Barry ‘Bardog’'s Arc

Chapter 8 of 13

The trader showed up at noon with a broken axle and no way to fix it. Barry saw him limping across the parking lot, dragging a bag behind him, and knew before the man said anything that he'd been stranded on the southern pass for at least two days. Barry poured him water and watched him drink. The man had the look of someone who'd been sleeping rough, dirt caked into his collar and hands shaking just enough to show he was running on empty. He set a glass bottle on the bar between them, bright green liquid inside with herbs floating near the bottom. Said he couldn't pay for a room but he had information worth more than coin if Barry was interested. Barry asked what kind of information. The man glanced at the door, then back at Barry, and said he knew who was skimming Sherrie's stock before it shipped. He'd seen it himself two weeks back, watched them loading a bag of medical supplies into a private truck while the main convoy was stopped for repairs. Barry kept his face neutral and asked why he was selling this instead of taking it to Sherrie herself. The trader said he didn't have the connections to get close to her, but he knew Barry did, and he figured that was worth a bed and some food. Barry picked up the bottle and turned it in his hands, thinking through what the information meant. If someone inside Sherrie's operation was stealing, she'd want to know. But telling her would put Barry deeper into her world than he'd planned, make him more than just the man who ran a safehouse. It would mean he was feeding her intelligence now, becoming part of the machinery instead of just renting space in it. He set the bottle down and told the trader he'd get him a room upstairs and a meal, but he needed a name. The trader gave it without hesitation, a driver Sherrie trusted on the eastern route, and Barry knew from the way he said it that it was true. Barry walked the trader upstairs and came back down to the bar, the weight of the decision already settling into his chest. He didn't tell Sherrie that night. Barry stood behind the bar pouring drinks for two scavengers who'd come through on their way south, and he kept the trader's information to himself. The choice wasn't about protecting the thief or helping Sherrie. It was about what kind of position he wanted to hold in Rust Creek. If he gave her the name, he'd be useful to her in a new way, and useful meant obligated. But if he stayed quiet and she found out later he'd known, the deal they had would be done. Barry closed up the bar near midnight and locked the door, accepting that either path would cost him something. He'd bought himself time by keeping the trader upstairs and the information quiet, but he knew he couldn't sit on it forever. Tomorrow he'd decide. Tonight he'd just added another complication to a bar that was supposed to be simple.