Chapter 38 Part 1

To everyone’s surprise, right after Finnian finished speaking, the Chief Commissioner beat Hastur to the punch. “The one cooperating with you is Dustin?”

There was no trace of dissatisfaction in the Chief Commissioner’s tone; it was downright calm. “Tell him I didn’t look into the aftermath back then. He can ask Old Hank directly if the Hardy Couple really died that year.”

Dustin didn’t dare relay the suggestion verbatim. Instead, he took the safe route, vaguely questioning Old Vincent, whom he was supporting. “Have you ever considered the possibility that the Hardys might still be alive?”

Surrounded by a sea of flames, with the “Chief Commissioner” rescuing him to safety, Old Vincent had no reason to suspect the man at his side had been replaced.

“What does it matter? The neurotoxin I fed them back then destroyed their brain nerves. Even if they’re still alive, they’re nothing but two idiots.”

Dustin’s expression didn’t change as he endured the piercing burst of static that erupted instantly through his earpiece. He could well imagine how furious Finnian must be right now. “So you’re not even sure if they’re still alive?”

Old Vincent grew thoroughly impatient. “What part of what I said don’t you get? I poisoned them myself and watched them succumb to it personally. What happened after that—whether they lived or died, where Diego took them—none of it mattered. Dead or alive, the board would never let two idiots continue at the hel—”

Click.

Amid the roaring inferno, a pair of gleaming silver handcuffs snapped onto his wrists. Old Vincent looked up in stunned disbelief. “What the hel— You’re not Jelant!?”

Dustin tossed aside the now-useless electronic disguise device. He pointed a gun at Old Vincent with one hand while rubbing his recently battered ear with the other. “Dean? You guys done fighting yet? Time for your part of the plan!”

In a room on the first floor.

Hastur was unceremoniously shoved aside by G8273, who was clearly not finished. Hastur’s gaze flicked to the other’s lower abdomen. He was just about to ask, “You can hold back even on this?” when G8273 seized his collar and nipped his lower lip with a touch of displeasure.

“This isn’t a good time. We should pick another moment to finish tonight’s business.”

…

Hastur wasn’t sure how to process an AI that could halt midway through something like this—whether to scorn the Order race’s rigid self-discipline as outright masochism, or to admire their self-restraint as freakishly ironclad.

When viewed that way, G8273’s ability to rebalance the chaos and order power surging through his body in such a short span suddenly didn’t seem so implausible.

Hastur even wondered if G8273 had anticipated the rampage before consuming the clone body—if he’d planned not just how to handle it, but even roughly when it would end. Otherwise, how had he devised this convoluted plan requiring their cooperation?

The evil god, who favored acting on impulse and only scheming when absolutely necessary, felt a twinge of awe from the enemy camp.

Boom…

A section of the second floor gave way with a thunderous crash, weakened by structural damage. Bricks and debris rained down amid Diego Vincent’s terrified screams.

This was a disaster. A total disaster! Diego shielded his head miserably as he thought, I never should have come to this godforsaken party. Was Old Vincent out of his mind to pick this place for the meetup??

He hit the first-floor ground hard on his backside, pain shooting through his tailbone and making him grimace and bare his teeth.

But the instant he landed, he staggered to his feet with a limp, desperate to flee the blaze—hold on, who was that at the room door? Little Lancer Vincent?!

In that moment, a storm of wild suspicions raced through Diego’s mind.

Why was Little Lancer here? Had he tailed someone? Overheard their conversation?

Damn it all—Old Vincent had botched the family dynamics so badly. Who could guarantee Little Lancer wouldn’t rat out everything he’d seen today, just to land Old Vincent in prison and seize power for himself?

Fear of death got Diego back on his feet. But self-interest drove him to wade straight through the flames toward Little Lancer. “Little Vincent! What are you doing here?”

Lancer Vincent’s gaze was all wrong, his body planted firmly in front of the door behind him like he was hiding some secret. “Nothing. With the fire raging like this, why aren’t you getting out?”

Of course Diego wanted to bolt. But until he dealt with Lancer Vincent, even escaping the flames wouldn’t save him from prison—or a lifetime of destitution.

So what was Lancer hiding in that room behind him? Some kind of listening device?

Why wasn’t Lancer fleeing himself? Afraid destroying the device would wipe the evidence, so he was sticking around to move it?

With those thoughts churning, Diego’s demeanor toughened. He flashed a friendly smile while clamping a hand on Lancer’s shoulder and yanking him roughly aside. “Still worried about me? Come on, move! Whatever’s in there, I’ll grab it for you!”

As if he’d actually carry it. More like “dispose of it properly.”

Diego kicked the door open. A nauseating wave of blood stench billowed out, briefly overwhelming the choking smoke.

…

Diego gaped in shock at the barely dressed corpse on the bed. It hardly even counted as human anymore—more like a blood-soaked gourd. God only knew what twisted game Lancer had been playing to mangle it so badly.

No wonder Lancer had that look on his face. Pure guilt! No wonder he’d blocked the door. Forget listening devices—Lancer had killed someone and didn’t want him finding out!

Ambulance sirens wailed from distant streets. With no more fuel left to burn, the surrounding fire began to die down.

Diego’s mind whirred to life. He no longer saw Lancer as a threat, but as a perfect handle, gift-wrapped and ready.

“Stay calm, Lancer. Easy now. I can help—we’ve got time… Quick, let’s chuck this body into the big fire over in the ruins. Flames are hottest there; ambulances or not, it’ll burn a good while longer. Don’t freeze up—lend a hand!”

Lancer’s face drained of color. He stared in wary shock, blood-smeared hands still trembling. “You—help me? No, you just want to control me!”

Control? This was just a bit of leverage at most. Diego smiled, lacing his words with menace. “You sure you wanna keep wasting time? Those ambulances are closing in—Urk!!”

He never saw it coming. Lancer Vincent suddenly went feral, tackling him to the floor.

A ruthless glint twisted the young man’s features—no half-measures now. His hands clamped around Diego’s throat like a vise, eyes boring into him. “Or I could just kill you and toss you in the fire too. Then no worries about your threats, right? Uncle?”

“Urk…” Diego thrashed wildly, gasping in suffocated agony.

Damn it! Damn it all! He’d forgotten even cornered rabbits bite—let alone a hothead like Lancer, who could throw down with his own father in public. “I… won’t threaten…”

Damn! Lancer’s new implants were the cutting-edge batch from Wings of Michael. No breaking free.

“Leverage… I’ll… give you my leverage too. Mutual… secrets…”

Lancer’s eyes narrowed skeptically. Unconvinced, he pressed his thumb—capable of punching through concrete—right onto Diego’s Adam’s apple. “Yeah? What secret?”

“The club… the club was for… mutual graft,” Diego rasped. “All… members skim… company products, sell ’em private… Urk!”

Pain lanced through his windpipe. Lancer seemed bored. “Anyone could’ve guessed that.”

Diego clutched desperately at Lancer’s wrist. “More… there’s more! I…”

Everyone listening through the earpieces held their breath—including Hastur, green-faced and crammed inside a wardrobe.

Diego wheezed his near-death confession. “I privately—gah—sold stealth materials… meant for the military. Vehicles too. I blackmailed—a police station officer into silence, and a con man… I transport live people… to the Desert Wasteland for someone!!”

Hastur nearly burst from the closet. “‘Transport live people to the desert for someone’??”

Outside the wardrobe, Lancer leaned in closer. “For someone?”

“Yeah… Urk!” Diego teetered on the brink of blackout, face turning blue-purple, eyes rolling. Survival instinct kept him babbling. “Dismer Gang… Dismer Gang!! Please… they hate traitors. Biggest leverage I got, plea—Urk.”

With brisk efficiency, G8273 choked Diego out cold. As he rose, his disguise melted away. “Looks like every prior case ties back here.”

The missing persons from Nolly Qianning’s case. Casey’s parents’ vanishing. Finnian’s parents’ fate. Old Hejin’s “ghost in the snow.” It all pointed to the Dismer Gang—this ancient outfit perched on the desert’s fringe, so mighty that police stations and governments alike gave it a wide berth.

Hastur shoved the door open. “You should’ve asked straight-up about Finnian’s parents.”

“No need,” G8273 replied, gazing down at Diego’s prone form. “Their only lifeline is the Dismer Gang’s hunger for live bodies. Follow that thread, and we’ll track them down.”

If the Dismer Gang hadn’t claimed Finnian’s parents, they’d truly be beyond saving.

The ambulance had already arrived at the scene, and the rescue workers rushed through the doorway.

Dustin pressed the struggling Old Vincent down the stairs, looking somewhat dejected. “I thought tracking down Diego would be the end of it… The Dismer Gang? How are we supposed to investigate them? What do they even want with live people?”

Rain poured down in sheets as Finnian emerged from the ruins, his face grim.

The Chief Commissioner followed behind him. Aside from looking a bit disheveled, he was completely unharmed, which showed that Finnian hadn’t lost his reason over the matter of his parents.

Old Vincent kept thrashing about. When he caught sight of Finnian, his eyes suddenly widened, only to narrow again in even greater fury as he let out a low roar.

“Luciano Hardy!! Do you think this will land me in jail? Do you think that after tonight, you can just waltz back into your office at Babylon Company?!”

Finnian looked at him with disgust. “Don’t assume everyone is like you, with nothing but profit and money on their minds.”

Old Vincent sneered.

“That’s human nature! Have you forgotten who my wife is? She’s a major player in the political world. Do you really think the politicians and all those corporate groups want me to keep up our ‘friendly cooperation,’ or let a nuisance like you return to Babylon Company?”

Reality wasn’t like novels or movies, where justice always triumphed over evil. Interests were the lifeblood coursing through human relationships and society itself.

Finnian gave him a cold look. “Exactly. So in the face of greater interests, what the hell is a marriage? If I can offer more than you, who do you think your politician wife will choose? She didn’t even bother showing up to the Connacht acquisition banquet with you.”

The sound of sirens arrived fashionably late.

The Chief Commissioner cast one last glance at Finnian, who didn’t bother looking back. Cursing the Joey Street Substation’s response time, he signaled Dustin not to board the substation’s vehicle but to follow the Chief Commissioner’s own ride instead. They loaded Old Vincent and Diego straight into vehicles bound for the Military District Prison.

Hastur solemnly assured Finnian, “I’ll bring your parents back.”