"We're just having a soda, Sergeant. We pay like everybody else.""Did you hear something? I thought I heard something. Stand up and put your hands on the bar, both of you, or you're leaving in cuffs."Sergeant Kyle Dempsey had run every bar on Main Street for 11 years, and nobody in Cold Creek ever told him no. He thought the twin sisters at the bar were just two more strangers to throw out. He had no idea both of them were federal agents, and they had come for him.At 20 minutes to 9:00 on a Friday night, two women walked into Delaney's Tavern and sat down at the bar like they owned the place. They did not own it, but they were not there for a drink, either.Kendra Holloway took the stool closest to the door; her twin sister, Jayda, took the one beside her. They wore the same olive green jackets, the same light blue tops, the same blue jeans. Their long, dark hair fell past their shoulders in the same loose waves. Even people who had known them for years sometimes stopped and squinted before they said a name. Tonight, that was the point.Delaney's Tavern was the oldest bar on Main Street in Cold Creek, Missouri. It had dark wood walls, red leather stools, and a long mirror behind shelves full of bottles. A jukebox played an old country song in the corner. A dozen regulars sat at the tables, eating burgers and watching a ballgame on the TV.An old man with a gray beard came down the bar toward them. His name was Hank Delaney; he had owned this place for 30 years. His hands were shaking."You came," he whispered."We said we would," Kendra said quietly.Three weeks ago, Hank had called the FBI tip line from a payphone two towns over. He had talked for an hour. He told the agent on the other end about a police sergeant named Kyle Dempsey: every Friday night at 9:00, Dempsey walked into every bar on Main Street and held out his hand. $500 a week. He called it rent. Bars that paid stayed open; bars that did not pay got raided, their customers got pulled over for drunk driving the minute they left the parking lot, their liquor licenses got suspended over nothing. Two bars on Main Street had already closed for good. Hank had paid for 11 years.The FBI in St. Louis had sent its two best people.Kendra reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded white envelope. She slid it across the bar, low under her hand. "$500," she said. "Five $100 bills. We wrote down every serial number before we left St. Louis. Give him this one tonight instead of your own money."Hank stared at the envelope like it might bite him. "And then what?""Then that money belongs to us," Jayda said. "Wherever it goes, we can prove where it came from."