THE SYNDICATE

 

SYNDICATE
VII

The amusement park loomed over the pier like a dead beast. The New York State Fairgrounds—once a blazing carnival of lights, laughter, and neon dreams—stood abandoned. The gates had been chained shut after the robbery nearby, a massacre that left dozens sprawled across the concrete. Now the place lived only in echoes. The air itself felt thin, metallic, the faint scent of blood clinging to the morning breeze like an unshakable ghost.

Overhead, gulls circled in hungry spirals, their cries sharp enough to pierce the silence. They hovered as though stalking Carl, watching him like judges from above. The roller coasters—motionless skeletons of steel—seemed to leer at him, their chipped paint and silent gears whispering secrets no sane man wanted to hear.

Carl tightened the grip on his phone and stepped onto the dock. A warm rush of damp ocean air rolled over him as the waves slapped angrily against the wooden pillars below. Then his phone buzzed. Another encrypted message. A GPS ping. The same anonymous number.

He followed it like a man hunting buried treasure—or his own doom.

The sky had sunk into a bruised shade of gray, promising a rainstorm that felt biblical. When he reached the haunted house, he hesitated only for a breath before stepping inside. Mechanical vampires burst to life with rusty shrieks, their jaws snapping forward. Carl’s heart knocked into his ribs; he exhaled shakily and pushed deeper.

Down the rabbit hole.

Monsters—plastic, rubber, stitched, grotesque—glared from every shadow, illuminated by flickering crimson lights. The horror theme felt too real in the suffocating silence.

At the “Red Room,” a mock torture chamber, Carl thumbed on the flashlight on his phone. The beam sliced through the dark. The coordinates directed him behind a rotting velvet curtain to a heavy steel door bolted into the wall as if sealing something dangerous inside.

He knocked. Once.

No answer.

He knocked again.

A metal slider scraped open. A pair of suspicious eyes examined him from the gloom.

“Name?” the man behind the door growled.

“Greenhorn,” Carl said, though his voice cracked with nerves, his palms sticky with sweat.

The locks clanked. The door opened to reveal a hulking man in a black leather jacket and old denim, built like a truck engine. Without a word, he signaled Carl to follow.

They descended into a secret chamber buzzing with electric life. Rows of servers blinked in perfect, synchronized rhythm—a symphony of neon pulses. It felt like stepping into the brain of a sleeping god.

At the central workstation sat the CandyMan.

Robert.
The myth.

He wore round glasses, a brown jacket, and jeans worn at the knees, his eyes flickering with digital reflections as lines of code raced across the monitor in front of him. When he finally stood, he offered a confident nod.

“Carl. I’m Robert—CandyMan. Welcome to the Hackerspace.”

Carl swallowed.

“We’re exposing the government’s dirty laundry,” CandyMan continued. “And I see you brought the flash drive.”

Carl handed it over. Robert plugged it in with the excitement of a surgeon examining rare tissue.

“This is good,” Robert murmured as encrypted files began unraveling on the screen.

“So… I’m in?” Carl asked.

“Yes,” Robert said simply.

He pulled up a file, scanning it with growing urgency. “Listen—we need this delivered to a reporter. Mrs. Devonte. New York Times. She’s expecting you at Duke’s Café in the Bronx. Handle it.”

Carl nodded. “Okay.”

---

Moments Later

The sky split open above New York. Rain hammered the concrete like shrapnel. Tourists fled under awnings while the city’s skyscrapers rose around them like cold, indifferent titans.

Carl, wrapped in his signature black hoodie, moved like a shadow through the storm. His bag weighed heavy against his back—inside, the laptop and the all-important flash drive.

At Duke’s Café, he slipped to the last booth and dialed her number.

A woman in a crisp navy-blue suit answered across the room. Their eyes met. She ended the call and walked toward him with careful steps.

She slid into the booth. “Mrs. Devonte,” she introduced, offering her hand.

Carl didn’t shake. He hated—and feared—touch.

He placed the flash drive on the table.

“So… this is it?” she whispered, eyes widening.

“I don’t know what you’ll do with it,” Carl said quietly, “but if you publish it… watch your back.”

She smirked slightly. “Trust me—I hold my own.”

She sipped her caramel mocha, stealing another look at the flash drive. “You know, whatever rogue army you’re part of… the FBI will hunt you down.”

Carl leaned back. “Trust me. I hold my own.”

He stood, tugged his hood tighter, and vanished into the rain-soaked streets. Lightning clawed across the sky as he disappeared down an alley, just another ghost among many. CandyMan had warned him the CIA was watching their every move.

He reached his apartment. The second he stepped inside, his breath caught.

Clothes were strewn across the floor. Books tossed aside. Drawers yanked open and emptied. His belongings violated, dissected.

Someone had been here.

Someone hunting him.

Carl stuffed a few essentials into a bag, his pulse kicking into overdrive. He needed to get to CandyMan. Now. CandyMan would know what to do.

He dialed.

Voicemail.

Robert, we need to talk. I’m being followed.

He ended the call, the silence afterward colder than the storm outside.