Chapter 8 Dante
DANTE
The call comes less than an hour after I walk out of Steel Roses. I’m still running the sparring match through my head, still feeling the ghost of her grip on my wrist, when the phone buzzes in my pocket.
I almost don’t answer. Almost. Until I see Sable’s name flash on the screen.
I don’t waste breath on hellos. “Talk.”
“You owe me twice for this one,” she says, her voice low like she doesn’t want to be overheard. I hear the hum of traffic behind her voice, some asshole leaning on a horn, and the hiss of a bus’s brakes bleeding through.
“Then make it worth the debt.” I snarl. I’m already in a bad mood and my aching cock isn’t helping matters.
"Your boy Briggs was seen near the freight tracks off North Albany Avenue, just past the row of rusted-out warehouses. My source says he was breathing but barely. Seen with two men. One with a busted ear, cauliflowered to hell."
I know that stretch. Everyone who’s been in this city longer than a week knows it.
Old brick crumbling into the asphalt, busted chain-link fences sagging toward the tracks, the air heavy with salt, rust, and diesel.
The kind of place you end up when someone wants you to disappear without leaving a trail.
Nobody goes there unless they’re dumping something, or someone, they don’t want found.
“Who’s your source?” I ask.
“Guy owes me a favor,” comes the voice on the other end. “Saw it from the loading dock. Stayed quiet so he didn’t end up next.”
My grip on the phone tightens. “If he’s lying, he’ll wish he ended up next.”
“Not this guy,” Sable says. “He knows better.”
The line goes dead before I can ask more. That’s how this game works, just enough to keep me moving, never enough to solve the problem. Favors are currency, and I just spent one. Now I need to make it count.
The Charger growls to life, that deep chest-thump only a tuned V8 makes. I peel off the curb, cutting through the city away from the part that glitters and head towards the side that rusts.
My mind starts piecing the rest together.
Briggs had no reason to be down there. Not unless he was chasing a payday…
or running from one. If the Syndicate grabbed him, it’s because he had something they wanted or they think he’s worth breaking.
Either way, if they’ve got him in that neighborhood, I’m already behind. I press harder on the gas.
I make my first stop at Tooley’s place, a bookie with a knack for keeping one foot in everyone’s business.
I can’t run to the tracks half cocked and expect to survive.
No. I need to know more. I need to know what crew the busted-ear guy works for, and in this city, Tooley is the one person keeping tabs on every low-rent gutter thug.
His pawnshop on Baltic Avenue looks like a crackhead’s yard sale crashed into a bad divorce settlement. Dusty guitars, dented power tools, and glass cases of fake gold that even the addicts won’t touch.
I yank open the door to the jingle of a bell and growl under my breath. Tooley is behind the counter, chewing on a toothpick like it’s a nervous habit he’s trying to make look casual. His eyes clock me, and his smile dies quickly.
“We’re closed.” He grumbles around the stick clenched between his teeth.
“You’re open.” I say stalking around the clutter of ridiculous items he thinks he can sell.
It smells like cheap cigars and even cheaper cologne. Old fight posters curl on the dingy window in the back like it can hide the fact the view is just another alley full of rats.
“If you're here about Briggs,” I circle the counter and he leans back like distance will help, “I mind my business. I don’t know anything.”
I shove him into the display hard enough that the cash register jumps and a snow globe of the Taj Mahal tips over, shattering on the floor. Water and fake glitter bleed across the floor.
“You obviously know something.” I say. “Talk.”
“I don’t…”
I grab his hand and twist his ring finger back until I feel the joint grind. He screams.
“Fuck man. I heard he was missing. That’s all.” he gasps. “That's all I know. I swear.”
“Who’s the mother fucker with the cauliflower ear?” I ask applying more pressure.
He grimaces and his knees buckle, shrinking him down to the level he belongs on. “I don't know his name but I’ve seen him with a guy with a red snake tattoo on his neck.”
I let go and watch him cradle his hand like he’s hoping the pain will go away before I change my mind about letting him keep breathing. Then I pop his cash box open and take what’s inside. Not because I need it. Because it'll hurt more than a little bit of pain.
Back in the Charger, I call Maddox, washed-up syndicate muscle with a bad knee and worse habits. He owes me from way back.
He picks up mid-cough. “What.”
“Where does Serrano stash things he doesn’t want found?”
“Depends what you mean by things.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Maddox. He’s got Briggs.”
He goes quiet for a beat and I wonder if he keeled over mid conversation until he coughs again.
“Near the old rail spur off North Albany. Half those warehouses are rotting from the inside, forgotten since the trains stopped running. Nobody goes down there unless they’re looking to disappear.” cough, “which is why Serrano likes it.”
“Thanks. We’re even now.”
“Dante, walk away, man. Men vanish down there.”
“Can’t do that man.” I hang up before he can try and talk me out of it.
I swing under the old trestle by North Albany, where the rails cross overhead and shadows pool thick as tar below.
A drunk’s slumped on a busted milk crate, his eyes red as stoplights.
He clocks me the second the Charger’s engine echoes off the concrete.
Men like him know what trouble looks like.
My Charger’s rumble cuts too sharp against the dead quiet under the trestle, where no trains have passed in years.
“Twenty if you’re useful,” I say, flicking a bill.
He snatches the bill, thumb jerking toward the yard like he already knows what I came for. “Red door. Peeling paint.” His eyes cut away fast. “Heard screaming but didn’t stick around to hear more.”
The words settle in my gut like lead. I’ve been around long enough to know when a man’s telling the truth. Fear sharpens the edges and his voice has that edge. I nod once, “Stay clear.”
I get back in the car. If Briggs is in there, I’ll drag him out. If Serrano’s crew is in there, I’ll bury them where they stand. I don’t need witnesses or old men down on their luck caught in the crossfire.
I kill the Charger a few blocks out and let it roll silent the last stretch, easing into the shadow of a collapsing front.
My hand lingers on the wheel a second too long.
One steady breath, then I shove the door open.
I step out, sliding the crowbar from under the seat into my grip.
Boots hit asphalt. I shut the door soft, careful not to let it slam.
The warehouses loom ahead, brick and corrugated steel bleeding rust. The chain-link fences lean in on themselves, barbed wire curling like dead vines.
Train tracks cut through the lot, the old rails choked by weeds.
A few loose ties jut at odd angles, and the wind through the gaps in the warehouse siding carries a low, hollow moan.
I stay low as I circle toward the target, keeping hidden behind stacked pallets and filth.
The red door’s easy to spot, dented, paint faded and peeling.
Two guards sit on it like pit bulls. Both built thick through the shoulders, faces blank as stone.
One drags on a cigarette, the other’s glued to his phone, but the way his weight is set tells me he could move fast if he had to.
I don’t go straight at them. Instead, I slide down the shadowed side of the building, boots grinding over gravel and broken glass.
To my left, a rusted loading dock juts out, the dead rail spur running right up to its lip.
I stop, listening—counting my own pulse thudding in my ears.
Ten beats. Then I cut wide, slipping into the alley.
A side door hangs crooked on rusted hinges.
I pinch the edge between my fingers and ease it open.
The metal gives a long, aching squeal. I freeze, lungs locked tight, waiting for the building to swallow the sound.
After a beat, I step through. The hall is narrow, walls stained with dark spots. The air is heavy with mildew and stale cigarettes, like the place is rotting from the inside out.
I move with the creaks, not against them. When a pipe ticks, I step. When a compressor coughs, I slide along the wall slow and deliberate, the crowbar balanced loose in my grip.
The deeper I go, the thicker the air gets. Rust drips from overhead pipes, streaking the walls in brown. A low draft cuts through broken siding, carrying the tang of something copper underneath.
I follow the voices, quiet at first, then louder as I creep closer. My eyes adjust to the flicker of a single hanging bulb ahead, shadows jerking across the corridor in uneven swings.
“...Payout hits after the showcase. Cash, no wires, no signatures.”
“Buyers flying in. Serrano wants it clean. No brawls, no phones, no surprises.”
A lazy laugh follows. “Does he say that before or after that girl bit Rigo?”
I ghost past a boarded window and risk a look through a cracked corner. I see them now, two men at a folding table littered with cash and liquor bottles. One has a serpent inked up his neck. A third stands near the wall, gun tucked in his waistband.
“And Briggs?”
“Idiot saw too much. Keep him breathing until Serrano decides.”
I let the heat rise in me and then I make it sit.
I track the space behind them, peering down a darker hall. That’s when I catch the edge of a figure slumped in a chair, half-hidden by shadows.
Briggs.