Cole didn't slow.
He rode until the land lost its names and the road forgot it had ever been laid down for people. Dusty kept pace, tongue lolling once, then gone again—work mode back on, senses sharp enough to cut.
The mark burned in Cole's mind.
The bent spade.
Not a gang sign.
Not a Dealer flourish.
Too careful for that.
It was a receipt.
He found the courier before sunset.
The man wasn't running. That was the mistake.
Cole spotted him a mile out—alone, moving steady along a shallow ravine, pack light, posture wrong for someone who thought they were safe. No sentries. No escort. Confidence borrowed, not earned.
Cole cut wide.
Came in from the west with the sun at his back.
The first warning the courier got was Dusty.
The dog hit him low, hard, knocked him flat before the man's hand ever reached his coat. Cole was there a breath later, boot on the courier's wrist, revolver already up.
"Don't," Cole said.
The man froze.
He was older than Cole expected. Late forties. Lean. Scar across one cheek like he'd learned something once and never forgotten it. Eyes sharp. Not afraid—calculating.
"Marrow," the man said.
Cole's finger tightened.
"You know my name," Cole said.
"Everybody who matters does," the courier replied. "Or they're about to."
Cole kicked the man's hand away from his coat and hauled him up by the collar, slammed him against the ravine wall hard enough to knock breath loose.
Dusty snarled, teeth inches from the man's throat.
"Who paid you," Cole said.
The courier coughed. Smiled thin. "You don't want that answer."
"That's usually how it goes," Cole said. "Try again."
The courier hesitated just long enough for the House to notice.
Text flickered—not bold. Not centered.
Just present.
HOUSE OF RECKONING // INFORMATION EXCHANGESTATUS: UNWAGEREDNOTE: HOUSE WILL NOT INTERVENE
Cole felt something settle.
Good.
This wasn't their game.
"Who," Cole said again.
The courier exhaled. "A clerk. Middle tier. Worked logistics for the Ace of Spades' western contracts."
There it was.
Not a lieutenant.
Not a king.
A pen-holder.
Cole's jaw clenched.
"Names," Cole said.
The courier shook his head. "Don't have them. That's the point. Orders move sideways. Money moves clean."
"Not clean enough," Cole said.
He reached into the courier's coat and pulled free a sealed packet. The mark stamped into the wax made his stomach go still.
Bent spade.
Inside were ledgers. Not full ones. Excerpts. Routes. Payments. Dates.
And a line item that burned hotter than the rest.
BLEAKWATER — FULL SILENCEPREMIUM APPLIED
Cole stared at it.
"Premium," he said.
The courier nodded. "Extra pay. For no survivors. No witnesses. No ripples."
Cole's voice stayed level. "My daughter was seven."
The courier swallowed. "I don't choose the terms."
"You carried them," Cole said.
"That's the job."
Cole stepped back.
The courier's shoulders eased a fraction.
Then Cole fired.
One shot.
Center chest.
The man dropped without a sound.
Dusty jumped back, startled more by finality than violence.
Cole stood there breathing, staring down at the body.
The House said nothing.
That told him everything he needed to know.
He took the ledger and burned the rest—papers, seals, marks—until only ash remained. Watched it scatter on the wind like something that had never earned permanence.
Dark fell fast.
Cole moved again.
By midnight he reached a half-ruined relay station still clinging to power it shouldn't have had. He didn't go inside.
He watched.
Counted guards.
Listened.
Then he slipped in anyway.
Fast chapters needed fast truth.
He grabbed a man in the back hall, put him against the wall, and showed him the ledger.
The man went pale.
"That's old routing," he said. "Ace of Spades retired that clerk months ago."
"Why," Cole asked.
The man licked his lips. "Because he approved a kill that wasn't sanctioned."
Cole's heart thudded once.
"Meaning."
"Meaning the order came from outside the chain," the man said. "Someone paid through them. Used their systems. But the decision wasn't theirs."
Cole let him go.
Didn't kill him.
That was another choice.
Outside, the wind shifted. Cold. Familiar.
Cole sat on the steps and stared east.
So.
The Ace of Spades hadn't decided.
They'd complied.
Someone else had wanted his family erased.
Not for territory.
Not for resources.
For silence.
The Ace was muscle.
The hand on the scale belonged to someone cleaner.
Someone who knew how the House worked—and how to avoid it.
Cole stood.
Dusty was already waiting.
The Ace of Spades pressed cold against Cole's ribs, heavier now—not as a mark, but as proof.
"Alright," Cole said softly.
No prayer.
No threat.
Just clarity.
He turned east again.
Toward the people who thought paying extra meant consequences stayed buried.
The House watched.
Didn't stop him.
That was permission enough.