Silent Servant, Silent Killer

Chapter 2: The Debt of Ormav Deyl

The ash-filled hallway felt like a tomb, but as Caevrik stepped back into the morning light, the "broken man" mask settled perfectly onto his features. He walked past the yellow police tape, his head bowed.

"Hey, pops! You okay?" a patrolman called out, leaning against his cruiser.

Caevrik stopped, wiping a smear of soot from his cheek. "I’ll be fine, Officer. Just… I didn’t think I’d be packing my life into a coat pocket today."

"Yeah, life's a trip," the officer said, shaking his head. "You got a place to stay? The city’s got shelters for—"

"I have a cousin in the Outer District," Caevrik lied, his voice a frail reed. "I’ll head there. Thank you for your kindness."

"Take care of yourself. Don't let the smoke stay in your lungs."

"I won't. Thank you."

Caevrik walked until he was three blocks away, then his gait shifted. The shuffle vanished, replaced by a stride that was efficient and ghost-quiet. He hailed a battered yellow cab on the corner of 4th and Main.

"Where to, pal?" the driver asked, not looking back from a tabloid newspaper.

"The Lowside. Corner of Barker and 9th."

"Rough neighborhood for a guy in a suit. Even a burnt-up one."

"It’s what I can afford today," Caevrik replied, staring out the window at the passing skyscrapers.

"Fair enough. Sit back. It’s gonna be twenty minutes with this traffic."

The cab dropped him off in front of a narrow, leaning tenement building that smelled of damp concrete and old grease. Caevrik climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on a door with a peeling '2B' sticker.

A heavy chain rattled. The door opened three inches, revealing a pair of suspicious, bloodshot eyes.

"We're full, scram," a woman’s voice rasped.

"Mrs. Gable, it’s me. I called about the storage unit?"

The door opened fully. Mrs. Gable, a woman who looked like she was made of leather and spite, peered at him. "Dorneth? That you? You look like you crawled out of a chimney."

"Something like that. Is the room ready?"

"Cash upfront. No questions. No cops. Those are the rules."

"I remember," Caevrik said, pulling a damp wad of bills from his pocket. He handed her a hundred. "This should cover a week. Keep the change for some fresh linens."

"Linens? You’re lucky if you get a pillow that doesn't smell like a wet dog. Come on in."

She led him down a hallway that groaned under his weight. The room was a closet with a desk, a chair, and a bed that sagged in the middle.

"You got a phone line in here?" Caevrik asked.

"Jack's in the corner. You'll have to bypass the switchboard if you want privacy, but I didn't see nothing. You want some coffee? It’s mostly chicory, but it’s hot."

"No, thank you, Mrs. Gable. I have work to do."

"Suit yourself. Try not to die. It's a hassle for the paperwork."

As soon as she closed the door, Caevrik pulled a compact, high-end laptop from a hidden compartment in his suitcase—one of the few things he’d retrieved from his floorboard stash. He plugged it into the wall and dialed a secure number.

"Talk to me," a voice crackled on the other end.

"Vane, it’s C."

"C? Damn, man. I saw the news. The Krossel place is a charcoal pit. I thought you were toast."

"I’m the one who spreads the butter, Vane. You know that."

"Cold as ever. What do you need? I assume you’re not calling to catch up."

"I need a clean bounce to the Weyland Investment Group. And I need it to look like it came from an internal server at Deyl Industries."

"Deyl? Ormav Deyl? He’s a shark, C. He’s got more firewalls than the federal mint."

"Every shark has a gill that bleeds, Vane. I have the ledger. Master Krossel was keeping a record of every kickback Deyl sent to the port authorities. It’s all here. Encrypted, dated, and signed in digital blood."

"You want to leak it?"

"Not all of it. Just enough to freeze his assets. I want him to feel the walls closing in before I pay him a visit."

"Give me ten minutes to set up the relay. You got the file ready?"

"Ready and waiting. It's labeled 'Project Phoenix.' Fitting, don't you think?"

"Morbid is what it is. Alright, ten minutes. Don't stay on the line."

Caevrik hung up and began scrolling through the data. Ormav Deyl hadn’t just benefited from the Krossel massacre; he had pre-ordered the liquidation of their shipping routes.

Ten minutes later, his screen flickered green.

"You're live, C. Send it."

Caevrik hit a single key. "It's gone. How does the trace look?"

"Clean. If they try to track it, they'll end up at a server farm in the Caymans that doesn't exist. You're a ghost, buddy."

"Thanks, Vane. I'll reach out when I need the next one."

"Stay safe, C. Or don't. You're scarier when you're mad."

Caevrik closed the laptop. He spent the next hour scrubbing the soot from his skin and changing into a fresh, though inexpensive, suit he’d kept in the storage unit. He checked his reflection. He didn't look like a valet anymore. He looked like a man who was about to go for a stroll.

The 'Morning Dew' cafe sat directly across the street from the glass-and-steel monolith of Deyl Industries. Caevrik sat by the window, a cup of black coffee steaming in front of him.

"Refill, honey?" a young waitress asked, hovering with a glass pot.

"Please," Caevrik said, offering a polite smile.

"You're new around here. Working at the tower?" she asked, nodding toward the Deyl building.

"Just waiting for a friend. He’s a businessman. Very busy man."

"They all are. They walk in here with their fancy watches and never even look at the menu. Just 'espresso, double, now.' Like the world's gonna end if they don't get their caffeine."

"Maybe for some of them, it is ending," Caevrik murmured.

"Tell me about it. Hey, look at that. Looks like the circus is in town."

Outside, two black SUVs screeched to a halt in front of the Deyl building. Men in suits with earpieces hurried toward the entrance.

"Is that normal?" Caevrik asked innocently.

"Nope. Usually, they park in the garage. Something’s up. Maybe a big merger?"

"Or a big divorce," Caevrik suggested.

Just then, the glass doors of the tower burst open. A man in an expensive Italian suit—Ormav Deyl—stumbled out, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Even from across the street, Caevrik could see the crimson flush of his face.

"What do you mean frozen?" Ormav screamed into the phone. His voice carried across the sidewalk, sharp and panicked. "That’s impossible! I authorized those transfers yesterday! Weyland can't just pull out!"

"He sounds upset," the waitress noted, leaning on the counter to watch.

"He sounds ruined," Caevrik corrected softly.

"What?"

"I said he sounds like he’s having a bad morning."

Ormav was pacing now, waving his arms wildly. "Listen to me! I don't care what the leak says! It’s a fabrication! Get the lawyers! Get everyone! If those accounts aren't unlocked by noon, I’m going to—"

He stopped mid-sentence. He looked up at the giant digital news ticker that wrapped around the building next to his.

BREAKING: DEYL INDUSTRIES UNDER FEDERAL INVESTIGATION FOR RACKETEERING AND FRAUD. WEYLAND GROUP CEASES ALL PARTNERSHIPS.

Ormav’s phone slipped from his hand, clattering onto the pavement. He looked like a man who had just seen his own ghost.

"Wow," the waitress said, her eyes wide. "You see that? He’s on the news. Right there."

"So he is," Caevrik said, taking a calm sip of his coffee.

"You think he did it? All that stuff they're saying?"

"In this city? The only difference between a businessman and a criminal is who gets caught first."

"Ain't that the truth. You want a muffin? On the house. This is better than the soaps."

"I'll pass on the muffin, but I'll take the check."

"You leaving? The show's just getting started."

"I've seen enough," Caevrik said, placing a few coins on the table. "I have a meeting to prepare for."

He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. Across the street, Ormav Deyl was being swarmed by reporters who seemed to appear out of the very cracks in the sidewalk. The man who had thought he could inherit the Krossel empire was drowning in a sea of cameras and microphones.

Caevrik stepped out of the cafe, the cool air hitting his face. He didn't look back. He had a ledger full of names, and Ormav was only the first page.

As he turned the corner, a notification pinged on a nearby electronics store's display TV. The headline flashed in bright, aggressive red:

FEDERAL AGENTS SEIZE DEYL INDUSTRIES ASSETS. CEO ORMAV DEYL CITED AS KEY FIGURE IN KROSSEL CONSPIRACY.

Caevrik smiled. It wasn't the "broken valet" smile. It was the smile of a man who had finally started his real work.

"One down," he whispered to the wind. "Many more to go."