t move a muscle.

"Yeah" Silva said, his voice suddenly cracking and rising a notch higher than usual. "Yeah, it’s just me back here. Slowest night we have had in weeks, honestly. You kinda... discourage the regular crowd, you know?" Silva forced a weak, humorless laugh, trying to mask his nerves.

Deke didn’t even crack a smile. Ace heard another slow, deliberate footstep coming closer—closer to the bar, closer to the storage closet door. The weight of Deke’s suspicion pressed down on him like a physical force. He could hear the man’s heavy, measured breathing just beyond the thin wood separating them.

Ace squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Just go. Please, just leave.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating in the cramped space. A single bead of cold sweat traced a slow path down Ace’s temple.

Then, Deke snorted dismissively. "Whatever. Just have my damn money next week. Or else." His voice was low and threatening, leaving no room for argument. The heavy thud of his boots resumed, moving with purpose toward the front door. The hinges groaned loudly as the door swung open, letting in a brief whisper of cooler night air before it slammed shut with a final, heavy thud.

Ace sagged against the rough wall, letting out a silent, shuddering breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His heart pounded fiercely against his ribs, like a trapped animal desperate to break free. His eyes locked on the tiny, unwavering red light of the recorder. With trembling fingers, he pressed the stop button. The light blinked out, plunging his cramped corner back into thick gloom.

He stayed perfectly still, listening with every ounce of concentration. All around him, only the low, steady thrum of the jukebox filled the bar and from behind the counter came Silva’s shaky, relieved exhale.

The closet door creaked open just a cautious inch. Silva’s pale, sweat slicked face slipped inside, his eyes wide and haunted with lingering fear. "He... he’s gone," Silva said, his voice was rough and shaky. "Are you alright? He was... he was right there, just a few feet away."

"I’m okay," Ace whispered back, his own voice unsteady but firm. He eased the door open a little more and slid out of the cramped, dusty space. His muscles protested, stiff and cramped from holding perfectly still for what felt like an eternity. The bar’s familiar smells stale beer, wood polish, faint grease washed over him, strange comfort after the suffocating closet.

He held up the small black recorder like a hard won trophy. "I got it. Every word. The demand for three hundred, the threat about those bottles, the warning about Ramos sending worse enforcers, the demand for three twenty five next week... and him flat out calling it protection money. Every ugly, dangerous word is on here."

Silva leaned heavily against the worn bar counter, mopping sweat from his brow with a shaky hand. He looked utterly drained, but a fierce spark of vindication flared in his tired eyes. "You got him" he breathed, a ghost of a smile breaking through. "You actually caught the rattlesnake on tape."

Ace looked down at the unassuming device in his palm. It suddenly felt immensely heavy, charged with the dangerous, undeniable proof it held. "Yeah" he said, voice gaining strength and steel. "I got him."

Carefully, he pressed the tiny catch and slid out the small SD memory card. The precious recording was now a separate, safer thing in his possession. He tucked the card deep into the most secure pocket of his jeans. The recorder itself went back into his jacket.

"Now what?" Silva asked, pushing himself upright and locking eyes on Ace. "What do we do with that?"

Ace met Silva’s gaze without hesitation. The cold, hard determination that had fueled him since discovering his workshop violated surged back, sharper and more focused than ever. "Now" Ace said, his voice low, steady, and filled with purpose, "I will figure out how to make sure Deke and especially Victor Ramos hear exactly what’s on this little card."