Forced to Act: Dominic Sterling
1112 Words
Julian hadn’t paid much attention to the four men and the girl at first. But once Victor pointed them out, he glanced sideways toward the window table.
All four men wore heavy shearling coats, work pants, and battered leather boots. Their exposed skin was reddened—wind-chapped, frostbitten. Their eyes were sharp, wary.
“Don’t look like locals,” Julian muttered.
“How can you tell?” Victor asked, curious.
“Dressed too warm. Frostbite marks,” Julian said simply. “Like wasteland runners.”
“Runners?”
“People who live by the blade.”
Victor swallowed. “Then we’re not exactly equipped for heroics, are we?”
“You carrying?” Julian asked.
“Come to eat—not to work,” Victor shook his head.
“Then we hold off,” Julian said, frowning. “Call the team.”
They spoke fast and low. Meanwhile, the four men stood, sandwiching the girl between them, heading to pay and leave.
“s**t, they’re going,” Victor said, hand trembling as he lifted his glass. Tension made his words tumble. “We tail them?”
“You got Road Runner legs or what?” Julian shot back dryly. “They’ve got wheels. You planning to chase on foot? Get real.”
“I forgot…”
Julian stole another glance. “If they’re real runners and up to something, they’re packing. We jump in empty-handed, we’re dead.”
Victor was nervous—he worked the streets, sure, but the real danger shifts never landed on him. His mouth usually did more work than his sidearm. Still, he leaned in. “If we were civilians, fine—walk away. But we’re wearing the badge. We see this, we can’t ignore it. Think of something…”
“No gun, outnumbered, can’t tail them, too late to call backup…” Julian broke into a sweat. “Unless a miracle walks in—”
The door swung open.
Six burly guys in pale green uniforms stepped inside, scanning the room. The leader—Dominic—spotted Julian and barked, “Julian!”
Julian and Victor whipped around, eyes wide. Almost in unison, they muttered, “Holy s**t. Miracle delivered.”
Dominic, e-cig dangling from his lips, strode over with his five crew members. He tilted his head at Julian. “Brand new and already dining out? Got deep pockets, huh? Come on—outside. You and me—”
“Dominic—you here on a case?” Victor cut in, stepping forward and grabbing his arm.
Dominic blinked. “Case? What case?”
“You weren’t tailing them?” Victor pressed.
“Yeah—I heard he was here.”
“Perfect. How many you got? Anyone else outside?”
Dominic looked lost. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You holding out on me?” Victor slapped his arm urgently. “We grabbing them here or outside?”
“We’re not on the same page,” Dominic said, pointing at Julian. “I came for him.”
Victor discreetly nodded toward the four men at the counter. “Not for them?”
“Them? What’d they do?”
“Too perfect,” Victor whispered, sweat beading. “Those four are holding a girl hostage. Julian and I just spotted it. We were figuring it out when you walked in… Enough talk—pin them here. We’ve got numbers.”
“???” Dominic stared blankly, then sputtered, “I… I came for Julian!”
“This ain’t your team’s jurisdiction—Second Sister’s place. Why bullshit about Julian now?” Victor hissed. “Call the play—how do we take them?”
“I don’t have a play!” Dominic groaned, glancing at the men. “I don’t even know what they did.”
The moment Dominic’s group entered in uniform and approached Julian and Victor, the four men noticed. Their eyes flicked nervously. They tightened around the girl and headed for the exit.
“Quit stalling—plan!” Victor urged, heart pounding.
“This is your mess,” Dominic hissed back, stepping aside. “I’ve got nothing.”
“You’re the muscle—we’re empty.”
“Muscle my ass!” Dominic sweated, then turned to his guys. “Can’t walk away from this… Old Cat’s a snitch. We bounce, he reports us.”
“What’s the move?”
“Jack—call the team. Everyone spread out.” Dominic muttered orders. “Jack—ID check. Ask for residency permits. No permit? Demand entry papers. They twitch—shoot.”
“Me?” Jack looked ready to cry. “Send Old Cat!”
“They’re not in uniform. You go.”
“…Fuck. This sucks.” Jack cursed, steeled himself, and stepped sideways, blocking the four men’s path. “Ashmire District Police. Residency permits.”
The four stopped. Expressionless, they stared.
The girl, trapped in the middle, sweated profusely, fists clenched.
“Permits,” Jack repeated, hand out.
“We’re from the Unplanned Zone—here to pick up goods,” the short middle-aged man said quietly. “No long-term residency.”
“Entry papers, then.”
“Fine.” The man reached slowly into his pocket.
Dominic—seasoned and paranoid—shifted back a step, right hand pretending to go behind his back, actually going for his holster.
As the man’s hand dipped in, the girl screamed: “Help—they kidn*pped me!”
“Don’t move!”
The man beside the leader flicked his sleeve. A T-34 military grenade appeared in his grip. “Pin’s pulled. Anyone moves, we all die.”
Screams erupted.
Diners ducked, scrambling away.
The short man yanked the girl back. Calmly: “Cover me. Rear exit.”
Dominic, sweat pouring, hand on his holster, shouted at the grenade holder: “Easy, brother. That thing not going off is one thing—going off is another.”
Thwack!
Victor suddenly lunged, grabbing a liquor bottle off the table and smashing it against the man’s wrist.
Whoosh.
The grenade flew.
Julian exploded into action, grabbing Victor’s collar and yanking him back hard.
Boom!
The blast ripped through the room. A crater bloomed in the floor. Shrapnel and debris flew. Tables shattered. Three officers went down, hit by fragments.
Dominic hit the deck, roaring: “Take cover! Shoot the guy with the grenade!”
Bang-bang!
Two shots rang out.
Dominic started to rise—then a bloom of red exploded on his ass. He crashed back down.
“f**k! f**k!” Dominic clawed at his butt, blood pouring, eyes bulging. “You son of a b***h, Old Cat… you bastard dog…”
- Writer
