Chapter 3: Acquiring a Weapon

The Brass Monkey occupied the basement level of a converted warehouse in Southeast Portland, the kind of establishment that existed in the spaces between legitimate businesses. No sign marked its entrance—just a heavy wooden door beneath a flickering streetlight, accessible only to those who knew where to look.

Liam descended the narrow staircase, his architect's eye automatically cataloging the deliberate imperfections: exposed brick walls that absorbed sound, dim lighting that obscured faces, cash-only transactions that left no digital footprints. Someone had designed this place for anonymity.

The bar itself was a study in calculated seediness—worn leather booths, scarred wooden tables, and a clientele that spoke in whispers over amber liquids. Liam felt overdressed in his tailored suit, but he'd learned that looking the part of a successful professional sometimes opened doors that casual clothes couldn't.

He'd found Silas Vance through channels that didn't officially exist: a lawyer who specialized in high-conflict divorces, who knew a security consultant, who knew someone who could "handle delicate situations." Three degrees of separation from legitimacy, which was exactly what Liam needed.

The man sitting alone in the corner booth looked aggressively ordinary. Medium height, medium build, brown hair that could belong to half the men in Portland. He wore a nondescript gray jacket over dark jeans, and his face was the kind that disappeared from memory the moment you looked away. Only his eyes suggested anything unusual—pale gray, constantly moving, cataloging everything and everyone.

"Mr. Sterling." The voice was quiet, precise, carrying the faint trace of an accent Liam couldn't place. "Thank you for coming."

Liam slid into the booth opposite him. Up close, he could see the subtle signs of someone who'd lived in dangerous places: a thin scar along the jawline, hands that rested too carefully on the table, the way his body angled toward the exit.

"You come highly recommended," Liam said.

"By people who don't officially know me." Silas lifted his whiskey glass—neat, expensive, contradicting the bar's dive aesthetic. "I understand you have a problem that requires... discretion."

Liam had rehearsed this conversation, but sitting across from The Ghost made the words feel inadequate. "My wife is having an affair."

"Unfortunate, but hardly unique. Divorce lawyers handle that sort of thing every day."

"This isn't about divorce lawyers." Liam leaned forward slightly. "This is about understanding the full scope of the situation before I act. I need information—comprehensive, detailed, actionable information."

Silas studied him with those unsettling pale eyes. "Information about your wife?"

"About both of them. Her and her lover."

"And what do you plan to do with this information?"

The question hung in the air between them. Liam thought of Chloe's emails, her casual cruelty, her plans for their Thursday afternoon rendezvous. He thought of Damian Thorne's mocking references to his "boring" wife, his entitled assumption that other men's marriages were fair game for his entertainment.

"I plan to solve a problem," Liam said finally. "Permanently."

Something shifted in Silas's expression—not surprise, but recognition. Like an expert recognizing another expert.

"You're not talking about hiring muscle to rough someone up," Silas observed. "You're talking about something more... architectural."

The word choice wasn't accidental. Liam realized that Silas had researched him as thoroughly as he'd tried to research Silas.

"I'm talking about identifying structural weaknesses and applying the right pressure in the right places," Liam confirmed. "I'm talking about consequences that match actions."

Silas finished his whiskey and signaled the bartender for another round. "Tell me about the lover."

"Damian Thorne. VP of Sales at Alistair Corporation. Married to Isabella Alistair, daughter of the CEO."

"Marcus Alistair." Silas's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Now that's interesting. Old Marcus doesn't strike me as the forgiving type when it comes to family embarrassments."

"You know him?"

"Know of him. The man built an empire by eliminating weakness wherever he found it. Zero tolerance for anything that threatens his interests." Silas accepted his fresh drink from a waitress who seemed to materialize and disappear without acknowledgment. "His son-in-law having an affair would qualify as a threat."

"Assuming he found out about it."

"Assuming someone provided him with the right information at the right time." Silas raised his glass in a mock toast. "You're not just thinking about destroying a marriage, Mr. Sterling. You're thinking about destroying a man's entire existence."

The words should have shocked him. Instead, Liam felt a cold satisfaction settle in his chest. "Is that a problem?"

"Not for me. I'm curious about your timeline."

"They're meeting Thursday afternoon. The Nines hotel, penthouse suite."

"Surveillance and documentation?"

"Among other things."

Silas pulled out a phone so generic it looked like a prop. "My services aren't cheap. Full surveillance package, complete background analysis, actionable intelligence—we're talking about fifty thousand dollars."

The number didn't faze Liam. He'd been setting aside money for years, originally intended for the children's college funds. Now it would serve a different educational purpose.

"Half now, half on delivery?"

"All up front. Cash. And Mr. Sterling?" Silas leaned back in the booth, his ordinary face suddenly carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Once we begin this, there's no calling it off. Information has momentum. Once released, it follows its own trajectory."

Liam thought of his parents' divorce, the slow-motion destruction that had lasted two years and left everyone damaged. He thought of Jake's nightmares about invisible monsters, of Emma asking why Mommy seemed sad all the time lately.

"I understand."

"Do you?" Silas's voice carried the tone of someone who'd seen good intentions collide with harsh realities. "Because I suspect what you're really asking for is justice. And justice, real justice, tends to be messier than people expect."

"Messier than letting lies compound until they destroy everything anyway?"

"Fair point." Silas finished his second whiskey and stood. "I'll be in touch within 48 hours. Don't try to contact me—I'll find you when I have something worth sharing."

He moved toward the exit with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to disappearing, but paused at Liam's shoulder.

"One more thing, Mr. Sterling. Make sure you're prepared for what you're about to learn. I have a feeling this goes deeper than simple adultery."

Then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of expensive cologne and the weight of decisions that couldn't be undone.

Liam remained in the booth for another twenty minutes, nursing a bourbon he didn't really want while processing what he'd just set in motion. Around him, the bar's other patrons conducted their own whispered business—deals and arrangements that existed in the spaces between legal and illegal, between justice and revenge.

His phone buzzed with a text from Chloe: Running late. Don't wait up. Love you.

The casual lie, delivered with the same thoughtless efficiency she used for grocery lists.

He typed back: No problem. Love you too.

The hypocrisy of his own deception should have bothered him. Instead, it felt like putting on armor—necessary protection for what was coming.

As he climbed the stairs back to street level, emerging into the Portland night air, Liam reflected on the conversation. Silas had called what he was planning "justice," but Liam knew it was more complex than that. Justice implied fairness, balance, proportional response to wrongdoing.

What he was planning felt more like architecture—the careful deconstruction of structures that had been built on faulty foundations. Sometimes buildings could be renovated, reinforced, saved through careful repair.

Sometimes they had to be demolished completely to make room for something better.

His marriage was beyond repair. The question now was whether he could control the demolition precisely enough to protect what mattered most—his children's future and his own capacity to build something new from the wreckage.

The Ghost would provide the blueprints for destruction.

Liam would provide the precision to execute them flawlessly.

Thursday was three days away. By Friday, the invisible monsters would be fully illuminated, trapped in the harsh light of consequences they'd never seen coming.

He drove home through empty streets, past sleeping houses that contained their own secrets and lies, their own invisible monsters pretending to be something else. But tonight, for the first time in days, Liam Sterling felt something approaching peace.

The hunt had begun.