Marlowe
The roadhouse sat isolated at the end of a long gravel drive, neon sign flickering against the darkening sky, considerably more bikes parked outside than the modest building should have reasonably attracted on an ordinary night.
King called a halt well before we reached it, the whole team gathering close for a hurried, whispered strategy session.
"We don't know how many are inside," Bear said, studying the building through a pair of binoculars. "Or whether Dorian and Marla are even actually here. This could be a dead end, or it could be exactly the trap Rook's been warning about."
*[It's not a trap,]* Rook said, quiet, certain, and I watched King's expression shift slightly as he relayed the assessment. *[Too many bikes for a simple ambush. This is somebody's actual operation,
