Dance of Ruin: Chapter 33

This isn’t the morgue front desk guy’s first rodeo.

As soon as I slide the thick envelope of cash across the desk, he drops his eyes, turns around, and hits a button on the security feed, reversing it about thirty seconds before he hits stop.

“I can pause the cameras for twenty minutes before the outsourced tech support figures out something’s wrong and sends an officer,” he grunts.

“I only need five.”

“Got lube?”

My face twists. “Excuse me?”

“Lube,” he says, still not looking at me. “Trust me, you’re gonna need it⁠—”

“Believe me, I’m not,” I say, blanching.

What the fuck is wrong with people.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I’m still processing my disgust as he buzzes me through into the morgue itself.

I’m not here to screw a corpse. Obviously.

But if I was, I’d have a hard time fucking the particular corpse I’m here to see, given that it’s little more than a gelatinous blob of goo at this point, after falling thirty stories onto concrete and then being kept on ice for the last two months.

Inside the main room, with the scent of antiseptic in the air, I check the chart by all the metal doors along the wall, scanning for Omar’s name.

Not on the list. Good. It means several months later he’s still a John Doe. Unsurprising: I’m guessing they’ve had a bit of a hard time identifying him.

I scan the list of unknown bodies, and find one on the list with “severe blunt force trauma from elevated impact”.

Yup, that’ll be Omar.

I don’t really need to look at his corpse. I’m not here for his body.

I’m here for his secrets.

Through the back, I find a locked cage-room. But there’s just a regular hardware store lock on it, and I was picking those when I was eight.

Inside, I find a bin marked “Doe, John / 005213-R / UNCLAIMED.”

It’s sealed with a bright yellow evidence band.

Like that’s going to stop me.

I pull a knife from my jacket and slice through it, pulling the lid off before I start pawing through whatever Omar had on him when he shuffled off this mortal coil.

It’s all been cleaned, mostly. But still…oof.

Red-stained pack of gum, flattened. House keys and a wallet, also caked with red.

Finally, I spot what I came here for: his phone. It’s in rough shape, obviously. But mercifully—from the phone’s point of view, anyway—it seems to have been cushioned against any real damage by…well…Omar.

The screen is cracked to shit, and I don’t know if the thing will ever turn on. But at least it’s not in a gazillion pieces or embedded three inches into the sidewalk on 7th Avenue.

I slip the phone into my coat and close the box again. Then there’s just one more thing to collect, unfortunately.

Thankfully, I find it, intact, and it doesn’t take long. After that, I’m ignoring the front desk guy’s snickered “that was fast” comment as I exit the morgue. I slide behind the wheel of my car, plug the phone into the cord, and start the engine.

I wait. And wait.

I stare at the phone, scowling. Fuck, it’s as lifeless as Omar.

But suddenly, the thing lights up.

The phone’s spiderwebbed screen flickers to life. When the lock screen finally pops up, I reach into my pocket and grab the Ziploc bag containing the other small token of Omar I needed to get back there.

Thankfully, one of his eyeballs managed to avoid turning to soft-scrambled eggs in his fall. And that’s what I hold up in the plastic bag, angled at the screen.

I grin as the phone unlocks.

The home screen is a chaotic flurry of missed calls and texts. I scan a few of them, but it’s just mundane crap. His email is likewise just regular bullshit.

No secret files. No hidden folders. Almost nothing but sports betting websites and porn in his web history.

Shit.

I growl to myself, aimlessly swiping through the phone before suddenly I stop and click on his photo gallery.

At first, it’s about what you’d expect. Saved stupid memes, shitty selfies of him out at some dumb club. A couple of terribly lit pictures of his supremely unimpressive dick, photographed, bizarrely, with a toilet in the background.

I keep scrolling through the photos. Suddenly, I pause when I get to a video.

The thumbnail is just a dark blur. But the video is forty-three minutes long. That gets my attention.

At first, it’s just dark shapes and the background noise of a bar. Then I fast forward a little and the view changes, as if Omar picked up his phone. There’s a brief glimpse of his face as he positions the phone half behind a napkin holder, giving a view of him sitting in a dark booth in a cruddy-looking bar.

With his phone recording, and half-hidden?

Color me curious.

I end up fast forwarding through twenty gripping minutes of Omar checking his watch and sipping a beer.

Then suddenly, another figure appears—his hoodie up over a baseball hat as he slides into the booth across from Omar. He glances behind him and over Omar’s shoulder before he finally slips off his hood.

What. The. Fuck.

The guy in the hat sitting across from Omar is Vaughn.

On screen, Omar clears his throat. He’s obviously trying to adopt an authoritative demeanor, but it’s also clear he’s a little afraid of Vaughn.

“Well?” Vaughn says, spreading his hands.

Omar scowls. “You need to drop it.”

“Be specific,” Vaughn grunts, his voice rougher than I remember it.

“You know I’m talking about the Black Court.”

My nostrils flare.

“You not supposed to be poking around them,” Omar continues. “That’s not the Marquis’ plan right now.”

“Well, it’s my plan,” Vaughn growls. His voice is low, almost feral.

“The Obsidian Syndicate,” Omar says tightly, gripping his beer, “is not about what you might want. It’s bigger than you. And what the Marquis says, goes. Period.”

Vaughn sighs, shaking his head as he glances away. “This is important.”

“Look,” Omar grunts. “I’ve helped you with off the books shit before. But this is different. You’re done.”

“I’m not,” Vaughn says flatly. “I need access to the Black Court. Either help me or get the fuck out of my way.”

“I’m fuckin’ warning you,” Omar hisses. “This isn’t a suggestion. Walk away from whatever the fuck you’re doing nosing around the Black Court and get back to business as usual. That’s a direct order.”

Vaughn smiles smugly. “I don’t seem to recall that you give orders to me, Omar. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the opposite.”

What the fuck am I watching?

And more importantly, how the fuck did I miss that fucking Vaughn is Obsidian Syndicate?!

Because you were distracted by a certain ballerina…

“This isn’t from me, pal,” Omar snaps. “It’s direct from the Marquis.”

Omar sputters, choking as Vaughn’s hand shoots out like a viper striking, long fingers wrapping tightly around Omar’s throat and forearm muscles flexing.

“As. I. Was. Saying,” Vaughn says, his voice never raising, “it’s I who give orders to you. I’d advise you to remember that.”

Vaughn drops his hand from Omar’s throat and stands from the booth.

“Stay the fuck out of my business, Omar. That’s an order.”

He turns and strides out of frame. Omar winces, rubbing his throat and swallowing before he glances around surreptitiously, turns to the camera, and retrieves his phone from its hiding place.

The video cuts out.

What. The. Holy. Hell.

My brain tries to make the connections, figure out how the fuck I didn’t see this.

But there’s no time for that right now.

I slam the car into drive, peel away from the curb, and roar off into the night toward the Mercury Theater.

The city whips past me in blurry streaks of red brake lights as I weave through traffic like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. Cold viciousness churns in my veins.

Just then, my phone—mine, not Omar’s—buzzes with a call from an unknown number. Usually I ignore those, but this time, something tells me not to.

“Yes,” I growl, hitting the answer button.

“Mr. Barone, I presume?”

The British voice is smooth, posh, and very old-money sounding.

I don’t immediately answer.

“My name is Oliver Prince,” the voice continues. “A mutual friend suggested I get in touch.”

Right.

The Stag.

“I know someone in the UK who might know something about them. The Syndicate, I mean.”

“Mr. Prince,” I nod, weaving through traffic. “Thanks for reaching out.”

“I apologize for the delay,” he purrs in that exquisitely polished, proper accent. “But I do like to have my information entirely correct before I pass it along to others.” He clears his throat. “Now, it was the Obsidian Syndicate you were interested in, yes?”

“That would be extremely helpful.”

“I must tell you that I don’t make a habit of discussing current or former clients of mine with anyone.”

I frown. “Clients?” I hiss.

“I’m mostly retired these days,” Oliver says. “But I used to do a bit of financial maneuvering for clients with, shall we say, checkered backgrounds—the Obsidian Syndicate among them.”

“And you’re breaking your rule and telling me about them why?”

“Because in my semi-retirement, I find myself married, and a father. That has a way of changing one’s perspective.”

“Suddenly feeling guilty about managing money for the worst people on earth?”

Prince chuckles quietly. “Mr. Barone, I would imagine I’m encumbered by about as much guilt as you.”

I smirk.

I don’t feel any guilt at all. Pretty sure Prince knows that.

…Yeah, I think it’s safe to say we’re on the same footing here.

“Now, as to the Obsidian Syndicate,” he continues. “They don’t just move cash. They fund civil wars. Buy elections. Topple governments. They…don’t think small.”

I scowl. “So what the fuck are they doing in New York rigging up car bombs?”

“That, I’m afraid I don’t know. But I do know why they’re in New York in the first place. Rumor has it that there’s a bit of a disagreement within the upper ranks of the Obsidian Syndicate. Their current leader—who is only ever referred to as ‘the Marquis’—wants to keep business as usual. Continue to sow chaos and wreak havoc in the more conflicted parts of the world for the right price. There are some in the organization who want to shift to more of a…well, mafia business model, much like your family’s. New York, with its infrastructure, distribution hubs and political ties, would be an ideal spot to begin that transition.”

He takes a breath.

“There’s a U.S.-based shell company that they funnel a lot of their business through, which has offices in NewYork. Cyprus Logistics, LLC.”

I slam the brakes at a red light.

That’s the company Kir was telling me about.

“And there’s nothing else on this Marquis person? You never met him while managing his money?”

Oliver hums. “I did not. I don’t really know who he is. Nobody does. He’s a bit of a cypher. Paranoid. Elusive. But I do know who his current second-in-command is.”

“Really,” I growl, yanking the wheel and tearing around a corner as I speed toward the theater.

“I recently did some light consulting for him—basic trust and money management. All terribly hush-hush, of course.”

“I don’t suppose your newly minted father status gives you a need to share his name, does it?”

Oliver chuckles. “He used an alias, of course, while we were doing business.”

Fuck.

“However,” Oliver adds, “we had a few video calls, and I’ve been in this world long enough to know the value of insurance. So I screenshotted a few pictures of his face. Just to…have.”

I spin the wheel again, taking another sharp corner and gunning the engine hard.

“What’s that going to cost me?”

Prince laughs quietly. “Mr. Barone, I can assure you, I don’t need your money. This is on the house. Consider it a personal favor in light of our mutual friend.”

Thanks, Stag.

“I’m texting it to you right now.”

I pull over to the side of the road as my phone dings, throw the car in park and open up my texts.

Holy shit.

It’s slightly blurry, but the picture is of the same man I just watched having a conversation about the Black Court with Omar.

It’s fucking Vaughn.