Dap Deals With Death
Copyright© 2026 Drew Bourrut
Chapter 13: The Climax Approaches
The office on 47th Street felt smaller than usual, as if the walls were leaning in to get a better look at the mess spread across the mahogany desk. Dap flicked his cigarette, watching the ash drift toward a pile of manila folders that contained enough dynamite to level City Hall. Outside, the New York rain drummed a relentless, uneven rhythm against the glass, a fitting soundtrack for a man who had spent the better part of a week chasing ghosts through the Bronx and the Catskills.
He gathered the evidence with a methodical, surgeon-like focus. The notebook recovered from the Hudson facility sat at the center of the pile. It was an ugly, water-stained thing, but its pages were a roadmap of greed. Beside it lay the photograph of Commissioner Sterling, the man who had traded his badge for a seat at the Architect’s table. Dap stacked them neatly, sliding the entire collection into a sturdy leather satchel. The weight of it was substantial, a physical manifestation of the trouble he was about to invite into his life.
Dana Winslow stood by the filing cabinet, her posture rigid. She had been typing up a final summary of the logistics chain, though her fingers were moving slower than usual. She knew the stakes. When Dap reached for his trench coat, she didn’t offer a word of encouragement. She just watched him with those sharp, observant eyes, her silence speaking volumes about the high probability that he wouldn’t be walking back through that door in one piece.
“Don’t wait up, Dana,” Dap said, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep.
“I don’t plan to,” she replied, her tone as dry as a desert bone. “I have a filing system to reorganize, and if you get yourself killed, I intend to have the office in perfect order for the next occupant. It’s a matter of professional pride.”
Dap offered a thin, lopsided smile. He turned toward the rotary phone on his desk, his hand hovering over the receiver for a moment. The air in the room seemed to thicken. He needed to know that the girl was out of the line of fire. Maya had been a tether in this madness, a reminder of why he bothered to drag himself out of bed in the morning, but she was a liability now that the Syndicate knew her face.
He dialed the number, his thumb tapping a nervous rhythm against the wood of the desk. After four rings, the line clicked open.
“Hello?” Maya’s voice was small, guarded.
“It’s me,” Dap said. “Listen to me closely. You need to stay where you are. Lock the door, pull the shades, and don’t open that latch for anyone who isn’t wearing a uniform you recognize. And even then, check the badge twice.”
“Is it happening?” she asked, her breathing hitching. “Are you going to the docks?”
Dap looked at the satchel. “The trail ends there. I’ve got everything I need to blow this whole thing wide open. Once this is done, you’ll be able to breathe again.”
“Dap, please,” she started, but he cut her off.
“I’m not looking for a hero’s send-off, kid. I’m looking for a clean finish. Keep your head down. I’ll be in touch.”
He hung up before she could protest. He didn’t have time for sentiment. He grabbed the satchel, feeling the leather strap bite into his shoulder, and walked out into the hallway. The elevator was out of service, as it usually was when he was in a hurry, so he took the stairs two at a time. The descent was a blur of concrete and shadow, the smell of damp grit clinging to the stairwell.
He stepped out onto the street. The city was a sprawling, neon-lit labyrinth of malice. Rain slicked the pavement, turning the asphalt into a dark mirror that reflected the flickering signs of nearby shops. He kept his collar turned up against the chill, his hand resting comfortably on the heavy weight of the snub-nosed revolver tucked into his shoulder holster. He wasn’t a man who believed in luck, but tonight, he would have taken a heavy dose of it if it were for sale.
He walked toward the subway entrance, intending to head for the West Side docks. Every shadow seemed to stretch toward him, every passing vehicle felt like a potential threat. The Architect had ears everywhere, and Dap knew he was walking into a hornets’ nest. The Syndicate wouldn’t just let him hand over the evidence to the press or the feds; they would try to bury him in the harbor alongside the secrets he carried.
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