Predator

Lily Rizk

Predator

PART I

Chapter 1

Some historical film was playing on the television. A half-empty bottle of Coke sat gathering dust on the edge of the table.

Why the hell had he listened to Lance and come all the way out to this godforsaken place? Cross wondered idly. That prick was always getting himself into trouble. And here was the result: Cross was stuck in his room while his friend was off somewhere going wild. He lifted his head from the pillow and glanced at the window. Rain pattered against the glass, threatening to turn into a proper downpour.

“Then again, maybe it’s for the best…” he muttered, barely loud enough to hear himself.

He was reclining on a wide bed in a bathrobe. The small hotel was tucked away somewhere in the mountains, far from the bustle of the city and the endless deals. For a moment, he rather liked the thought of buying a little house here one day, keeping a few animals, and spending his old age in peace.

Then he snorted. What was he thinking? At thirty… six?

Turning the long remote over in his fingers, Cross began switching channels. There was nothing to watch. Nothing to do, either, but he had promised himself: no business over the weekend. He needed to switch off completely.

He kept glancing at his phone. No. He couldn’t turn it on. To hell with everything.

Yet five minutes later, his finger pressed the power button of its own accord. And, as always, it started.

Dozens of notifications. The office. Right, now John. Something about the competition: “urgent,” “immediately,” “important.”

It could wait until Monday. He didn’t care.

Then Lance got through. First a batch of messages, followed by a call.

Cross cursed foully, answered, and put him on speaker.

“Buddy…” he began. “I haven’t read your…”

But Lance wasn’t listening. His voice shook and faltered with genuine, animal fear.

“I don’t know if she’s breathing… Cross… bro… I’m scared to touch her…”

“Who? What did you do, Lance?” Cross’s voice hardened at once, cold as steel.

“A girl… She came and sat with me… I was fucking wasted… Shit, I don’t know!”

“Where are you?”

“I’m… here…”

“Where the fuck is ‘here’?!” Cross barked. “Send me your location. Now.”

“Okay… Man, I… I don’t know what to do…”

“Send me your location. I’m on my way.”

He drove fast, his mind fixed on the road. By then, the rain had become a solid wall. The country road wound through the trees in treacherous bends, and the wet asphalt reflected his headlights like a mirror. Ahead, behind the torrents of water, the forest stretched like a solid wall.

Afraid he wouldn’t get there in time, Cross pressed the accelerator to the floor. Suddenly, just beyond a bend, the shape of a truck appeared at the edge of the road. Too close. Cross slammed on the brakes. The car skidded. At that very moment, a man stepped out from behind the hood, straight into its path.

Cross jerked the wheel, reacting instantly, but it was too late. There was a dull, heavy thud.

The car lurched sharply and came to an abrupt stop. Cross jumped out. An elderly man lay on the wet asphalt, glistening with rain. His face was deathly pale, his eyes wide open but staring into nothing. He was barely breathing, his fingers clutching desperately at his chest.

“Hey… sir… are you all right? Can you hear me?!” Cross crouched beside him. His whole body was pounding with adrenaline. God, please let him be alive!

With an effort, the old man let out one last, deep breath… and went still.

Cross pressed his fingers to the man’s neck, searching for a pulse. Nothing. He lowered his hands and closed his eyes.

His phone rang in his pocket. Lance again.

Cross answered, but before he could say anything, Lance blurted out with a laugh.

“Cross, forget it! She came round. That… fucking bitch just passed out. From the sex, can you believe it?! And I thought she was dead!”

Cross hung up without a word. Then he dialed 911.

“Car accident. One person injured.” After a strained pause, he added hoarsely, “He’s… not breathing.”

The elderly man had suffered a heart attack, and the impact had been the final push, but not the cause of death. The attack had begun before the collision, and even if Cross hadn’t been driving along that road, the old man would have collapsed anyway.

Begovich’s lawyers handled all the formalities. They went about their work with a cold ruthlessness and no trace of emotion. He paid for everything: medical expenses, the funeral, compensation for the family. But he never appeared in person. He sent no flowers and made no calls.

He simply disappeared from the story. Put it out of his mind, and that was that.

His life was busy enough as it was. He had done everything he could. The relatives ought to be thanking him. After all, if he hadn’t been there in the last minutes of the old man’s life and played a part, however terrible, in his death, they would have had to fork out money, suffer losses, and deal with all the rest… Instead, he had taken care of everything.

Let’s be honest! He wasn’t the one who should be apologizing. They should be apologizing to him.

Adjusting his tie and pressing his lips together, Cross Begovich closed the folder containing the case documents… What was that poor fellow’s name? Oh, never mind…

Faced with a powerful law firm, the investigators wasted no time. They never even opened a case. It disappeared before it had a chance to exist. And life went on as usual. Business, struggles, victories, celebrations…

Six months passed.

Chapter 2

“Congratulations. Great place!” one of his friends said, looking around the spacious office on Park Avenue.

“Thanks.” Cross nodded, shaking hands with his guests as they came in.

“Toby, how’s your little girl?”

“Great, thanks. Growing fast. She’ll be two months old soon! Your turn, brother!” Toby laughed, then pointed around the room. “And yours. Yours too!”

Everyone laughed.

“Oh, come on,” Lance said with a dismissive wave. “Getting married is like turning yourself in to the cops with two kilos of drugs in your pocket. No thanks. Count me out!”

“I’m thinking about it, actually,” Elliot said evenly, hiding a smile.

“Really? Who is she?” Cross clapped him on the shoulder.

Just then, his secretary appeared in the doorway. Cross glanced at her.

“Coffee for everyone, Kristin. Thank you.”

Then he turned straight back to the conversation.

“Come on, Ell. Spill.”

“There’s someone… Nothing serious yet.”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me it’s that girl from the birthday party… What was her name… Danny, help me out?”

“Katie,” Danny supplied.

“That’s it, Katie. Quite a piece of work,” Lance drawled, shaking his head.

Cross laughed, waved a hand, and went over to his chair. The others followed, settling onto the leather sofa and into the armchairs.

Later, over coffee, as they discussed a party to celebrate the move, Cross finally gave in.

“All right… Fine. We’ll have a party.”

“I can help organize it!” Lance winked, as much the life of the party as ever.

“I was just about to ask you,” Cross replied with a grin.

“He’ll bankrupt you,” Danny said, shaking his head.

“Stop it,” Lance protested. “I’m not like that!”

Laughter filled the office again, washing away the last traces of silence.

Before long, the guests left. Someone let the door slam; others lingered by the elevator, discussing what they would bring to the party.

The office felt spacious again. Too spacious.

Cross stood by the window. Rain was falling outside. The same fine, unpleasant rain as that day. It scratched softly at the glass, as though deliberately, persistently knocking at his memory. Lost in thought, Cross stared at nothing. At the moving lights below, at the blurred ribbons of headlights flowing through the evening city like blood through capillaries.

New York went about its life, unaware that for someone on the thirty-sixth floor, everything had stopped.

He remembered the silence after the impact, when all sound had dissolved. That rain and the hollow emptiness. He remembered touching the man’s neck and finding nothing. Then saying into the phone, “He’s… not breathing.”

Now he had a new office, new deals, new goals. And the same old, tormenting truth.

He took a sip of cold coffee. There was only bitterness, no sugar, no meaning. He set the cup on the windowsill.

No, he felt no remorse. He had nothing to feel remorse for. But… he remembered.

Cross Begovich was Bosnian, born in Visoko, a town where every other house bore the scars of war and every house held a memory. He had grown up in an educated but traditional family. His father was a lawyer, a man of firm principles and heavy silences, and his mother taught French. Their household rested on books, old rules, and a clear division of responsibilities. His father always had the final say; compassion belonged to his mother.

From the time they were children, their father took Cross and his older brother, Kenan, into the woods and taught them to shoot. It wasn’t about hunting. He wanted the boys to learn discipline and how to achieve a result. There were old plywood targets in their grandfather’s shed. They started with air guns and later moved on to a carbine. Their father’s brother, Uncle Ibrahim, was the one who dragged them along to boxing. He was a strong man with a temper like gunpowder, but brave and deeply responsible. He used to say a man had to know how to take a blow in any situation. Then Ibrahim was killed in the second year of the war. Ever since, Cross had seen fighting as more than a sport. It was his own way of honoring his uncle’s memory.

As a boy, he had wanted to be like his uncle, and when he grew older, people really did begin to see Ibrahim in him.

There were only two sons in the family. Kenan followed in his father’s footsteps and graduated from law school, but never practiced. Instead of offices and courtrooms, he chose what had always been closer to his heart: farming and the land. Their grandfather, Hasan Begovich, the father of Ismail and Ibrahim, had instilled that love in him years before. Kenan restored his grandfather’s winery, brought the old vineyards back into shape, and put even more land into production. Livestock, harvests, deliveries. Against all predictions, the business flourished. He never argued with his father, but he didn’t obey him either. He did things his own way, quietly, persistently, and successfully.

And Cross… In the years after the war, when the country was only beginning to recover, his father insisted that his younger son needed a serious profession too. Cross did as he was told. He entered university, where he initially studied law, just as Kenan had. But he soon realized it wasn’t his path. Formulas took the place of texts, calculations the place of interpretations. He switched to economics and immersed himself in the world of strategy. Financial analysis, banking systems, and the mechanics of risk absorbed him completely. He felt far more sure of himself there than among the abstractions of law. And people noticed him. First as a systems analyst at a bank involved in the reconstruction effort, then as someone who could spot a failure before it happened.

Cross moved to the United States at twenty-six. Late by the standards of ambitious young people, but not for him. He knew exactly where he was going and why. He enrolled in a master’s program at a university in New York and continued building his knowledge. He studied during the day and worked part-time at a bank in the evenings, first helping out in the back office, then moving into analysis. There, too, people soon valued his analytical mind, his coolness under pressure, and his unconventional approach to numbers. Where others saw static reports, he saw movement, logic, and weaknesses.

The master’s program lasted two years, and by the time he finished, around 2005, Cross was already developing a strategy of his own. In those days, volatile markets were a gold mine: options, hedging, short-term trades. Trading was undergoing a transformation, and Cross threw himself into it. Everyone fought, but only a few won. His first trades were painful, and the losses were brutal. But he didn’t back down. Gradually, he began turning a profit. Trade by trade, figure by figure, through calculation alone. He started bringing together a team of men as obsessed as he was, sharp and unlikely to panic. Even then, while still working under someone else’s name, he began building his own system. Without pomp, banners, or slogans. What worked was cold efficiency and a clear plan. And he made it work.

Chapter 3

The night over Malibu was warm, still, and thick with darkness. Beyond the window, the sea spread like shattered black glass all the way to the horizon. Only a few yachts glimmered in the dark, as though someone had scattered the lights of lovestruck lanterns across the water.

The two-story villa, with its open terraces, white railings, dancing palm shadows, and faint scent of salt in the air, welcomed guests like a hostess sure of herself.

Inside, the music played low, with a rich bassline and a sweet aftertaste of the eighties that made you want to move even while standing still. On the first floor, a long glass table was covered with drinks: whiskey in squat bottles, clear vodka with droplets on the necks, champagne in ice buckets, tequila with lemon wedges. A thin trail of hookah smoke wound lazily from the edge of the bar toward the ceiling, like a snake slowly waking from sleep. Farther along stood two more tables laden with all kinds of appetizers and dishes.

Along the wall stood a pool table, green as a dollar bill, its balls neatly arranged, waiting for someone swaying slightly on their feet to strike them too hard or, perhaps, with excessive grace.

When their hands could no longer hold their glasses, the guests began to play. Everything had already been said, everything drunk, and the room had long since begun to swim. The girls looked as though they had stepped out of a music video: silk dresses, bare backs, moist lips, and looks that needed no words. One had a gleaming belly ring, another had champagne poured into her shoe, another was laughing herself to tears, because the alcohol had long since fermented inside them, and now they laughed more from the exhaustion of being beautiful than from any real amusement.

The men stood with expensive watches on their wrists, two days’ stubble, and a faint boredom on their faces that faded only when a woman who had yet to say yes walked past.

Upstairs, a DJ was at work. Well practiced and very good at what he did, he stirred their blood slowly, deeply, almost secretly, or with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

And Cross… He neither took center stage nor hid in a corner. He was simply there, yet everyone felt his presence. He sat back on the sofa with a glass in his hand, listening as the evening scattered around him like sugar over warm glass. He barely drank, taking only small sips of whiskey, watching and remembering.

Now and then, someone came over, clapped him on the shoulder, shook his hand, and told him who had made how much, who had sold what, who had taken whom to bed, and how many minutes had passed before she lit a cigarette. Cross nodded and smiled, but none of it touched him inside. Yes, he liked the lights, the women, the smoke, and the whiskey, but they were not what gave him pleasure. The pleasure came from knowing he could afford all of it. Like a man who needed no introduction.

A hand settled on his shoulder from behind. Cross turned. A man he knew leaned toward him with a polite smile.

“Congratulations, Cross. Excellent results. Park Avenue already! And I hear you’re doing business on quite a scale.”

Cross smiled politely and nodded.

“Thank you. We’re expanding.”

The man gave his shoulder a friendly pat and moved on. Cross took a slow sip of whiskey and nodded to someone at the other end of the room.

Just then, a young woman sat down beside him on the sofa. A bare back, a confident gaze. She moved closer, almost touching him, and leaned right up to his ear. Cross went still, listening. The dark amber whiskey barely stirred in his motionless hand, and a heavy ice cube gently split in two.

She whispered something, then drew back, bit her lip, and looked him straight in the eye. The pause lingered. Cross gave the faintest smile, took another slow sip, set his glass on the table, and rose without hurry, heading toward the glass doors to the terrace. The girl remained seated, watching him go.

Later, when it was completely dark and the sky had finally become an inky bowl flecked with golden drops, someone switched on the outdoor lamps. Candles were lit around the edges, and the entire villa, from the terrace to the pool, began to look like an advertisement for the life dreamers bought. Only it wasn’t an advertisement. It was real.

Cross stepped onto the terrace and stopped at the railing. Below, the pool glowed with soft light around its edges. His face remained calm, his gaze assured. At that moment, no one could have told whether he was thinking about the morning that would come again tomorrow, bringing more numbers, faces, challenges, and the business that was always with him.

And the night… The night was merely a setting in which, for an hour, you could feel immortal.

“By the way, Cross, when are you going to Bosnia?” Danny asked as he aimed at the eight ball, leaning slightly over the pool table.

His tone was casual, almost offhand, but there was warmth and understanding in his voice, a gentle reminder that each of them still had roots somewhere.

Cross slowly looked up from his glass, leaned against the table, tapped his fingers against the side of his cue, and narrowed his eyes a little.

“Maybe closer to Christmas… I can’t yet. I’ve got deals pending. I need to see everything through. Then I’ll take a break. A couple of weeks, at least.”

He set his glass aside and struck the ball. The white projectile shot forward, rolled swiftly across the table, and collided hard with another ball, which gave an obedient shudder and nudged a third. The last ball glided over the green felt and disappeared into a pocket with a dull click. In an instant, the sound of the shot filled the silence with a note of victory.

A minute later, Lance cut in.

“We’ve been to your place, remember?” he said with a smirk. “What was it… seven years ago? When you dragged us out to your parents’ house in the middle of nowhere.”

“Visoko. Not the middle of nowhere,” Cross corrected him with a grin. He straightened and picked up his glass. “And the air is like champagne.”

“And a boxing ring in the basement!” Toby thumped his chest. “We came home covered in bruises. Remember sparring with Lance? We thought you were going to knock him the hell out.”

“I went easy on him,” Cross said lazily, laughing under his breath. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made the flight home.”

“Don’t be modest,” Lance said with a wave. “You’ve still got that certificate hanging there. What was it… a boxing rank?”

“In Bosnia, yes.” Cross nodded. “From when I was young. Before the war, everything was… different.”

He fell silent for a second. As though electricity had struck his nerves, memory traveled along invisible wires inside him, lighting up distant recollections.

At that very moment, one of the girls came up behind him and draped herself over his shoulder. Tall, wearing a revealing dress with a plunging neckline and a spark in her eyes, she was clearly looking for an excuse to touch him.

“So you’re a boxer too?” she asked flirtatiously, leaning toward his ear. “That’s… well, that’s fucking sexy.”

Cross turned his head a little, his eyes gleaming, and replied without changing his expression.

“I’m a good shot too. Want some practice?”

Laughter erupted around the table. Someone missed a shot, someone spilled a little gin, and someone said, “Now it’s a proper party.”

Cross took another sip and smiled, and something inside him came alive.

“Yeah, sure,” Lance said with a smirk, dropping a ball into a pocket. “Easy for you to say, when Daddy’s money could set you up in a couple of years. Try doing it my way, without any starting capital, connections, or titles.”

He shot Cross a glance. The room grew a little quieter.

“I’m no pretty boy. I don’t have any sporting ranks, and I’m not a good shot, but everything I’ve achieved, I’ve achieved myself. Through my own hard work. Not my family name.”

“Come on, Lance,” Toby interrupted. “Have you forgotten how Cross’s family were almost burned alive in their own house during the war? They had almost everything taken from them.”

Cross sipped his whiskey without taking his eyes off his friend, then calmly set the glass on the edge of the pool table.

“How much have you made on your own?” he asked quietly. “How much is in your account right now?”

Lance shrugged with a crooked smile.

“Enough for me. And a little extra.”

The men laughed, but quietly and without much enthusiasm.

Cross smirked.

“I’ve got enough to buy you and your ‘little extra.’ And as for ‘Daddy’s money,’ it went straight toward debts, lawyers, and staying alive. So, brother, don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

Lance flushed.

“I remember everything, Cross. Don’t make yourself out to be a martyr. We certainly made use of that money. Parties, cars. Your dad had money stashed away. You don’t need to tell me.”

Tension hung in the room. The laughter faded. Everyone else went quiet.

Cross exhaled and spoke without raising his voice.

“I’m not getting into a contest with you. And I’m not going to prove anything. I know who I am. And I know what I’m capable of. I have no reason to justify myself to you.”

Lance narrowed his eyes and slapped him sharply on the shoulder.

“Then prove it. Don’t just know it. Do it.”

“Lance, stop,” Toby cut in. “Where are you going with this?”

“What?” Lance snapped. “Are you afraid your perfect Cross will fail? That I’ll turn out to be right?”

Cross scratched his chin idly, thinking. For a moment, he seemed to shut everyone out. Then he looked at Lance.

“All right. After Christmas, I’ll go somewhere in the middle of nowhere. No money, no connections, no name. And in a year, I’ll come back with a million.”

“Oh, come on,” Danny muttered. “Why are you letting him get to you?”

Cross lifted his head.

“I’m serious. I accept the challenge. Lance, if I come back with a million, you give me yours. The last million you’ve still got sitting in your account.”

Everyone turned to Lance. He raised an eyebrow.

“And if you don’t?”

Cross shrugged.

“Then you’ll have two million.”

Chapter 4

He arrived in Bosnia early in the morning. Stepping off the plane, he immediately breathed in the air, the scents of home, of winter, stacked firewood, and dusty roads.

Cross rented a car from a place he already knew and headed for his childhood home without switching on the navigation. He drove in silence, with no music, the window open and one hand held outside.

A gray, gloomy sky hung over the hills, stretched unevenly above the old world. Here, childhood returned through touch: the coolness of stone, the warm boards of the porch, his father’s familiar hands. The narrow road ran alongside vineyards where a few leaves still clung on, reluctant to let the season go. The drive from the airport passed in what felt like an instant, gradually dissolving the bustle of the city into the quiet of the countryside.

He pulled up outside his parents’ house. He had come without warning. Before him stood the old two-story house with carved shutters and a wrought-iron balcony. It was just as it had always been. Time seemed to have stood still. Cross switched off the engine and sat in the car for a few seconds before stepping out and taking a deep breath of the crisp country air, free of the polish and dust of big cities.

Once he crossed the threshold, the house greeted him with warmth, the smell of homemade pie, and the freshness of mint. One of the maids hurried down the hallway without noticing him. He walked farther inside, unhurried, returning to a younger self he had long ago locked away like an attic full of precious memories. His mother, Mrs. Emira, stood at the stove in the kitchen. Her hair was neatly pinned up, and her eyes were stern but warm. She was whisking something in a bowl.