Slag Row
1290 Words
Evening, 5:30 p.m.
Julian, Sebastian Crowe, and the African-descended team member—everyone called him “Zabby”—had already eaten in the cafeteria when Caleb Frost finally returned with the rest of the team.
Julian looked up from his desk. “Out?”
Caleb gulped water noisily and answered casually. “Some punk messing with my family. Took the boys to sort it.”
Julian paused a few seconds, then nodded with a smile. “Alright. Let’s talk the case.”
“We pulling an all-nighter?” Caleb set down his cup and slouched beside Julian’s desk. “Got any more smokes?”
“Gone. That pack’s finished.”
“Damn, you burned through them fast.” Caleb pulled out his e-cig and took a drag. “We working late or what?”
“Yeah. Captain’s orders—move fast on this,” Julian said. “Tonight we work overtime. Scout, get a feel for the dealers’ patterns.”
No one spoke right away. Caleb hopped onto the edge of the desk. “No need to scout. Dealers all operate out of Slag Row. We go in, we grab whoever we want.”
Julian blinked. “Just like that?”
“Come on—if the brass hadn’t leaned on us, who’d care about these pushers?” Caleb counted on his fingers. “They sell openly on Slag Row. I’ve walked past dozens of times.”
“Captain said drug control’s tight in the district. They dare sell in the open?”
“The Sixth is different,” Sebastian explained quietly. “It was built last, only district with this mix of ethnic groups. Things are complicated. Last year’s capital election—Las Vegas and Salt Lake City nearly went to war. Messy.”
“Ah.” Julian nodded. “So a straight sweep on the street—feasible?”
Sebastian opened his mouth, but Caleb jumped in. “What’s stopping us? While the crackdown wind hasn’t leaked, grab a few leads. Case solves itself.”
Julian wasn’t sold—Caleb seemed reckless. He turned to Sebastian. “You think a direct sweep works?”
“I don’t know the area,” Sebastian admitted, scratching his head.
Caleb laughed. “Him?” He sneered. “Sebastian’s great at work—as long as it’s safe. Danger shows up, he vanishes. How’s he supposed to know Slag Row?”
The jab was harsh, but Sebastian just smiled and said nothing.
“Julian—you’re new. Trust me,” Caleb said, still acting like he ran the show. “We hit the street tonight. Grab leads. Easy.”
Julian watched him, then addressed the room. “Alright. We go check it out.”
Caleb hopped off the desk and clapped Julian’s arm again—hard. “Brother, you landed in the right squad. We’re not the clean-cut type. You keep it real, I’ll make sure the boys have your back.”
The slap landed on Julian’s graze. Pain flared.
Julian gritted his teeth, glanced at his arm.
“s**t—forgot, forgot,” Caleb said quickly. “You okay?”
Julian met his eyes. “Fine. Go sign out weapons.”
“On it.” Caleb headed out.
Julian watched his back, brow furrowed.
“Boss—Caleb’s not like Dominic,” Sebastian said quietly, stepping closer. “No malice. Just loud, loves joking, doesn’t think. Don’t take it personal.”
Julian knew the type: always “joking,” never considering feelings. Get mad—they laugh, call you thin-skinned, keep doing it.
In normal life, you’d avoid them. But here? Same team, same pot. Impossible to dodge.
Caleb issuing orders like he was still in charge—how was Julian supposed to lead?
And the worst part: Team Three was Caleb’s crew. Cross him early, and internal friction would kill the unit.
What to do?
Julian weighed it silently.
Sebastian watched from the side. Curious how the new guy would handle Caleb—and whether he could hold the squad leader spot after.
…
8:30 p.m.
Two unmarked patrol cars parked at the mouth of Slag Row.
Julian and the team—plain clothes—got out and strolled in casually.
Slag Row was the worst part of Ashmire District. Tens of thousands of residents with permits but no steady work crammed the streets. Pink-lit doorways lined both sides, each with seven or eight women waving, posing, calling out. Dark alleys hid strung-out addicts sniffling, eyes vacant, scanning for the next score. No fixed homes—steal today, rob tomorrow, chase the next high. A heavy snow could bury them in these frozen lanes forever.
Julian had seen it all in the wasteland. His expression stayed numb as he walked.
…
Nearly a kilometer in, they stopped outside an unmarked storefront.
Caleb scratched his nose. “This one deals.”
“Looks quiet,” Julian whispered, scanning. “I don’t know the area. Can we extract if we hit now?”
Sebastian thought. “Catch them dirty. Wait for a buyer.”
Julian frowned, uneasy. “They sell this openly—no precautions? I’m worried we spook them instead of bagging them.”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “I told you—nobody cared until now. Surprise is everything. Investigate quietly, word gets out, resistance skyrockets.”
Julian lacked local experience, wasn’t a seasoned detective. He turned to Zabby. “You think we can take them?”
“Never mattered before,” Zabby said honestly. “But long surveillance—leaks happen. Nothing stays secret here.”
Julian paused, then gave orders. “Patrol cars too obvious—can’t drive in. Zabby, Little Six—move them to the back street. We grab, we load, we roll.”
“Got it.”
“Everyone else—spread out. Check weapons, ammo, vests.” Julian continued. “Soon as someone enters the shop, we go.”
Caleb smirked. “You brought a vest? Scared much?” He scoffed. “These dealers are low-tier. Years ago on patrol, I roughed them up regular. They fold easy…”
Julian glanced at him but stayed cautious. “Move.”
…
Half an hour later.
Two young men and an old guy walked boldly into the shop.
Julian, hidden in an alley, spoke into the radio. “Glass view—buyers?”
Short wait. Sebastian: “Yeah.”
“Move,” Julian ordered. “In.”
Eight men rushed from three directions, yanked the plywood door, stormed inside.
Dark hall. The two young buyers and the old man at the counter, packing drugs. Behind the bar, a stocky guy with an e-cig stared, stunned.
Caleb stepped forward, gun in right, pointing with left. “Police! Hands up, against the wall!”
The stocky guy recovered, stumbled back—revealing a pistol at his waist—and didn’t raise hands.
In chaos like this, suspects did anything. Caleb saw the gun. No hesitation—left hand grabbed collar, right smashed the butt into the guy’s skull.
Thump-thump-thump.
Six, seven blows. The guy still struggled. Caleb yanked his hair, slammed his head into the counter edge.
Blood poured. Eyes rolled back. He collapsed.
Upstairs—frantic footsteps.
A bald man in a military coat rushed down, took in the scene, grabbed a radio. “f**k—Store Two’s hit! Everyone out!”
Brief silence.
Then thunderous footsteps outside. Dozens poured from flats and buildings on both sides—knives, pipes, chains, guns. They flooded the doorway like a tide.
Julian saw the mob through the window, scalp prickling—flashback to wasteland food riots. He flicked off his safety without thinking.
Caleb, sweat beading, swallowed. “When… did they get this big? …They’ve grown balls…”
- Writer
