Authors Note: It seems like you’ve gotten the right password. Welcome. Thanks for being here and interested in this edgy tale. This dark little tale came out of nowhere it seems, and I’m really hoping for the best with it.
A fair warning, this story is mostly focused with adult readers in mind. The characters smoke, they cuss, they drink and they play with guns and knives. There’s blood. There’s probably other things I’m forgetting as well, but you get the picture.
Without further ado, I humbly present…
Jack Murray was no stranger to a jail cell, but that did not mean he particularly enjoyed spending time in them. Seemed as the years passed, he was spending less time behind bars and more time evading those who had the power to put him there.
How exactly he’d gotten in one was beyond him. The night before was nothing more than a throb between his eyes and a tear in his suit jacket. The boys he’d shared the cell with wouldn’t shut up, nor would they sleep, so the night was spent painfully awake, growing sober with every agonizing moment that passed. He lost track of time sometime in the morning, and only when the gate guard came round with a jangling set of keys and a look directly at him did Jack feel as though luck was finally on his side.
Until he saw a tall, lean figure in a black bowler cap waiting on the other side of the bars, looking every bit like he could have murdered him right then and there. Play his cards wrong and his boss very well might.
“I thought you smarter than to get your ass thrown in the can.” The tall man growled; a deep scowl set into the wrinkles of his face. There was no way Jack was evading this.
He tried stepping around the man, but Horace’s hand whipped out and grasped Jack by the shirt collar, effectively yanking him back into his shoes. The policemen, ones not on Horace O’Malley’s payroll, appeared to exchange perplexed looks at the unconventional duo. Jack tried ignoring their stares, but Horace’s grip was like iron and his mood was foul enough. They were nothing more than a spectacle.
“We all get caught up sometimes, boss,” Jack mumbled his displeasure at needing to be bailed out for the third time in the past month and a half. “Ain’t my fault someone’s got a bigger mouth than they know what to do with. I like a clean escape as much as the next guy…”
“Says the man who can shut ‘em up with a cold stare. You shouldn’t be able to be caught, boy.” Horace pulled him close so he could hiss in his ear, then shoved him back with force enough to tip him off balance.
“Maybe I like it. Rough me up a bit.” Jack effortlessly caught himself and fixed his jacket, showing the man he was not bothered by his rough treatment or harsh words.
“Are you thick?” Horace’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Or just stupid?”
Jack snorted, unable to at least fake being hurt by the man’s words. It was like he had a death wish or something, and Horace would be the one to honor it if he stepped out of line. He was shoved out of the police station on Third Street without much care to his mental state, which evidently sent him stumbling in a fashion that was not a look he went for. If anyone saw him being yelled at like a little boy, they’d never let him live it down.
Luckily for him, it was only Clinton in the driver’s seat of Horace’s custom Rolls Royce. The driver looked on in absolute amusement, no doubt taking in the complete disarray the normally polished hitman was in.
“Oh, what are you lookin’ at?” Jack grumbled into the car.
“How many times does daddy have to bail you outta jail before you get it through your head to not get caught?” Clinton snorted, calling out through the opened window.
“I do it as punishment to you all,” Jack smoothly retorted. “Get to ruin your day by having to pick me up.”
“Just get in the car,” Horace insisted while he shoved Jack’s shoulder toward the car. Jack brushed imaginary dirt off his jacket before he yanked his own door open and looked toward the driver.
“What’s got him in a mood?” he questioned Clinton.
Couldn’t have been because Jack got arrested. Horace rarely stepped out for such an issue and the last few times this happened, he hadn’t even been the man who posted bail. It was Clinton and Samuel. Jack was too exhausted to put much thought into why Horace might have been the one running errands.
“Oh, it might have to do with needing to pick you outta the can, like we have to every other week…” Clinton started to say before Jack cut him off.
“I can kill you without a gun, keep that in mind before you go and run your mouth,” Jack leaned his head into the front seat, positioning himself between his boss and his friend.
Horace’s large hand came back and pushed against Jack’s face.
“You need to clean up before you get that close to me again,” he snapped, “Now quit talking, both of you. I’ve got a headache and neither one of you’s makin’ it any better.”
Clinton chuckled more to himself than anything but did as he was told and shifted the car smoothly into drive, leaving the police station in the rearview. Jack leaned back in the spacious back seat, closed his eyes, and tried his best not to think about the verbal tirade Horace would drown him with the moment they got back to the hotel. He was too classy to lay into him with Clinton in the car, though Clinton would no doubt hear about it the moment Jack would step out of his office with his tail between his legs like an abused dog.
He'd been just about dozed off when the crack of a gunshot followed by the ratta-tat-tat of bullets against metal had him jolted upright in the car, hand instinctively on a gun he didn’t have, while Horace screamed:
“What the fuck?!”
Which then had Clinton’s foot to the floor. Jack was tossed immediately to the back window, his shoulder impacting the glass. Dull pain flooded his senses and moments later, the glass shattered as another round of bullets rained down upon the car. Clinton swerved on instinct, clearly having been through this sort of thing numerous times.
Jack, on the other hand, gripped the broken glass to keep himself upright. He hadn’t been expecting the gunfire or the evasive maneuvers from his friend and driver. Spinning around to get a better view of the pursuing car Jack forgot he didn’t have a gun on his hip and swore beneath his breath at the unfortunate circumstances.
An unassuming black Ford was hot on their tail, the car so close he could see the driver and the gunman, but nothing else. They had no discernable features, though they did wear black bowler caps and black ties. The passenger wielded the gun, some semi-automatic from the look of it, and paused only so he could reload it with ammunition. The driver was a maniac, swerving in and out of traffic with a finesse that matched Clinton’s own driving abilities.
“Jack, why don’t you stop oogling the car and do something you half-baked moron!” Horace roared, spinning around with a gun in hand that he pressed the trigger to.
“It’s a bit hard when I’m bein’ tossed around back here! If Clinton learned how to drive—” Jack hollered back.
“Oh, drivin’s what you want?” Clinton asked smoothly and yanked the wheel once to the left, once to the right, tossing Jack against each square side of the boxy automobile.
Horace spun in his seat and lined his weapon up with the car tailing them.
“Enough you two! Jack, move your head,” Horace squeezed the trigger again and the gun popped in their ears. “You gonna get to doin something or do I have to do all the heavy lifting here?”
The front glass of the car behind them shattered as Horace’s bullets hit home, sending the car skittering off to the side. Clinton’s driving finesse wasn’t enough to deter them too long though, for the Ford was back on their tail within a few moments, this time more pissed off than ever. Without the glare of the glass, Jack got a better look at the madmen tailing them. Unassuming appearances, wicked smiles that reveled in the chaos they created, these goons had to have been Sicori hires. The gunman in the passenger seat rose his freshly loaded gun up and fired another round of four bullets into the back of the Rolls Royce.
Right, he had to do something.
Jack took a deep breath and whispered beneath his breath two simple words whose origins were long since lost to time. If his mental state had been there, he wouldn’t need the crutch. He pinched the air, then yanked his hands back.
Glittering lines in varying colors appeared within his sight moments after the words escaped his lips. All the magic of the city at his fingertips and he had seconds to figure out what lines to pull. Not unusual. He’d always been quick on his feet, even if he were three sheets to the wind and in the back of a moving automobile. This mess of spiderwebs before him was nothing.
Dipping his fingers into the void, he gripped the first thread he saw that had any relation to the black Ford behind them, twisted two fingers around it, and pulled. The tug sent a sharp pain through his shoulder, but he did his best to ignore it. One more yank and...
It looked like the car tailing them hit an invisible wall. The front tires screeched against the pavement so fast that the two men, the driver and the gunman, went flying out of the nonexistent front window. A crowd of onlookers screamed in the distance, but it was all white noise compared to the pounding in Jack’s head and the gunshots popping two feet behind him. They hit the ground hard, rolled, and were motionless in the rearview.
Their threads gleamed like beacons of light in the mid-morning sun.
Jack gritted his teeth, twisted fingers around the silver threads of these two unknown men, and snapped them with little to no thought.
All movement ceased. No blood, no abrasions, no clear indicator of what exactly killed the two of them. Their car was ten feet behind them, flipped on its head, a steady trail of steam coming from beneath the hood. It was a show, a real spectacle, and the crowd of onlookers no doubt had slight idea of the man responsible for it.
Clinton skittered the car around a few bystanders which yanked Jack back into reality. The scene shrunk as they sped away.
“I hate leaving messes,” he growled as he flopped back to the back seat and rubbed his gloved fingers on his temples, “What the fuck was that all about?”
“Your guess is best as mine,” Horace muttered, “If it’s anyone worth their salt, they’d have actually gotten one of us.”
“Looked to me like a couple of Sicori goons,” Clinton’s eyes flicked a bit too obviously to the rearview when the sound of sirens had them all on edge. “They always wear those stupid hats like they want the world to see them.”
“It’s possible, but usually they’re considerably less flashy about it. A car chase through Manhattan really isn’t up their alley.” Jack looked at their boss, “Horace?”
The man was stone silent though, running damage control in his head and thinking about who he’d have to pay off to keep their mouths shut about this incident. Jack knew that face. It was the face of a man contemplating having the heads of any potential traitor on a golden platter.
The sirens behind were nothing more than echoes against skyscrapers to remind them that they left a scene in their wake.
Police were their biggest enemy in these situations. Hard to hide a bullet hole ridden car, and anyone who was anyone knew exactly what car Horace O’Malley drove. They’d be in big trouble if they didn’t get out of the area quickly.
Jack could at least take some bit of solace knowing the Horace had the ability to talk his way out of anything. Some called it magic, Jack called it natural charisma. Whatever the case and whatever it was called, if he got them out of the situation and if they stood a chance, there were still the two very obvious dead bodies splattered somewhere in the road behind them.
No physical evidence of death would be found, but that didn’t mean they were off the hook. Magic always left a trail, and death magic had a habit of stinking. The cops would be on them like flies to shit when they got their own magic team on the case.
Jack was a lucky bastard though. He’d gambled and played odds like his life depended on it. This idle bit of nonchalance carried the Royce and the three back into the alley on the corner of Fifth Ave and Morrison without any issue. No police trailed them, no bystanders pointed them out, nobody even seemed to pay attention to them in the bullet riddled vehicle. The car was hidden away safely, for the time being at least. The basement level of the elaborate hotel held all their secrets.
Horace all but tumbled out of the car and rushed straight for his office, yelling obscenities at every person he passed, ready to crack the whip on anyone who stood in his way. If someone was after them, he’d need to know immediately so he could send Jack out to make sure it didn’t happen again.
Not that Jack was ready for it. He could have used a hot shower, a stiff drink, and uninterrupted sleep on something other than the cold concrete floor of a jail cell.
Jack exchanged a look with Clinton, a curious expression, and let their boss on his tirade. Jack relaxed on the seat. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was something. Clinton smacked his knee to grab his attention. If ever there was a time...
The door creaked and moaned under the weight Jack pushed on it and he practically had to peel himself up out of the seat to follow Clinton into the garage. Anyone who’d been staring curiously at the car now quickly looked away, fearful more of Jack than their trigger-happy boss
“Please tell me you’re thinking what I am?” Jack asked Clinton politely, fixing his jacket cuffs and realizing as he did so, a sharp pain twinged through his arm.
“Trust me, we’re on the same page.” He was given a shrewd smile in return, “Welcome back to hell.”
Clapping him on the back, Clinton nodded toward the hallway that would lead toward the atrium of Horace’s hotel. Genuis plan really. He’d invested in the hotel years ago and over time it turned from a swindling and underground trade front to the full-blown base of organized crime in the New York underground. Horace was a businessman, and he needed to be at the center of the business. What better place than here?
At least it kept people guessing.
“Do you know you’d been shot?” Clinton commented, pointing toward a bloody gash that went through Jack’s suit jacket and tore into his shoulder.
“Look at that,” He reflected on the injury, truly not surprised at the happenstance “If you could get Lenore and meet me down at Greta’s with a tall glass of scotch, I’ll forever be in your debt. I wanna get cleaned up before anyone thinks I got my ass caught.”
“Hate to break it to ya, but everyone here knows you spent the night locked up, pal.”
“In that case I'd like to get cleaned up before I have to make sure nobody else runs their big mouths,” Jack gave him a dark look and started up the stairs that led to the first landing of the hotel, and the main, ornate lobby, knowing very well his friend would follow in his shadow. “So, get Lenore, and make sure I've got a glass of scotch waiting.”
“Having someone who plays the line between life and death in my debt… how many would that make?” Clinton asked after him.
“Twelve, last I checked.”
“A lucky number I suppose.” Clinton snorted.
Jack rolled his eyes at the tone of voice used. Leaving Clinton to chuckle to himself, Jack tucked his hands away and headed for the elevator. He knew Horace would want a word with him once everything calmed down. Might even hold back on threatening his life. For once.
The ornate atrium of the Grande Hotel was a spectacle to behold. Jack wasn’t ever enthralled by it, but he could at least understand specifically why it’d quickly rose to prominence and became one of the biggest hot spots for the elite. The trimming was hand crafted, carved into deep stained mahogany wood and accented with flecks of painted gold. The chandeliers were all crystal, thousands of perfectly crafted gemstones hung with delicate hands from the domed ceiling, and at the center of it all a marble fountain. There were smoking rooms, there were elevators, there were decorated hotel personnel who knew Jack only by appearance and nothing more.
He walked through them all and ignored the curious stares at his bloody arm. A young couple stepped aside so he could jam a gloved finger into the elevator button.
“Either one of you got a cigarette?” he asked the gorgeous couple. The girl fished one out of a small, beaded purse. He thanked her with a nod, stuck it between his teeth and stepped onto the elevator, alone.