The Siege on Slag Row
1299 Words
Inside the storefront on Slag Row.
Stephen Cross stood on the wooden stairs, military coat draped over his shoulders. He glanced coldly at the stocky dealer Caleb had beaten unconscious on the floor, voice low. “Whose stray dog came into my place looking for trouble?”
Julian felt sweat bead on his forehead. He looked toward the door—twenty-plus men already pouring in, blocking the exit completely.
“We’re Police Department,” Caleb said, recovering. He pulled his badge from his pocket with his left hand, clipping it to his chest. “Uninvolved parties—stay still. We’re investigating drug sales.”
“Heh.” Stephen gave a cold laugh. “Who’s selling fake meds here?”
Caleb gripped his gun, pointing at the counter. “We saw the deal with our own eyes when we arrived.”
“You saw it—so you’re the law?” Stephen didn’t move from the stairs. He raised a hand toward the doorway crowd. “Ask them—who saw anyone selling drugs in here?”
Silence from the twenty-plus at the door. They advanced, weapons in hand, encircling Team Three in the center of the room.
Caleb stood frozen, awkward, fear creeping in. None of the newcomers looked like pushovers.
Julian hesitated briefly, then stepped forward to speak.
“f**k!”
The stocky dealer suddenly sat up, clutching his bleeding head. “You motherfucker—daring to hit me here?”
“Don’t move,” one of the team warned.
“Don’t move? f**k you!” The dealer surged up, swung a wild fist—c***k—straight into Caleb’s head. “Waving a shitty gun—you scaring your dad?”
Caleb staggered back three or four steps.
“Hands off.”
“That’s assault on an officer.”
Team Three rallied—seeing Caleb hit, they closed around the dealer.
“I assaulted you—so what?” The dealer, nearly beaten to death earlier, raged. He grabbed a box-cutter knife from the counter, lunged roaring. “f**k your mother—not just you few bitches. Even if the chief sent five hundred, if I’m in a bad mood, you ain’t leaving.”
He stabbed toward the group.
Sebastian had been dodging, but the dealer in the middle aimed first his way. Caleb sidestepped fast.
“s**t!” Sebastian cursed, twisting to protect vitals.
Pfft.
Just as the blade neared, Julian shoved through the circle, bare hand clamping the knife edge.
Blood gushed instantly, streaming to the floor.
Sebastian stumbled back, staring at Julian in shock.
Brief silence.
The dealer glared. “Catch a blade bare-handed? You f*****g bulletproof?”
He yanked to stab again.
Julian’s left hand lightning-fast locked the wrist. He looked up at the stairs. “Brother—we didn’t come for trouble. Department got reports of fake meds here. Had to check. Came in, your guy went for a gun. My colleague had no choice—controlled the situation.”
Stephen Cross sat on the stair step, military coat draped, pulled out an e-cig. No response.
Julian kept the wrist locked, smiling. “I’m new to Salt Lake City. Didn’t know Slag Row’s depth. Misunderstanding—no sales here, we leave. Sound good?”
“You beat my man for no reason?” Stephen exhaled smoke, smiling faintly.
Julian paused. “Brother—because of you, we eat. We depend on each other. Life’s hard enough—no need to make it harder, right?”
“Make it hard—and what?” the dealer snarled.
Stephen spat yellow phlegm, silent.
Julian smiled on. “In Slag Row, maybe we can’t solve cases. But outside? You still do business, don’t you?”
Stephen paused mid-drag, then spoke. “Let them go.”
“Just go? After beating me?” the dealer protested darkly. “Want out? Strip shirts. Frog-hop out of Slag Row.”
“You’re pushing it!”
Daniel Brooks—usually quiet—gripped his gun and barked.
Slap.
Julian grabbed Daniel ’s arm, face hard. “Hop if we hop. No big deal.”
Daniel fumed. “We don’t leave—they think they won. f**k—numbers—”
“I said listen.” Julian glared.
Daniel bit down, silent.
“Shirts off. Frog-hop out,” Julian called to his team.
On the stairs, Stephen asked softly, “Plenty deal drugs—why target Slag Row?”
Julian blinked. “Reports came in. Brass sent us. I don’t know details.”
Stephen rose slowly, headed upstairs, back to Julian. “Slag Row’s messy. Eats newcomers. Stay out unless necessary. All those people outside—one stab each—who’d the department pin?”
He vanished upstairs.
…
Five minutes later.
Eight officers—including Julian—shirtless, squatting in a line, frog-hopping toward Slag Row’s edge.
Dozens of armed men lined the street, watching coldly, silent.
Windows open in buildings on both sides—people smoking, arms folded, indifferent to the hopping cops.
Silence stretched.
Then from a right-side building: “f**k your mothers—come back, we kill you.”
The shout echoed in the night.
Bottles, pill jars, trash rained down.
“Run!”
Julian bolted first. The team scattered, vanishing into darkness.
…
Second floor, storefront.
Stephen Cross sat on a creaky wooden chair, watching the stocky dealer wrap his head in gauze. “Brothers dispersed?”
“Yeah,” the dealer nodded.
“Call a few—move the stock.” Stephen said quietly. “Lay low few days. No sales.”
The dealer paused. “You scared, Uncle Stephen? They were clueless rookie cops. We need to hide? Prices outside are sky-high—thousands of sick poor count on us. One shout, this street floods with thousands backing us. Why bow?”
“Do what I say. No arguing.” Stephen held his arms, voice flat. “Call them.”
“I… fine.” Alexander Cross grumbled—“Getting softer”—but went to summon help.
…
Slag Row outskirts.
Julian dressed first, then pulled a med kit from the car, roughly bandaging his sliced palm.
Beside the vehicles, Daniel glared. “f**k. Enforcers lose to criminals—stripped, frog-hop out… Word gets back, we’re jokes.”
“Shouldn’t have backed down,” Caleb raged at Julian. “No shirts—they’d do what? You’re squad leader—stand firm…”
Julian bit the gauze tight, looked up. “Everyone—close in. Listen.”
“What?” Daniel asked.
“Close!” Julian barked.
They exchanged looks—low spirits, irritated—but gathered.
“Check ammo. No vest—from the car. Zabby, Little Six—vehicles ready…” Julian ordered flatly.
Blank faces.
…
Fifteen minutes later, storefront.
Alexander Cross directed three peers at the back door. “Truck’s late. Load this room, then check Store Three.”
“Where to?”
“Warehouse first.” Alexander complained. “Uncle Stephen’s too cautious. Waste of time. I say sell normal—”
Thud-thud.
Footsteps left of the back door.
Alexander turned, cigarette in mouth.
Julian—in pale-green ballistic vest, pump-action riot shotgun—burst in.
“f**k!”
Boom.
Julian’s boot slammed Alexander’s chest.
Whoosh.
Thud.
Alexander flew back, crashing three crates, dazed.
“Don’t move—or dead.” Daniel pressed a pistol to his head.
Crash.
Julian charged through the door, straight upstairs.
Second floor.
Radio crackled downstairs—a runner yelling, “Uncle Stephen—cops back!”
Stephen Cross paused, reached for his gun.
Crash.
Julian racked the shotgun, entering sideways. He looked at Stephen. “Slag Row’s layout too complicated. We hopped forever, never got out. Brother—come with us. Show the way.”
Stephen stared, stunned. “Counterattack, huh…!”
- Writer
