The Devil's Syndicate

by Chris Draper

  Byron was watching, standing behind the couch picking at his teeth with a toothpick. The news cast cut to a scene of the warehouse during the day surrounded by police cars and emergency vehicles.

  Stacey Defleur, an average-looking blonde in her mid-forties was smiling at the broadcast from the couch. Byron had found her at a group for drug addicts in Tampa Bay last summer. He sometimes hung around these places to look for those who could be controlled without question as these were people who needed a leader, someone to put the light back in their life and provide them with guidance. And Stacey Defleur had fit the bill perfectly. Both of her parents were dead, her husband had long since abandoned her, and any children she might have had were virtually non-existent. Thus she had turned more and more to harder drugs to whittle away the hours which had landed her in a group for those with drug abuse problems – and right into the hands of Byron Logan.

  “Hey you know what we should do?” Stacey called out while watching the news report. She had a shrill voice that someone had once said could peel wallpaper. “We should start leaving a calling card, like something that says we were there after we do a job y'know? A lot of the best criminals in history did stuff like that.”

  “That's our calling card right there.” Byron nodded towards the TV which was showing a body being brought out covered up with an orange blanket. “We don't need any fake news telling people how badass we are. It's all right there for people to see if they use their eyes.”

  “That's what I'm talking about!” Larry called over from the crate of weapons. “We're like John Dillinger leaving a trail of bodies behind us."

  “It's not just about that.” Byron shot him a glance. “It's about doing something you like doing and making money at the same time. See take that bimbo news reporter for instance,” Byron pointed a finger at the screen. “She's got big tits, a pretty face, peroxide hair and probably has an easy life with a Ken doll for a husband. She could be a bank teller, a waitress, maybe even a stewardess if she wanted too but she chooses to be a reporter because maybe it's just her calling."

  “Yeah I guess you right about that Byron.” Larry said and his face flushed a little. “You always right though. I guess I just don't know about these things like you do.”

  “That's why you need to use your head more and your mouth less.” Byron said adding: “Here's something for you to do. How about you go get our prisoner from last night and bring him out here. Do you think you can do that?”

  Larry beamed wide at being asked to do something for his cousin Byron. It wasn't often he got asked to help out with things like this and the fact that Byron had asked him was a big gesture.

  “Sure Byron!"

  “Get to it then.”

  Larry dropped the rifle back into the crate and went to retrieve the kidnapped security guard Lester who was tied up in a room at the back of the compound. Travis Cheung was sitting on the couch beside Stacey and looked over at Byron. “Are we still gonna feed him to the crocodiles like you said?”

  “Wait and see.” Byron said taking out a silver revolver from a case nearby.

  Down the hallway Larry found Lester as they had left him the night before, face down on a narrow bed with his hands tied behind his back. He turned his head halfway to look over when he heard someone come into the room then cursed under his breath into the pillow. Larry got him up without a hassle and marched him down the hall, stopping in front of Byron and forcing him down to his knees. Byron was loading some bullets into the chamber of the revolver and looked down casually at Lester then back at the gun in his hand. Lester waited for him to say something but Byron seemed to ignore him like he wasn't there.

  “Please don't kill me man.” Lester pleaded. “I swear I won't tell anyone what you guys did, I just want to see my wife and kids again. I don't have a lot of money but have some savings for my kid's college fund in the bank I can give you. If that's not enough I can borrow more from my family, I know they'd be good for it."

  “Get up.” Byron ordered. “We're gonna take a little walk outside.”

  “Where we going?” Lester looked worried as Randall and Travis lifted him up off the floor and started pushing him towards the front exit of the compound. His voice was shakier than he had intended and his palms were starting to sweat even though he didn't feel warm at all. He didn't know who these people were but he sure as hell wasn't going to let them toss him to no crocodiles either.

  The morning was darkening and a light rain was falling as they trudged through some muck to a clearing near the river. There was a nausea growing inside of Lester now that prickled his stomach like fire and he took a gulp when he heard the river's waters below just out of sight. Knowing it was probably his last chance he focused his attention on the big guy with the revolver who he assumed was the leader.

  “Hey big man come on now, you don't want to do this. Someone'll find me out here eventually and then they'll send you off to the chair man.” Again they ignored him and one of them, an Asiatic man with a harsh face forced him down to his knees. Lester was getting desperate now and could feel the warm tears flowing freely from his eyes. “I said I'd get you money! What the hell else do you want from me?”

  But his pleading went unnoticed. Byron knew letting him go wasn't an option. If he didn't kill Lester his men would think less of him, maybe even consider him soft. Plus Lester knew too much – he had seen where they lived and their faces. Sometimes certain sacrifices had to be made for the status quo of things. They had brought him to an area beside the Syndicate compound by the river, about 15-feet from the the walls. Byron had decided that this area was perfect for executions. The clearing was mostly free of trees which was a rarity this deep in the Glades, and the fact that the river was so closeby was another bonus. He could put a bullet in someone then toss them into the river where they'd either be torn apart by the rapids downstream or be devoured by crocodiles – whichever came first didn't matter. All that did was that there wouldn't be anything left of them to reach the city after about 30 minutes in those waters. Taking his victims to this clearing also meant that if one of them tried to escape – which scarcely happened – then there would be nowhere for them to run or hide. For Byron and the rest of them knew that the surrounding jungle could be a lot deadlier than anything in those waters.

  Byron stepped over to the edge and peered down into the effervescent flow of the river three feet below. A lone crocodile was swimming around a few metres over on the side near a sandy bank where the water was less intense, its snarly mouth peeking up over some fallen branches like a green submarine. He smiled then stepped back over to Lester and brought the revolver up within an inch of his face. He was shaking uncontrollably now, like some sort of sickness had taken over his entire body. Byron knew what that sickness was: it was cold fear.

  “Open your mouth.” Byron said but Lester didn't listen or didn't hear so he stuck the gun's barrel between his dark lips.

  Larry had come with them and started shouting: “Come on, shoot him cousin!"

  “Don't tell me what to do!” Byron barked.

  Byron was thinking. He knew what needed to be done. He could see the beads of sweat forming on Lester's head, knew that his mind must be racing. Knew that he would have to put an end to those racing thoughts with a bullet to the brain. Byron pulled the gun's hammer back, saw Lester tighten his face and squeeze his eyes shut, then pulled the trigger and felt the hard recoil of the gun and knew Lester was a goner.

  “Damn.” Larry was excitable. “He sure had a lot of blood left in 'em didn't he?”

  Byron looked up at Larry, back down at Lester lying there, said “Dump him” to Randall, then headed back towards the compound. Randall and Larry picked up Lester's body and dropped him over the side of the riverbank and within a minute the crocodile came upon Lester's body, moving slowly at first, took a few cursory sniffs, then clamped its massive jaws over one of his legs and dragged him out of sight.

  ≈

  She had on cutaway Levi short
s and a pink blouse parched with dirt stains and her unwashed wavy blonde hair was matted against the back of her head. Dottie Wagner was cold, tired and hungry and could feel the springs from the worn mattress pushing into the small of her back as she stared up at a solitary bulb dangling loosely from the moss covered ceiling. It had burned out the day before and she had been left in semi-darkness most of the time besides the little light that filtered through a tiny window at the other side of the room. She'd tried to squeeze through it several times and had even tried starving herself to fit but it was no use. As small as she was there was no way she could squeeze her body between such a narrow opening. She'd lost track of how many days she'd been trapped here exactly but figured it must have been almost a week already. She sat up and shifted to her side when she heard the small cover on the steel door to her room slide over. Byron.

  “How's it going in there sweetheart?” She heard him call over. It was hard to believe she had fallen for that voice before, for that wild rebellious quality that she thought he'd had. She hated the sound of that voice now and the sound of it filled her with a mixture of dread and hostility. She had been naive and stupid and now look at where she was. Dottie Wagner, the smartest girl in her school, the one voted most likely to succeed by the entire faculty at West Meadows High was locked up in this room – no, this prison like some sort of convict. She ran up to the door, looked up through the iron grate separating her face from Byron's, and clasped her tiny hands around the cold bars.

  “Let me out of here Byron. You can't keep me trapped in here forever, sooner or later my Dad will come looking for me.”

  Byron tilted his head back and roared with laughter.

  “Listen babe. If you're still waiting for 'ol Harvey Wagner to come charging in here like a knight in shining armour you'll be waiting a long time. I think Elvis himself would come back to life before that would ever happen. From what you've told me before Daddy-O doesn't really seem like the caring type.”

  “He does care!” Dottie yelled. “He probably has the police looking for me already. I'm surprised they're not here yet.”

  Byron cupped a hand to his ear and mockingly listened, then shook his head. “Nope, don't hear any pigs either, guess he must have got the wrong address sweetheart! But tell you what, next time he's in the city how about I have him over for a few beers and we'll bond over his daughter's glowing adoration?”

  “Asshole!” Dottie shouted in his face and stormed back to the bed. Byron was laughing again. How pathetic he sounded when he laughed – it reminded her of how a hyena would sound if someone had hung it by the tail. A high-pitched whine of a laugh that bellied his size and demeanour.

  “Someone will find me here Byron. I know it.”

  He was grinning now. “Well darlin' you see that's exactly what we want. There's nothing else in the world I'd rather see than Mr. Wagner reunite with his long last daughter. First though he's gotta cough up that ransom money.”

  “When can I talk to him?”

  “Maybe tomorrow or the day after...if you're a good girl that is.”

  “You're a devil..”

  “Well right now honey the devil's in charge. And if you don't cooperate you don't eat.”

  “You have to keep me alive or you won't see a penny of that money.”

  “That's true but I can make things harder on you in the meantime. A lot harder.” He said. “Don't forget that as long as you're in there whatever I say goes. I decide when you eat, when you bathe – even when you breathe so don't you forget that.”

  Dottie looked back up at the door. “You can't make things any worse than they already are. This place is worse than a jail. I'd rather die than have to spend another week here.”

  “That's not out of the question.” Byron said with that rictus grin spreading across his lips again. “If your old man doesn't give me what I want I believe I can make that happen rather quickly.”

  Ignoring his response she said, “What was that loud bang I heard outside? Did you shoot somebody?”

  “Just getting rid of some excess baggage. Nothing for you to worry about.”

  “You killed someone didn't you? I should have known you were garbage the minute you started talking to me at the Shark Club.”

  “Yeah who would have known the little runaway whore was also a trust fund baby huh?”

  Dottie sprang up, dashed over to the opening in the door and spit in his face. Byron casually wiped it off like he was removing a fly from his cheek.

  “I should come in there and smack you for that, but this time I'll let it slide since you look so defeated already. You look like you've aged 10 years sitting in that room. Better hope Mr. Wagner pays off your tab or you'll look like you've aged 10 more.”

  Dottie was livid. “You know I thought I was falling for you? You tricked me, as soon as you found out who I was all you cared about was getting your hands on that money. And then you had the balls to blindfold me, tie me up... like I was some sort of fucking animal and bring me to this place. Well you're the only animal Byron and someday you're going to be rotting in a cell just like this for the rest of your life.”

  “Hey, you know I'm flattered honestly, that you fell for me and all. But at the end of the day, you know what they say don't you?”

  “What's that?”

  “That not all's fair in love and war.” Byron laughed again through his crooked teeth and slammed the steel cover shut over the opening. Dottie shrieked and pounded her fists into the hard steel of the door as hard as she could until her hands turned red then stormed back to the bed, sat down with her face in her hands and started to cry for the third time today. Not just about the situation, but about everything. How she'd been tricked into this by someone she thought she loved. How she'd ran away from home, thinking she would find something wonderful and fresh here and how that dream had dissolved into a cloud of smoke. She lay back down and tried to sleep but all she could hear were the sound of cicadas croaking outside the window and the rumble of her empty stomach. How much longer did he plan to keep her in here? Did he mean what he said about killing her? She was scared but knew she had to try to remain strong or she wouldn't get out of this alive.

  She'd been stupid to have left home, to have left so much behind and now not only did she feel scared and hungry but she felt a tinge of regret as well. If she did get ever out of this she promised herself that she'd never take her father or anyone else in her life for granted again. And with that last thought she shut her eyes and tried to close out the hell she was in.

  6

  They were headed down the dirt road that led from the Syndicate base to the interstate and Byron was at the wheel of the van. Beside him in the passenger's seat was Randall, one muscular arm hanging out the open window with a black widow tattooed over his tricep. In the back seat was Travis, Stacey and a newer Syndicate by the name of Etaro, a professional arms runner Byron had met when leaving a courthouse for an assault charge. They ran into each other in the stairwell, got talking and Etaro started coming along with the Syndicate on certain missions and was made a member shortly after.

  Being a member of the Syndicate meant you were in for life. Byron didn't like people coming and going – because people always talked and Byron wanted anything going on in the Syndicate kept secret. That was part of joining in the first place. Any new member had to swear that they wouldn't divulge any of the group's inner workings or dealings to anyone else or face the risk of being dealt with by Byron himself, which more often than not meant a punishment of death. Luckily though he considered himself good at selecting his 'talent' and rarely had to go to such extremes. The last such time was 8 months back when a former Syndicate had ran his mouth off at a local bar about the amount of illegal substances the gang distributed daily in the state of Florida. Word had got around to Byron eventually that this information had been leaked and it didn't take long for Byron to track down the source to a fellow Syndicate. Needless to say, Byron took care of the member efficiently by hanging him f
rom one of the mangroves behind the compound letting him stay there for a day afterwards to send a message to the rest of the Syndicate that he didn't mess around. He let everyone know that if they did well in the Syndicate then they would be rewarded by his acceptance as well as a place where they could belong outside of society – but he also let them know that if they went against his wishes they could be punished reprehensibly. It was as simple as that.

  Oh and of course there was the Syndicate brand as well. It consisted of a circle overcut with an upside down cross that Byron had made after he'd left prison. While behind bars he'd met a former rancher from South Carolina who used to brand his children with the same hot iron he used on his cattle. The rancher had told the courts after being arrested that he felt branding his children was important because he liked to know he had ownership over everything on his property. Byron had already been toying with the idea of making his own criminal group at the time and the rancher's story got his mind working. What if he branded the members of his own gang as well? Then they would feel a unity with each other that could never be broken. Human branding had been used since the days of ancient Romans to mark runaway slaves and he'd read that it was still used in many third world countries today. He'd enquired with the rancher if his brother could make a custom brand to which he said he was sure it could be done. So after Byron had left prison he sought out the rancher's brother and had paid him to make the custom iron brand that was now pierced into the arm of every member of the Devil's Syndicate (himself included). The upside down cross of the brand represented his love of chaos and his hatred of things such as organized religion or political parties while the overlaid circle was simply a reference to the power of the sun and how it held eternal sway over everything. That is what he wanted to represent to his members: he would be their order in a world of chaos. Every Syndicate member upon entering the group would have the brand seared into their flesh for eternity as a rite of passage.