The Black Circle, a bar wedged between a seafood restaurant and a barber shop on a street a few blocks from the Brooklyn Bridge in Lower Manhattan, was an unassuming building. A façade, more accurately. Not that there weren’t drinks, bartenders, frequent patrons, and all the regular trappings of a bar, but the real business of the establishment occurred beneath street level.

Its real business was known to very few outside its exclusive roster of special customers. One of those few was Benjamin Adelson.

As Benjamin approached the Black Circle, he noticed the building had received a facelift since the last time he’d visited. Two sets of curved bay windows flanked a pair of black doors. A dark blue flag with a black circle surrounded by a yellow glow hung above the doors. The building was made of brick, painted black.

The Black Circle, like many of the storefronts around it in the historic Seaport District, was housed in a waterfront building from the early nineteenth century, lending it a rustic atmosphere. The piers along the East River were visible from its cobblestone street.

Benjamin opened one of the doors and entered. The main floor was warmly lit by iron chandeliers of exposed bulbs, crowded with wood tables and chairs, with a bar on the left. It was sparsely occupied; a few people sat at the bar, no more than five at tables. The brick walls were decorated with mirrors and black-and-white paintings of seascapes.

Benjamin walked up to the bar and took a seat on a stool. The bartender, a twenty-something man with a black beard and a threadbare brown jacket, glanced up at Benjamin as he prepared a drink.

“I’ll have a mimosa,” Benjamin said. The bartender nodded, handing a nearby customer a glass.

Benjamin surveyed the bar. The occupants on the main floor were moderately dressed, most wearing casual clothes. They looked like they were all there just for the bar.

When the bartender placed Benjamin’s drink on the bar in front of him, Benjamin took out his wallet and paid in cash, adding a tip. Along with the bills, he drew a dark blue card from his wallet and placed it on the bar. The front bore a black circle glowing yellow, and the reverse bore a code of numbers and letters. The bartender took the card and scanned it out of sight, then handed it back to Benjamin.

Pocketing his wallet, Benjamin took a sip of the mimosa. He nodded. “Your orange juice has improved.”

He waited a few minutes and then got up, taking his drink with him. He walked to a black door at the back. The bartender typed a code into a keypad beneath the bar, and the door unlocked with a faint click. Benjamin opened the door, stepped through, and closed it behind him.

He walked down a narrow flight of creaky wooden stairs. At the bottom was a dark blue door with the Black Circle’s symbol painted on its surface. Benjamin opened it and stepped over the threshold.

He emerged into a large basement. The ceiling arched between thick brick columns, which created separators between smaller areas of the space. Glowing, orb-shaped light fixtures protruded from the brick walls, and candles on tables cast flickering shadows across the wood-paneled floor.

People of all kinds sat at the tables and stood in small groups, talking among each other, eating, and drinking. A large, black, circular table sat in the center, surrounded by high-backed dark blue chairs with gold accents. Three people sat at the table, though there were enough chairs for a dozen. Several maps and documents were scattered on the table.

Only a few people looked up at Benjamin as he entered. Most of those few were dressed in black, guns visible on their belts. Security.

The Black Circle was a meeting place for a variety of people and organizations from the underworld of New York City. All criminal to some extent, all looking to evade the eyes of the police. The bar’s underbelly was a safe haven for illegal deals and alliances, mostly between the criminal elite. Its existence was kept a secret from all but a few select groups and figures.

Benjamin Adelson was one of the very few outside its intended clientele who knew about it. It was kept off the books, despite knowledge of its existence within the Detective Bureau. The Black Circle was allowed to exist only because it served as a known window into criminal society for the department. If the Black Circle were wiped out by the cops, its patrons would simply relocate, and the department would be left in the dark. Its continued existence was a painful, dangerous necessity.

Benjamin took a sip of his drink as he looked around for a familiar face. When he found who he was looking for, he headed over to a table nestled between two brick columns. Five people sat at the table, one in a wheelchair, a few others standing around to listen to their conversation.

When the man in the wheelchair saw Benjamin, he gave a small smile and moved away from the table. Benjamin walked to meet him, and they both converged along the wall beneath a glowing yellow orb.

The man in the wheelchair, Michael Weston, was one of the Black Circle’s managers, and an informant for the NYPD. Not free of charge, nor wholly altruistic, but a trusted source of information on criminal activities.

“It’s good to see you, Benjamin,” Michael said. He was in his fifties, portly, with small glasses and a shock of white hair, dressed in a navy suit with gold buttons. “Drinking on the job? Or are you just here for the atmosphere?”

“No, I’m here on business. And we are at a bar.”

“Fair enough. What do you want?”

“Information on the East Hounds. Anything you got.”

Michael chuckled. “I was wondering when you’d ask. Took you long enough. Is this really the first time your department’s heard of them?”

“As far as I know.”

“That’s impressive. No wonder they’ve been able to get away with so much.” He pointed to an empty table. “Let’s sit.”

Benjamin followed Michael to the table and sat across from him.

A blond man in a leather jacket with a buzz cut and a beard stopped in front of the table. “One plate of oysters,” Michael told him. “Anything for you?”

Benjamin shook his head, and the bearded man walked off.

“Right. Let’s get down to business,” Michael said. “Is there anything in specific you want to know?”

“All I’ve got is their name and a vague idea of what they do.”

Michael exhaled. “Where to start… well, I think it’s worth noting that a few members of the group are with us in this very room.” He adjusted his glasses and looked around. “Why exactly are they suddenly on your radar?”

“The East Hounds are connected to a kidnapping. Two boys, Ezra and Noah Martin, were abducted last night. Do you know them?”

“No, haven’t heard of them.” He shook his head. “Kidnapping isn’t the Hounds’ style. Least, not that I know of.”

“They sell drugs and weapons?”

Michael nodded. “And they do some financial meddling, too. Never leave a trail. They use third parties, sometimes, to do trades. The East Hounds are one of the biggest organized crime groups on this side of the country.” He pointed to one of the people at the large table in the center of the basement. “See her? Akari Kojima. She’s one of their leaders. Part of the Gold Circle, too.”

“Gold Circle?”

“The twelve leaders of the Black Circle. Each represents some group, or is a power in and of themselves.”

“Are members of the East Hounds… well off?”

“Oh, I certainly think so. The group makes more money in a single day than we’ll make in a lifetime. I’ve heard even lower-ranking Hounds end up with enough to buy mansions and retire comfortably.”

The bearded man in the leather jacket returned with a gold plate of oysters, which he placed in front of Michael, who began to eat.

“You ever heard of Samuel Martin?” Benjamin asked.

Michael shook his head.

“Janet Coleman? Neil O’Connor?”

“I don’t know everything,” Michael said, exasperated.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about the East Hounds?”

“Don’t mess with them. Even if you think you’re safe, they’ve got people everywhere. I heard they plant bugs to listen in on anyone who could be a threat, even people who just know they exist. They will do anything to stay hidden.”

“Anything.”

“That’s right.”

“Including murder?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them. Why do you ask?”

“Just want to know what I’m dealing with here.”

Benjamin took a sip of his drink and looked over at the woman at the central table. “You think I could get a word with her?”

Michael raised his white eyebrows. “You can try.” He finished eating an oyster. “Tell her I sent you.”

Benjamin stood up from the table, leaving his drink. “Thanks for the info. I’ll make it up to you sometime.”

“I hope you will,” Michael said, smiling, and went back to eating.

Benjamin walked to the large table in the middle, trying to suppress the growing feeling of dread in his stomach. Akari Kojima, dressed in a black suit, was making notes on a document. The two others at the table were engrossed in their own conversation.

Benjamin stopped beside the table. “Excuse me.”

The woman finished writing something. She didn’t look up at Benjamin.

“I’m an acquaintance of Michael Weston. I was hoping I could speak with you.”

Akari stood up and looked Benjamin in the eye, an impassive expression on her face. She was Japanese, tall, with long, black hair. She watched Benjamin intently, silent.

“I’m interested in the disappearance of two boys. Ezra and Noah Martin.”

Akari raised her eyebrows slightly, perhaps in recognition. “And why are you interested in their disappearance?”

“I’m trying to find them.”

“Who are you?”

“A bounty hunter,” Benjamin replied. “My client wants those kids found. I think you might know a thing or two about them, maybe what happened to them last night.”

“Who is your client?”

“Confidential.”

“Then I can’t help you.” She started to sit back down.

“It’s Samuel Martin,” Benjamin said, and she stopped. “You know him?”

“I do.”

“What about Neil O’Connor, Janet Coleman, Daniel Smith?”

“Of course.”

“They’re all connected to this disappearance. It was a kidnapping.”

Akari’s expression darkened. “It’s been a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our children have been kidnapped before. The Red Brotherhood takes them. When we’re lucky, they ask for ransom.”

“And if they don’t…”

“We never see them again.”

They were both silent.

“They haven’t asked for a ransom, have they?” Akari asked.

Benjamin shook his head.

“Then those boys are as good as dead.”

“No. No, I’m going to find them.”

“Are you the only one trying to hunt them down?”

“Yes.”

“Then I rest my case.”

“You don’t understand, I can do this. I’m close.”

“I think you may already be too late,” Akari said.

She sat down at the table and resumed looking at the document.

Benjamin walked away. His worst fears were materializing from a fog of uncertainty. The boys’ deaths were no longer just a vague possibility.

Which meant his time to find them really was running out. For all he knew, maybe it already had.

He ran up the stairs, passed through the street level bar, and emerged onto the empty sidewalk. He needed to move, but didn’t know where to go, so he headed to the piers.

Five minutes later, Benjamin found himself sitting on a bench at the edge of the East River in front of a modern waterfront restaurant. He was alone on the pier, other than someone cleaning the tables of the restaurant’s outdoor seating.

He stared out at the river, the Brooklyn Bridge, and the city beyond. Gray clouds crept across the pale blue sky.

He didn’t have the map with Red Brotherhood locations. He could go back to the Cathedral of the Crucifix, but what would that do? He had no backup, no advantage, no plan to find the kids. There was no clue about where they were, no answer about how to get them back, no lead on who had kidnapped them from the safe house.

He’d been thinking for more than ten minutes when he got a text.

It was on Ezra’s phone. He almost forgot he’d been carrying it around.

The text was from an anonymous number. It was just an address.

Benjamin stood up. Going there could be walking into a trap alone, but he had no better options.

He headed back to the street and looked for a taxi.

Twenty minutes later, Benjamin arrived in front of a large warehouse on the other side of the East River. It was flanked by a dismal, empty parking lot on the right and a soccer field on the left. There was nothing at the intersection from the text, so Benjamin approached the warehouse. It was a gray, blocky, windowless structure with stripes of blue running along the walls, a mural of the East River painted on the front.

Benjamin walked down an alley between the soccer field and the warehouse. Kids played and shouted on the other side of a chain-link fence.

He stopped when he reached an open door in the side of the warehouse. A brick held it slightly ajar.

Benjamin opened the door and stepped through. The warehouse was dark, but he could make out row upon row of towering shelves stretching on in either direction.

There was a row of switches next to the door. Benjamin flipped them all.

Overhead fluorescent lights flickered on, their faint buzz filling the silence. The shelves, reaching up to the warehouse’s high ceiling, were filled with cardboard boxes. Several wooden pallets and stacks of crates were piled next to a small forklift on his left.

Benjamin walked deeper into the warehouse, his footsteps echoing on the slick concrete floor. He moved down an aisle, passing rows of shelves. He kept his eye out for any movement, listened close for any sound, but there was nothing.

When he passed in front of the last row of shelves, he saw something.

Someone lay on the floor at the back of the warehouse.

Benjamin turned down the aisle and ran. By the time he reached the body, he already knew who it was.

Noah Martin lay on his back, staring with blank eyes up at the cold glow of the warehouse lights. There was a bloody hole in his shirt.

Benjamin knelt beside the boy and reached a trembling hand out to touch his neck. No pulse.

Benjamin closed his eyes, fighting back tears. When he opened them, he looked quickly around the aisle, heart pounding. No one was there.

When he forced himself to look back at Noah, he saw a piece of paper sticking out of his open yellow jacket. He took the paper and unfolded it.

The note was written in plain, lower-case handwriting, intentionally devoid of any recognizable style. It consisted of a single sentence.

end your investigation and the other one lives

Benjamin crumpled the note in his hand.

He leaned against the metal shelving behind him and called 911 to anonymously report the body.

There was nothing more he could do. Noah had been shot in the chest. His investigation had led to more questions than answers, and the worst possible outcome was unfolding before his eyes.

Benjamin got to his feet and walked away, pocketing the note. He couldn’t help the police that would arrive shortly. But continuing his own investigation seemed like an impossible option now.

He staggered out of a side door and into daylight. The laughter and voices of children from the soccer field stabbed him like needles, growing more painful with every step he took away from the warehouse. Mocking him. Accusing him. He watched them through the chain-link fence.

As wailing sirens neared, Benjamin left the alleyway and headed for the nearest train station.