Tonight, the Obsidian Society and Dick Freud’s files glowed on my screen, casting cold blue light across the office. Nature breathed steadily outside while screens in front of me displayed trafficking routes, shell companies, and photographs of men responsible for actions most people would never survive hearing about.
But all my attention was on Dick Freud’s life unraveling across six different monitors.
The man and this secretive society were built like a fortress with layer upon layer of deceit and legitimacy wrapped around rot.
My phone rang and I flicked a glance at the caller ID.
It was Salvatore.
I answered, pressing the phone against my ear. “Where did all this information come from?”
Salvatore was many things, but he wasn’t a hacker and there was no way that he’d dug up all this information.
“Curtesy of Kingston Ashford. Your buddy Mateo Agosti reached out to him and asked him to dig up dirt on the ObsidianSociety,” he replied. Kingston Ashford was a reluctant friend, but he was definitely very competent and resourceful. It was a good thing we were on the same side. “You have friends in high places, buddy.”
I let out a dry laugh. “If you say so.”
Salvatore went straight to business and asked, “Did you read the reports?”
“I did.”
“And?” he urged.
I dragged another encrypted file onto the main screen. “And I can’t believe they’ve been flying under the radar.”
I opened another report, eyes scanning lines of information filled with horror that would make any decent criminal sick to their stomach.
Stock market manipulations. Insider trading.
Human trafficking. Hunting games with humans as prey.
“They’ve been having these human hunting games using Marabella arrangements and auctions all over the world,” he said, gritting his teeth. “On my territory. On yours. How in the fuck did we not hear about it?”
“We know about it now,” I hissed. “And we have one name associated with this society. We’ll start with him and go from there.”
A pause crackled through the line.
“This organization seems squeaky clean,” Salvatore pointed out. “The evidence we’re looking at is circumstantial at best. Taking it down will be hard.”
“It will,” I agreed. “But we’ll start small. There’s mention of cargo at ports. It would seem our shipment wasn’t the only one they intercepted, however no port ever records receipts for this society.”
Salvatore knew enough about ports to understand exactly what that meant.
“Hidden cargo?”
“Yes. Those containers disappear before inspection.” I clicked through manifests. “Mid-route rerouting. Private docks. Corrupted customs agents. By the time authorities start looking, the records are already altered.”
“Did you find what they usually go after?”
I exhaled slowly through my nose. “Weapons.”
The next file opened after decrypting and photos filled the screen. Crates of military-grade rifles. Explosives packed beneath humanitarian aid labels.
My jaw tightened.
“Jesus Christ,” Salvatore muttered.
Another encrypted message appeared on my monitor and I clicked it open. A compressed archive downloaded itself automatically and soon images loaded. Black-and-white photographs.
