Ace froze in the cramped darkness of the storage closet, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. From just feet away, Deke's rough demanding voice vibrated through the thin wooden door and the metal vent slats. He is here. It's time to act.
His thumb found the small, plastic record button on the device. Taking a steadying breath to calm the storm inside him, he pressed it firmly. A faint click echoed softly in the cramped darkness, followed by a tiny, steady red glow flickering to life on the edge of the recorder. Recording. He held his breath, pressing the device flat against the cold, unforgiving metal vent grille. Suddenly, every sound in the bar the creak of old floorboards, distant bursts of laughter, the low, relentless hum of the jukebox felt impossibly loud, amplified by the suffocating silence surrounding him.
