Fallout
823 Words
Two hours later, Chief’s office.
Elliot Vaughn slammed the desk, face twisted in rage. “Marcus—what the hell do you call this? Organized raid—and this result? Look at the report! How many suspects total? Your men made of paper? Full gear assault—four dead? How do I explain this to headquarters?”
Marcus kept his head low. “Chief—I was on another case. No excuses. The failure’s mine. I’ll take responsibility.”
“Responsibility?” Elliot snarled. “Hand over the captain’s badge. Let someone competent step up.”
Marcus snapped his head up, eyes locked on Elliot—silent.
Elliot paced, fuming. “Report says Sebastian Crowe’s not just useless—he’s suspect. Confine him immediately. Possible dealings with the suspects—why else no shots fired? Investigate hard.”
“Already confined,” Marcus said without hesitation. “Julian and Victor handling the captured for statements.”
Elliot’s face darkened. He paced again, then spun. “Plain talk, Marcus. In this environment, everyone’s got angles. Money, promotion, alliances—department’s full of it. Me included. But those angles can’t touch others’ interests or use the department as a weapon. Blow up big—no one’s face looks good.”
Marcus straightened. “Chief—rumors outside may not tie to me. I think you’ve misunderstood.”
“Misunderstanding or not—you can’t hide it, and I’m not blind. We’ll see.” Elliot turned to the window, irritated. “You draft the report to headquarters—detailed. Handle aftermath personally. Submit costs—I’ll review and sign.”
“Yes, sir.” Marcus saluted.
…
Early morning, past midnight.
Marcus hosted at Second Sister’s Tavern. Two or three dozen known Ashmire and cross-district bosses filled the room.
Upstairs hall, Marcus toasted three rounds, then spoke. “Tonight’s raid on Third Ring—you’ve all heard. Suspects killed four of my men. Brass furious—almost stripped me. No outsiders here, so straight talk. Those dealers—I’m taking them down. Everyone give me room. I’ll owe favors. But anyone shielding them, hiding them—that’s crossing me and the department. Next year, I do nothing else but hit that person.”
“Captain—what are you saying? You speak, who wouldn’t give face?”
“Come on—just some pushers. We’ll ask around—find them quick.”
“…”
No anger—just agreement.
Marcus bowed, poured. “Thanks for the respect.”
Later, dinner broke. One heavy left, got in his car, made a call.
“Yeah, Elias?”
“Need a favor—get a few people out of the district.”
The man smiled. “Who—I won’t ask. But can’t help.”
“Short cash?”
“Marcus Vale’s out for blood—machine gun dinner invite. Scary?” The man low. “Elias—I’m not afraid, but no reason to cross official muscle. You get it?”
“Pretend I didn’t call.”
“Done.”
Call ended.
…
Morning, 8:30 a.m.
Silas Hart’s top-priority warrant dropped from headquarters to all six Salt Lake sub-districts. Stations deployed co-investigation to street units.
Overnight, the once-unknown Silas Hart became infamous across Salt Lake—and the underworld. Everyone knew: headquarters wanted this man personally.
When Julian first took the case from Marcus, he thought it small. Now—out of control, spiraling. He felt pushed by unseen hands.
Captain’s office.
Julian frowned at Marcus. “I underestimated the raid.”
“I know the issues,” Marcus waved. “You bear some blame, but conditions limit us. Lead dealer—caught means death. He fights for life. Some officers think—no arrest, paycheck same. Different mindsets. Objective reality—I get it.”
Julian silent.
“Punishment depends on case outcome—how far we break it, how brass feels,” Marcus said bluntly. “Not over. Focus. I’m betting on you, Julian.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Julian had dreaded return—failure meant skin stripped. But Marcus shielded Team Three and Victor’s side, kept Julian on the case.
Knock-knock.
“Come!”
Young officer in plain uniform saluted. “Statements in. Captured low-levels say—no inside help, no tip-offs.”
Marcus frowned. “Sure?”
“Both consistent—no lies.”
“Lift Sebastian’s confinement,” Marcus decided.
Officer hesitated. “Punishment?”
Marcus instant. “Facts prove he’s unfit for frontline. Transfer logistics. Notify when decision final.”
“Yes, sir.” Officer left.
Julian sighed inwardly—no plea for Sebastian. Frontline survival—no one could help.
…
Minutes later.
Julian left office, heading for breakfast before handling Zabby’s aftermath, when he heard Victor and Sebastian arguing fiercely at the stairwell.
Meanwhile, downstairs.
Evelyn Moore—wool coat, cute pink scarf, hair windswept—called to the duty officer. “I need to report a crime.”
- Writer
