Marlowe
"Marcus Teller," the man said, unhurried, before King had a chance to demand a name. He gestured vaguely at the roadhouse around us, an unpleasant smile settling into place. "I own this establishment. Among other things. Your uncle's been a valued customer of mine for considerably longer than he'd probably like anyone to know."
He was older than I'd expected, silver threading through dark hair, dressed in a way that suggested money rather than the rough biker aesthetic I'd braced myself for — a different kind of danger than Vance's brutal directness, something colder and more calculated underneath a veneer of casual hospitality.
"Untie them," King said, voice flat, dangerous.
"In a moment. We're having a conversation first, and I find conversations go considerably smoother when
