After hours on the road, Jensen had finally rolled into town. He found a dive motel, one of those cheap ones that are probably mostly used by people for affairs or hook ups. He dropped his duffel bag on the hard motel bed covered in its tacky bedspread and looked around. There was a bed, a small table and two chairs in front of the window and a dresser with an old, boxy TV set on top of it. It wasn't much but Jensen had stayed in so many dives like this over the years that they were starting to feel like home. He was always on the road these days, a loner some called him, but it was safer that way. Everyone that got near him seemed to end up dead, first his parents and then later the old hunter, Jeb, that had taken him in. After Jeb had died Jensen had taken to the road, living out of motel rooms and his car.

I need a drink, Jensen thought, shaking his head to chase away memories of the past. He stepped into the tiny bathroom to look into the cracked mirror over the chipped porcelain sink. He splashed water on his face, washing away the weariness of a day spent driving, before pulling his black hair back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. Back out in the room, he dug through his duffel until pulling out a clean black tee shirt and a red and black plaid flannel. He pulled them on, grabbed his keys and headed for the bar he had spotted on his drive through town.

He opened the door and stepped inside, his Colt 1911 tucked out of sight under his unbuttoned flannel. Jensen's mocha eyes scanned over the people inside, looking for any possible threats. After a moment of observation he took a seat at the edge of the bar, where he could survey the room and pick up any drunken tales. Many were just that, the blithering useless stories of drunks, but under many of them was a tiny grain of truth.