Elias Cross
796 Words
Next morning.
Victor was yanked awake at six by a team call and rushed back to the department. Julian, pondering a cheap breakfast, was surprised when Evelyn Moore showed up with a bag of oatmeal packets and day-old bread.
“Just bought. Eat,” she called, hanging the bag on his door handle.
“Whoa—too kind,” Julian said, mid-brush.
“No big deal. Neighbors help each other,” she smiled—payback for the hot water last night. “Off to work.”
“This early?”
“Yeah—field assignment. Gear setup.” She waved brightly. “See you tonight.”
“Later.”
“Bye, buddy.” She slung her bag and left.
Julian stared. “Buddy? Where’d that come from… She think I’m gay or what?”
…
Five minutes later.
Evelyn met her coworker at the gate, gossiping as they walked. “So the hot guy in our compound—the one with the rugged vibe… pretty sure he’s gay.”
“No way?”
“Pretty much confirmed. Saw it myself.”
“Damn, what a waste.”
“…”
…
Julian finished Evelyn’s breakfast—oatmeal packets mixed with peanut butter on day-old bread—tidied up, headed to the department.
Resources scarce, Salt Lake City new—transport sucked. No subway, no buses, taxis rare. Most walked or rode personal electric scooters. Charging wasn’t cheap—only stable jobs afforded it.
Julian was tight with money, saving for bigger goals. No scooter. Off-duty, team vehicles cost personal fuel. He walked.
Five minutes out, eyeing a*****e for e-cigs, two burly men closed in—one left, one right.
Julian stepped back instinctively, right hand to waist—pretending for a gun he wasn’t carrying.
“No beef. Just talk,” the lead said low.
Julian silent a beat. “Who are you?”
“Don’t need my name.” The man lifted his coat—gun visible. “Know this?”
Julian’s face stone.
The man clicked the safety. “Talk?”
Julian thought—who he’d crossed since arriving. Dominic, sure—but not kill-level. This was case-related. Business or bailout. No need for immediate violence.
He nodded. “Lead the way.”
…
Minutes later, alley.
Four middle-aged men flanked Julian. Elias Cross sat in an electric off-road vehicle, didn’t get out.
Julian sized them: plain thick shearling coats, knit caps, faces greasy, dirty. Not flashy bosses—quiet, rough. The kind that worried him more. Reminded him of Matsushita—the wasteland killer he’d dropped days ago.
“Alexander and Stephen—you took them?” Elias asked from the vehicle, arms folded in his coat.
Julian had followed without fight—figured this was case fallout. Limited enemies. Dominic wasn’t this extreme. Case meant negotiation—money or muscle.
He nodded. “My arrest.”
“I’m Elias Cross—Alexander’s uncle, Stephen’s father.” Elias lit a real tobacco cigarette.
Julian’s expression turned obsequious. “Mr. Cross—pleasure.”
Elias exhaled, hoarse. “New in Salt Lake City?”
“Yeah. Bought the job.” Julian honest. “Anyone in the department outranks me.”
“Connections—group leader already?”
“No connections.” Julian bitter smile. “Lucky break. Stumbled on a case, solved it. Chief rewarded me.”
Elias smoked, silent long. “Kid—the case is yours. Do me a solid. Pull some strings, get my boys out.”
Julian fake timid laugh. “That’s… tough.”
“Not free.”
Elias signaled the man left of Julian. He pulled twenty thousand NeoDollars cash, offered it.
Julian smiled, pushed back. “Not right…”
“No cash—bullets,” the man said flat. “Which?”
Sweat beaded Julian’s forehead. Instinct: these men killed easy if displeased.
“Kid—you led the bust. Fudge evidence, my family walks.” Elias smiled. “These days people talk food, survival. Principles? Rare. Cop job’s temporary. Cash in hand—spend whenever.”
Julian fingered the stack, oily grin. “Mr. Cross—honest? I dream of this money. Twenty grand—I could buy sergeant, marry three wives. But… I’ve got problems.”
Elias silent.
“Brass promoted me, named me to break the drug ring.” Julian low. “If I’d grabbed them in the field—no report—twenty grand or zero, your name alone, I’d release. But they’re booked, chain complete. Sudden release—defying leadership, ratting to the department. Mr. Cross—I survived wasteland ghost-life years for steady meals. Can’t cross brass… Can’t help.”
“Motherfucker—playing hard?”
Right-side man drew a Nepalese kukri, swung full at Julian’s skull.
Wind whistled—fast.
- Writer
