The bar was nothing more than a piss-stained ruin on the edge of cartel land, with broken neon signs flickering above bullet-ridden walls. It reeked of blood, sweat, and stale beer — the kind of place where men went to disappear, or die.
Jax didn’t bother knocking. He kicked the door open and walked in like a storm in leather and steel.
The music died. Conversations froze.
Behind the bar, a man with sunburned skin and prison tattoos blinked twice.
“Reapers don’t ride this far south,” he said.
“They do when they're looking for a ghost,” Jax growled.
The man smirked. “Lot of ghosts around here.”
Jax stepped closer and slammed a photo onto the bar — Helena, younger, in a white dress. “This one ever haunt your past?”
The smirk dropped.
“I want her location,” Jax said. “You’ve got thir
