Nate's bar was closed.
The chairs were up on the tables. The neon sign in the window was off — the one that spelled out HALFWAY in blue script, a joke so old no one remembered the setup. Nate had left the side door unlocked. He always did for the brotherhood. Fifteen years of meetings in the back room, and the routine hadn't changed: bourbon for Julian, gin for Nate, whatever Gilbert was in the mood to break.
The back room had no windows. Cinderblock walls. One door, heavy, with a lock Nate had installed himself after the third time a supplier walked in during a meeting. The only light came from a fixture overhead.
Tonight Gilbert wasn't drinking. He was pacing — four strides one way, four back — and his jaw was set the way it got when he was holding something in.
Julian was at the table. Laptop open. Papers spread in three stacks.
Nate poured himself a gin. Sat against the cinderblock wall.
