To the left of the bar was a shiny, beautifully kept baby grand piano. In a bar that was mostly a shack out in the middle of nowhere, the piano looked totally out of place. The lid was open and there wasn’t a dust spot or a scratch on the instrument. It was also completely in tune. The piano sat on a raised dais with two long steps made of hardwood leading up to it. There were no peanut husks on the platform or on the stairs. Everyone who frequented the bar knew not to touch the piano unless they really knew how to play. No one would dare. The piano had gone unscathed through hundreds of bar fights that included knives and broken bottles.

Trap glanced at the piano. He supposed he could play. Sometimes that helped his mind stay calm when it needed action. He couldn’t take sitting for hours doing nothing. How did these people do it? That question had occupied his brain for all of two minutes. He didn’t really care why they did it, or how; it was just a plain waste of time. He wasn’t certain he could take much more of this, but on the other hand, what alternative was there?

He’d come looking for her. Cayenne. In spite of the fact that—or maybe because—no one could accurately describe her, Trap knew she frequented the bar. This was where she chose her victims. The robberies in the swamp were only rumors, whispers, the men too embarrassed to say much. They were always drunk. Always on their way home. They were men with bad reputations, men others steered clear of. She would choose those men and they wouldn’t be able to resist her. Not her looks. Not her voice. Not the lure she used.

He sighed again and glanced toward the bar, wishing he had another beer, but seriously, it was nearly one in the morning. She wasn’t coming. He would have to endure this nightmare again.

“Fuck,” he whispered crudely under his breath. He had discipline and control in abundance. But he couldn’t stop himself from the destructive path he was set on. He had to find her, and that meant coming to this hellhole every night until he did.

“How you doin’, Trap?” Wyatt Fontenot asked as he put a fresh bottle of beer on the very rickety table in front of his fellow GhostWalker and toed a chair out so he could straddle it. “You ready to leave? You’re lookin’ like you might be startin’ a fight any minute.”

Trap would never, under any circumstances, start a fight. But he’d finish it, and he’d do that in a very permanent way. That was why half their team came to the bar with him.

“Can’t leave,” Trap said. Low. Decisive.