Read Chapter 21: The Scar

The lamp on the nightstand threw a weak circle of yellow light across the upstairs room of Elias’s shack. Salt air bled through the warped window frame, mixing with the smell of iodine and old bandages. Jack lay on his back on the narrow cot, shirtless, a fresh roll of gauze wrapped tight around his ribs where Frank’s knife had gone in. The wound had stopped bleeding hours ago, but it still burned with every breath.

Molly sat in a wooden chair beside the cot, a damp cloth in her hand. She’d been wiping the sweat from his forehead for the past hour, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was afraid he’d shatter if she pressed too hard. Her hair had come loose from its pins, falling in dark waves around her shoulders. There was a bruise blooming along her jaw—a gift from one of Frank’s men during the grab.

Jack turned his head to look at her. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m trying. You keep fussing.”

She set the cloth down and folded her hands in her lap. “You almost died tonight, Jack. I’m allowed to fuss.”

He managed a half-smile that pulled at the stitches. “Almost don’t count.”

“It counted when I saw you go down.” Her voice wavered. She looked away, toward the window where the black Atlantic churned beyond the cove’s mouth. “Frank had me in that warehouse for two days. I kept thinking you wouldn’t come. That it was too big a risk. That you’d be smart and stay away.”

“Smart’s overrated.”

She laughed despite herself, a wet sound. “You’re a fool, Jack Malloy.”

“That’s not news to me.”

He pushed himself up on one elbow, grimacing as the wound protested. Molly moved to help him, but he waved her off. The floor creaked beneath his bare feet when he swung them to the planks. He sat there for a moment, head bowed, breathing through the pain.

“He’s still out there,” Jack said quietly. “Frank. He’s got a fire in his belly now that he didn’t have before.”

Molly touched the bruise on her jaw. “He didn’t need more fire. He always hated you.”

“Hated what I was. Now he hates what I am.” Jack looked up at her. “He saw me choose you over the operation. Over everything. He’ll use that.”

“Then let him. You chose right.”

The words hung between them, heavy and simple. Jack reached out and took her hand. Her fingers were cold from the cloth, but they curled around his easily, like they’d done it a thousand times.

“I’m not going to let him touch you again,” he said.

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’m promising anyway.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. It was soft at first, tentative. A question. Jack answered with his hand at the back of her neck, pulling her closer. She tasted of salt and coffee and something else—relief, maybe, or the sharp edge of fear finally breaking loose.

The chair scraped back as she rose, and then she was on the cot beside him, careful of his bandaged ribs, her body pressing against his side. The lamp flickered. The wind picked up outside, rattling the shutters.

Jack’s fingers traced the line of her jaw, the bruise there. “I’m going to end this. Frank. All of it.”

“I know.” She kissed him again, harder now. “But not tonight. Tonight you rest.”

He wanted to argue, but her lips moved to his shoulder and his throat, and the words scattered. He let himself sink back onto the cot, pulling her with him. The wound pulled, sharp and insistent, but he ignored it. For the first time in days, the ache in his side felt smaller than the ache in his chest.

When he woke, the lamp had burned low and gray dawn light pressed against the window. Molly was asleep in the crook of his arm, her breath slow and even. He lay still for a long while, watching her, letting the morning settle around them.

Then he eased himself out from under her, careful not to wake her, and crossed to the window. Below, the cove was still and quiet. Elias’s boat rocked at its mooring. Beyond the channel’s mouth, the open ocean stretched flat and gray. No Coast Guard cutters. No patrol boats. Just water.

Jack pressed a hand to his side. The gauze was damp, but not soaked through. He’d live. Which was more than he could promise for Frank.

He dressed slowly, the fabric pulling against the bandage. In the corner of the room, propped against a crate, was the ledger he’d been keeping—names, routes, numbers. He’d built something real over the past month. A system. A route Frank didn’t know about. A crew that trusted him. And now Frank had shown exactly what kind of fight he was willing to fight.

Molly stirred on the cot. “You’re up.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

She sat up, rubbing her eyes. The blanket fell away from her shoulder and she didn’t bother pulling it up. “What time is it?”

“Early. Go back to sleep.”

She swung her legs over the edge of the cot and stood, crossing to stand beside him at the window. Her shoulder brushed his. “You’re thinking about Frank.”

“I’m thinking about how to end him.”

“That’s the same thing.”

Jack nodded. He looked out at the water, at the hidden channel that had saved him twice now. There was a long silence.

“He knows the coast,” Jack said slowly. “Every inlet, every shoal, every hiding spot worth a damn. That’s where he grew up, same as me. He knows where a boat can hide and where it can’t.”

Molly waited.

“But he doesn’t know this cove. Elias found it. Elias’s charts are not the same as the ones Frank’s got. Frank’s men patrol the known routes. The main channel. The coves every rum-runner’s used since the law went dry.” Jack turned to look at her. “What if he thought I was running out of somewhere else? Somewhere he already knows?”

“You’d be walking into his hands.”

“Not if I know he’s waiting. Not if I use that.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed. “You’re talking about bait.”

“I’m talking about a trap. He thinks I’m desperate. He thinks I’m running scared after losing the cargo in the storm, after coming for you alone. He thinks I’m playing defense.” Jack shook his head. “I’m not.”

“He’s not stupid, Jack.”

“No. But he’s angry. You saw him at the pier. He had you, and he let the moment get away from him. He wanted to watch me squirm more than he wanted to win. That’s a weakness.”

Molly was quiet for a moment. “What did you see in the warehouse?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious. You walked in there looking for me. You fought through his men. But you saw the layout, the exits, how many men he had on the floor.” She crossed her arms. “Tell me you weren’t counting.”

Jack grinned despite the pain in his side. “You know me too well.”

“I’m learning.”

“There were twelve men on the floor. One door in the front, one loading bay in the back, fire exit on the east wall. Frank keeps his office upstairs—window facing the water, and he had a boat tied at the dock out back. That’s how he got away.” He paused. “But there’s only one road into the warehouse district from the north. And the water’s shallow on the east side except for that one dock.”

“So you close the dock and the road, he’s bottled.”

“Something like that. But I don’t want to bottle him. I want him to come to me.”

Molly looked at him, waiting.

“He wants to see me lose everything,” Jack continued. “He took you because he knew I’d come. He burned the manifest because he knew it hurt me. He thinks this operation is all I’ve got. That if he kills the operation, he kills me.” Jack shook his head. “So I give him an operation to kill. A decoy. One that sits right where he can reach it, with enough whiskey to make him greedy. And when he comes to take it, he finds me waiting.”

“And the real operation?”

“Stays here. Stays hidden. Elias and the channel and the cove and every barrel we haven’t moved. Frank never learns about this place. Not from me, not from anyone.” Jack looked at her. “That’s the reason I came to you first with this. I need someone I trust to run the house side while I bait the trap. Can you do that?”

Molly held his gaze. Her jaw set. “I spent two days in Frank’s warehouse and I didn’t break. I can keep a ledger.”

“I know you can.”

“Then let’s do it.”

Jack nodded. He turned back to the window. The sun was fully up now, burning off the morning haze. Somewhere out there, Frank was nursing his own grudge. But he didn’t know the harbor the way Jack knew it. He didn’t know the shoals and the currents and the patience of a man with nothing left to lose but the woman sleeping in his bed.

“I’m calling Gus,” Jack said. “We move the meeting up. No Chicago syndicate. Not yet. We handle Frank first, then we talk to the big boys.”

“Gus won’t like that.”

“Gus will like it fine once Frank’s gone. He wants the route clear as much as I do.” Jack turned away from the window. “We got three days. Maybe less. I need to get this wound closed and plan the layout. You got the layout of Frank’s place fixed in your mind?”

“Every door. Every man. Every face.”

“Good. You’re going to draw it all out for me, every detail. And then we’re going to build Frank a grave shaped like an opportunity.” Jack pulled on his shirt, wincing. “Let’s get to work.”