Page 13 of Once Marked (Riley Paige #19)

“There’s a bar we should check,” Thorne said. “The Horseshoe Crab Lounge. If Callahan’s not at work, it’s a good bet that he’s there.” He gave directions, and the patrol car with its agents and lawmen nosed its way through Sandhaven streets that curved along the waterfront like question marks.

Riley sifted through the morning’s encounters in this place where toughness was currency and trust was as scarce as shade in the dunes. She allowed herself to relax marginally, though the tension didn’t fully leave her shoulders

Soon the Horseshoe Crab Lounge loomed before them, as worn and weathered as the fishing vessels that bobbed in Sandhaven’s marina. Neon beer signs flickered weakly in the grimy windows.

They parked in the lot, and as they got out of the car, the laughter they heard spilling out from the bar carried the distinct undertone of revelry.

Riley’s hand moved instinctively to her jacket, checking the reassuring weight of her service weapon.

She double-checked the holster’s snap release, a habit born from years of experience.

They stepped into a dimly lit world where Riley’s senses were assaulted by the stench of stale beer and sudden gloom. But in spite of the laughter they had heard from outside, the room seemed to be barely inhabited.

Chief Thorne led the way to the bar where a man with a salt-and-pepper beard and arms like dock ropes stood, wiping glasses with a cloth that had long since seen better days, and that didn’t offer much assurance of cleanliness.

Riley watched him for a sign, any tell that might indicate what they were walking into.

But the bartender’s face gave away nothing as he watched the police chief and his companions approach.

Chief Thorne offered a terse introduction. “Pete,” he began, tipping his head. “These are Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI. And this is Sheriff Beeler.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the bartender said with a smirk.

“We’re looking for Marcus Callahan,” Thorne said.

The man named Pete paused, the glass in his hand coming to rest on the worn surface of the bar. “FBI, huh?” His tone was indifferent, “What makes you think Callahan would be here?”

“Cut the act, Pete. Is he here or not?” Chief Thorne’s tone sharpened.

Pete responded with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Why do you think I’d know? And even if he was, why would I tell you?” He leaned back, arms resting against the counter. The briefest flicker of his eyes toward a door at the back did not escape Riley’s notice.

Sheriff Beeler’s voice was a low rumble of warning. “Pete, I hope you remember it’s a crime to lie to law enforcement officials.”

Pete’s smirk stretched languidly across his face, a thin veneer of amusement masking the tension in the room. “Now, Sheriff, what lies have I told? All I’ve done is answer questions with questions. Is that against the law? Not that last I heard.”

Riley’s attention shifted as a raucous burst of laughter sounded from beyond an archway at the rear of the bar. She caught the change in Chief Thorne’s demeanor; his eyes narrowed, fixating on the source of the noise.

“Is that an afternoon poker game going on back there, Pete?” Thorne’s inquiry was casual.

Pete, the embodiment of nonchalance, shrugged once more, but his silence spoke volumes.

Thorne’s gaze then flicked toward Riley, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “Say, Agent Paige, didn’t you mention earlier that you love a good poker game?”

Of course, Riley had told him no such thing.

But catching on to Thorne’s ploy, she suppressed a smile and played along with the ruse.

“That’s right, Chief. Nothing like a friendly game of cards to unwind after a long day.

” The ease with which she delivered her reply might have fooled anyone listening.

Thorne pivoted back to Pete with an enthusiasm that was almost convincing. His performance was for the sake of their mission, yet Riley couldn’t help feeling admiration for his ability to switch gears so seamlessly.

“Well, how about that! Maybe we can get Agent Paige here a seat at the table. What do you say, Pete?” Thorne asked, the words like a challenge.

Pete’s face darkened. His lips pressed into a thin line, a clear sign of his reluctance. “It’s a private game.”

“Come on, Pete,” Thorne’s voice took on a chiding tone, “this is a public establishment. Besides, Agent Paige here has come all the way from Quantico. Is this how we welcome visitors to Sandhaven?”

“It’s a man’s game,” Pete growled. “At least as far as the guys here are concerned.”

“Now, is that any way to talk to a lady?” Beeler put in.

Pete stood rooted behind the bar, showing annoyance now.

The suggestion of joining the poker game clearly didn’t sit well with him.

He was accustomed to the closed circle of Sandhaven, where outsiders remained just that—outsiders.

But more than that, he was covering for someone.

And it wasn’t hard to guess who that might be.

Riley just held her position, her eyes steady on Pete, standing her ground, an expression of friendly anticipation on her face.

But Thorne didn’t wait for consent or denial; his decision was made.

“Come on, let’s get you in the game,” he said.

With a purposeful stride, he led the way through the dimly-lit bar towards the secluded archway at the back. Riley followed close behind, her senses heightened. They passed through the threshold into a small room clouded with smoke that clung to the walls like fog.

The scene before them was one of casual debauchery.

Four men, entrenched in their game, were surrounded by the remnants of spent cigarettes and half-empty glasses.

Cards were fanned out across the green felt surface, alongside towers of chips that rose and fell with each hand played.

The stench of stale beer mingled with the acrid tang of smoke, creating an olfactory backdrop to the tension that suddenly thrummed through the room.

The chatter ceased. Silence engulfed the room. Every eye turned toward the interlopers, sizing up the challenge they represented.

Riley’s gaze cut through the haze, cataloguing details, piecing together the psychological puzzle presented by these men who found solace in the cards.

It was a temporary escape, a means to assert control in a world where they felt other rewards slipping away.

Among the wary gazes, one stood out to Riley – hard, calculating eyes that didn’t just observe but seemed to dissect the moment.

“Marcus,” Thorne’s words were casual. “Just the man we’ve been looking for.”

The one who glared back at him, Marcus Callahan, just sat there, solid and unmoving.

His stocky frame was balanced by a self-assured poise, his age marked not by frailty but by an accumulation of experiences shown on the lines of his face.

Close-cropped gray hair gave him a no-nonsense appearance, complementing the directness in his stare.

He shifted his eyes to Riley and then to her colleagues, a smirk twisting his features as if amused by the audacity of their entrance.

But behind the humor lay something else – annoyance, perhaps even disdain.

Riley could see that Callahan was a man accustomed to being unchallenged in his domain, and here they were, uninvited guests disrupting his kingdom of kings and queens on the playing cards.

“These are Agents Paige and Esmer from the FBI,” Thorne said. “And I think you know Chief Beeler. We’d like you to come down to the station with us.”

Riley watched Callahan, the man himself an unmovable object amid the storm that had just entered his world.

A smirk curved on his lips, a silent challenge in the creases of his weathered face.

He leaned back, arms draped nonchalantly across the chair.

Riley knew that look well—the mix of arrogance and control, the belief that he held all the cards both literally and figuratively.

But the stakes were higher than the chips on the table, and the hand they were about to play wasn’t one he could bluff his way through.

“Well, now, that’s quite a request, Chief. I’m in the middle of a game here.” Callahan’s voice was gruff, dismissive as if the lawmen were no more than a minor inconvenience in his day.

“This isn’t a request, Callahan,” came Beeler’s stern interjection, his large frame a solid barrier against any escape. “We need to ask you some questions about Billie Shearer and Julie Sternan.”

A leaden silence followed, but it was there, in the briefest of moments—a flicker in Callahan’s eyes.

Riley caught it, that sliver of something raw and unguarded.

Surprise? Fear? It was gone too quickly for her to be sure, but it was there, a crack in the facade of indifference that Callahan had built up around himself.

Was that guilt, she wondered, or merely the shock of being cornered?

Her instincts, honed from years of profiling, told her to dig deeper. She focused on Callahan, reading him, trying to get beneath his skin. In that flicker, she had glimpsed the possibility of unraveling the mystery that had brought them all to this dingy room in Sandhaven.

Any trace of surprise or fear vanished from Callahan’s face, his features settling into an expression of stony apathy.

He flicked a card down carelessly and leaned back with feigned nonchalance.

“I’ll come along shortly,” he drawled, his gaze not leaving the hand he was playing.

“Just let me win back some of the money I’ve lost today. ”

Chief Thorne’s rugged face contorted slightly, a visible sign of his thinning patience. “That might be never. And anyway, we don’t have that kind of time, Marcus. You’re coming with us now.”

Callahan scoffed at the urgency in Thorne’s tone, tossing another glance at his cards. The tension in the room escalated like the brewing of a storm.

In an instant, Chief Thorne made his move—a calculated touch, a provocation.

His hand landed heavy on Callahan’s shoulder, the physical assertion of control igniting the powder keg between them.

With the reflexes of a brawler, Callahan burst from his chair, its wooden legs scraping against the floor.

His fist, clenched and ready, soared toward Thorne’s expectant face.

Thorne calmly sidestepped the attack.

Meanwhile, Riley and Ann Marie sprang into seamless coordination.

They converged on Callahan, their hands swift and sure as they caught his flailing limbs.

They twisted his arms behind his back, subduing the violence that had erupted so suddenly.

The room held its breath, the remaining poker players frozen mid-gesture, their eyes wide with shock and apprehension.

“Easy now, Callahan,” Riley grumbled close to his ear. “Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be.”

But Marcus Callahan was all snarling resistance, his body straining against their hold. The strength in his stocky frame was considerable, yet Riley and Ann Marie were resolute and impervious to the bluster of men like him. Their well-trained grips soon brought his hands together behind him.

As Riley secured his wrists with handcuffs, a sense of resolution settled over her. This was why she did what she did—why she faced off against the darkness day after day. People like Callahan needed to face whatever results their behavior had earned.

The others around the poker table went quiet, seeking to attract no attention.

Riley met Callahan’s gaze squarely as the police chief ushered him out of the back room.

The look he shot back at her was a toxic mix of anger and bruised ego.

It was a look she’d seen before, on the faces of men who couldn’t stand being bested, especially not by women wielding the authority they felt was theirs alone.

It didn’t faze her; she knew the type well — bullies were cowards when stripped of their bluster.

The walk back through the Horseshoe Crab Lounge felt longer than the few strides it took.

Pete Bowers stood silent by the bar, his arms crossed over his chest, his face offering no clues to his thoughts.

Thorne led the way, moving his prisoner along, while Sheriff Beeler cast a wary eye over the few silent observers still sitting at their tables.

Riley and Ann Marie followed, ignoring those whose stares focused on them.

Outside the mid-afternoon sun awaited them, its golden light a welcome change after the dim recesses they had left behind.

Riley took a deep breath, the sea-scented air cleansing the vestiges of cigarette smoke and antagonism from her lungs.

This case seemed straightforward now, but for some reason it felt … inconclusive to her.

“Riley?” Ann Marie’s voice pulled her from her reverie, and she turned to see her partner watching her with a knowing look. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Riley replied, though ‘fine’ was a relative term.

She glanced back at the bar, its peeling paint and neon signs now just part of the backdrop of their investigation.

Even though they were taking in the man she wanted to question, something inside her still whispered that they were far from done with this investigation.