Predator

“Your grandfather would have been proud of you,” his father added quietly. “And of Kenan. He’s done well too. Keeps everything together. The family and the business.”

“I couldn’t do my work without him,” Cross agreed. “He carries it all himself, without a single word of reproach…”

His father looked at him again and gave the faintest smile. Cross knew how proud he was of his sons. Knowing that was worth every award in the world.

They took a short break. Looking into the distance, Cross spoke almost in a whisper.

“Money will be coming into your accounts in the next few days, Dad. Use it to sort out whatever’s still unresolved. I’m not telling Kenan because he’d never admit things were difficult.” He turned his eyes to his father.

“Son! We’re doing fine.”

Cross shook his head.

“I’m sure if I started looking into things, I’d find plenty that still needed work. But I don’t have time for that.” He looked back at the vineyard. “Though I can see things even from here… And I noticed quite a few things on the farm too, but said nothing.”

His father took a deep breath and shook his head.

“You need money for your business. Don’t, Cross.”

“Dad. I’m not taking money set aside for the business.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

Ismail raised his eyebrows.

“What? That’s half a million! Don’t.”

Cross let out a breath, adjusted his gloves, and walked away toward the workers.

The days passed, and one morning he woke later than usual. Emira had protested loudly, with a mother’s authority, refusing to hear any objections.

“Leave my boy alone! He’s leaving in two days!”

Neither Ismail nor his son dared defy her. The order came from above their rank. No one disturbed Cross again, and he stayed in bed until lunchtime.

The house was almost empty when he woke. His mother and sister-in-law had gone into town to shop, his father was at a meeting with local winemakers, Kenan was busy somewhere on the farm as usual, and the children were apparently at the neighbors’.

Silence greeted him. Silence could echo, as it did in a hotel, or feel uneasy, as it did in rooms where business was conducted. But here, at home, it felt old and familiar, known since childhood, healing, soothing… Cross walked barefoot across the wooden floor and draped an old, warm cardigan over his shoulders. It had been hanging in the hall on the same hook where his school jacket had once hung. He took a cup of strong tea and went out onto the veranda. The air smelled of wet earth, smoke drifting from chimneys, and, he thought, apples, perhaps left forgotten on a windowsill. The yard stretched before him. The light covering of snow was melting, leaving thin rivulets running over the paving. A sparrow sat on the railing, still and calm, watching him as though they knew each other, as though it remembered Cross too.

He sat down on the steps, slowly and carefully so as not to frighten it away. He felt so good. How good it felt to be home… Here, there was nothing to prove. He didn’t have to come first. He didn’t have to make decisions, fight, or compete. He could simply breathe deeply and feel protected even by the walls.

Cross closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He remembered hiding in the vineyard with a book as a child, running to the river with his brother, helping his father repair the old shed. Playing ball with Uncle Ibrahim, just as he now did with his brother’s children. Images rose like frames from an old film, slightly faded but alive. Not one of them belonged to his adult life in New York.

He looked out in front of him, picked up his cup, and took a sip of tea, thick steam rising from it. Then he pulled his phone from his pocket to see what had accumulated over the past few days. A few notifications, missed calls, offers of deals, an email from his personal assistant. All business. All familiar. But he simply switched it off, without any strain or regret.

He had no fear that anything would fall apart in his absence. Everything had been built properly.

Cross Begovich was the founder of an investment group and the owner of a large company with an office in New York. His portfolio included exchange-traded instruments, digital assets, venture investments, and commercial real estate. He had started on his own, trading, spending days and nights at his monitors, catching market volatility and turning a profit. But once the business grew to a substantial size, he built a system.

More than five years earlier, he had made a strategic move: he poached one of the leading analysts from Valen & Co. Capital, a private investment firm where employees clung to their jobs with both hands. That was how John Lawrence became his assistant, a solid, reserved, somewhat cold man with a sharp mind and mathematical precision. Then came another trader, Dan Martin.

Cross handed them day-to-day management, entrusting them with everything except the most important decisions. John knew every figure, oversaw the team of risk managers, and monitored the flow of funds: what came in, what was allocated, what was frozen. He stayed out of the public eye but kept his hand on the company’s financial pulse. Dan had full responsibility for running and supervising the trading floor.

Cross had accounted for everything: corporate bylaws, notarized restrictions, legal traps. Without his consent, no one could sell an asset, withdraw funds, or change the structure. Yet the business could keep moving in his absence. He had thought through every detail. That was his personal guarantee: even if he disappeared, everything would remain in place and keep working. And really, true freedom was having a system that could function without you. Just as well as it did with you.

Later, he went down to the basement, a vast space divided into sections. It was old and cold, smelling of wine and oak. Bottles bearing the family label stood on the shelves. Darkened frames holding certificates hung along the walls, beside trophies and old championship belts covered in a fine layer of dust.

In a corner, Cross found boxes of old records and an old suitcase. He sat on a crate beside it and lifted the lid. Inside, black-and-white photographs, newspaper clippings, and worn envelopes lay neatly arranged. One photograph showed his grandfather, Uncle Ibrahim, strong and confident, his father Ismail as a young man, and two boys: Cross and Kenan. Cross ran a finger along the edge of the photograph. For a long moment, he sat still. A faint smile appeared on his face, one with… no weariness, no defenses, and no business plans. He carefully put the photograph back.

Among the newspapers, he noticed a small tin box. He opened it. Inside were a couple of spent cartridge cases and an old rifle scope with chipped paint. Cross picked up the scope and raised it to his eye with a familiar movement from years ago, aiming it for a second through the narrow basement window. A sharp reticle sprang into view, centered on a distant bare tree. Cross exhaled softly and put it back.

Then he walked farther into the basement, into the disused training room. The boxing ring stood dark in a corner, its ropes sagging like tired shoulders. A heavy punching bag hung motionless. He went over to a wooden locker, tugged the door open, and took out his old pair of boxing gloves. The leather had long since cracked and bore the stains of age.

He put them on slowly, tightening the straps with his teeth as he had always done. He approached the bag and paused for a second, his back straight, his breathing calm.

The first punch landed with a dull, powerful thud. Dust swirled up and fell like rain.

The second was harder. Then the third, the fourth… The rhythm quickened, growing harder and more precise. Every movement held a memory. This was where he had once learned to hit, to fall, and to get back up. Uncle Ibrahim’s voice sounded in his head: “Strength isn’t in throwing a punch. It’s in taking one.” Cross pushed his muscles to their limit, beating out the doubts lodged somewhere deep inside him.

After a series of sharp, disciplined punches, he delivered one last blow, the hardest of all. The bag swung heavily in the dim light.

Cross stopped. His breathing was steady but deep, and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. He stood before the swaying bag, watching it without a word in the silence that followed.

“Uncle, I remember…”

Chapter 6

The sun was sinking toward the horizon, turning the streets bronze. The bus rolled slowly toward a small suburb somewhere in western Utah, closer to the mountain ranges. Cross recognized the road. This was the very road he had raced along that ill-fated night when he hit the old man. Yes, it had been somewhere around here… Farther on, closer to the slope, there should be the hotel where he had stayed. For some reason, he had chosen this state again and ended up in the same place. He had wanted to buy a house here. He remembered the forest and the downpour. Cross sighed.

Back then, he had been driving his own car, powerful and expensive, with wide tires and a leather interior. Now he was riding a scheduled bus. Nine hours. Nine fucking hours. His back was stiff, his legs numb. He looked out the window and couldn’t believe it. How did people travel like this every day? Or every week? No, he refused to believe it. This was torture.

“Shit…” he whispered. “First things first, a car. Otherwise, I’m sending Lance his million back and getting the hell out of here.”

He really was ready to give up on the very first day. He remembered that meeting, all business and cold, without a hint of friendship. Elliot Roseman, Tobias Scott, Daniel Martinelli, and Lance Thorne had sat at the table. All his friends were official participants in the arrangement. Lance was a partner, with an equal stake of one million US dollars. The others were witnesses, serving on a temporary oversight committee with access to key information relating to the agreement.

The partnership agreement signed by Cross Begovich and Lance Thorne set out clearly defined conditions, including Cross’s voluntary restriction of access to his existing assets and previous financial channels.

With the consent of all committee members, Lance had the right to initiate an unscheduled review of business activity. An external audit could be conducted and independent experts brought in. If suspicions arose, legal support for managing a potential crisis could also be engaged, even to the point of hiring a private investigator. The agreement also included a clause restricting access to internal information for the entire duration of the experiment, along with a specific provision prohibiting outside interference in Cross’s new business ventures. That was a matter of principle, and he had stood firm on it. Anything he created during the agreement would remain entirely independent. Only his previous contacts and sources of funds could be investigated if they gave rise to suspicion.

The wording was clear, with no gray areas. The document had been notarized, and each side’s representatives held a copy. It all sounded official, strict, and very real.

The first month was designated an adjustment period. In effect, a head start. The committee undertook not to interfere in his activities, initiate inspections, or request reports. After that, the main oversight arrangements would take effect: observation, financial monitoring, monitoring of digital activity, and, where necessary, requests for documents and explanations.

Cross had signed those conditions himself. He wanted everything on record, with no doubts or disagreements left by the end. He wanted no one to imagine that the game was being played outside the rules.

He remembered the conversation in his office. He had been standing at the window with his hands in his trouser pockets, his gaze thoughtful and his jaw clenched. Daniel had approached from behind and asked quietly:

“Cross, don’t you think you’ve gone too far?”

Cross shook his head without turning.

“If you wanted to give away a million, you could have just handed it over…”

Cross slowly turned and looked at his friend.

“It isn’t about the money. Or Lance, Danny.”

Daniel sighed.

“I figured that out. Otherwise, you’d have put him to the test too…”

Cross lowered his eyes, a faint smile appearing on his lips.

“Yes. I’m the one who needs the strict limits and everything out in the open.”

He had placed himself within those strict, transparent limits, with no way to back out. It was less about mistrust than about how seriously he took the decision.

The bus stopped.

“Greyfield,” the driver announced, and the doors creaked open.

Cross picked up his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped outside without hurrying. Cold wind struck his face. He paused, stretched his legs, and looked around.

Quiet. No people, no animals. Only the occasional car crept along the road with a lazy lack of urgency. He adjusted his cap and raised his collar, sheltering his chin from the biting wind, though it wasn’t particularly strong. He should have worn something warmer. Oh well.

He ran his fingers over the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses, and briefly squeezed his eyes shut. Then he walked slowly toward the houses. The piercing air reached beneath his jacket and around his lower back, while the slippery asphalt crunched under his heavy boots. One thought kept turning over in his head.

“Grey… field,” he repeated quietly. “Well, then. Here’s to a new life.”

He walked without hurrying, but with a purpose. The long journey had exhausted him to the bone, yet his mind was made up. Tonight, he would sleep either in a car he managed to find or… at some pretty woman’s place.

He grinned to himself.

As he walked, he looked out for garages, repair shops, and yards where cars might be repaired or sold. Whenever he came across a local, he asked casually, without making a nuisance of himself:

“Hey, do you know where I can rent a cheap car around here?”

“There’s a guy,” said a young man in a hoodie, warming his hands around a paper cup. “Garage out on the edge of town, behind the warehouse. Owner’s called Tom Hart. A real tightass, but he rents cars out sometimes. Mostly sells old stuff. If you’re lucky, he’ll let you have one. Give it a try.”

Cross nodded, thanked him, and headed in the direction he had been given.

Just what I need, he thought.

His goal was taking shape. That meant he was getting closer.

Behind the warehouse, just as the young man had said, the road turned toward an unremarkable lot where smooth asphalt gave way to rutted slush and gravel. Cars stood around the edges. Some still looked lively; others were almost corpses, with smashed headlights and torn-off mirrors. A few clearly belonged to another century. Something old, American, and long, with chrome trim and a faded number on its side.

The garage itself stood at the far edge of the lot, a metal building with peeling paint and a sign that had lost a few letters long ago.

HART MOTORS now read HA_T M_T_RS.

Cross approached, adjusted his collar, and bent down to peer through a cloudy window. Beyond the glass were dimness and shadows, as though the garage had long been abandoned. Still, a light glimmered somewhere at the back. He knocked, his knuckles making a dry sound against the metal. Silence. Then he gripped the heavy handle and pulled the door toward him.

It creaked open reluctantly, and Cross stepped inside.

“Anyone alive in here?” he called into the darkness, looking around.

The office looked as though nothing had changed in thirty years. Dusty linoleum, a peeling counter piled with worn folders, a leather chair with a deep hollow in the seat and something propping it up beneath the occupant’s backside. On the wall hung a calendar from 2010, a cracked portrait of some sheriff, and a poster of a girl in a miniskirt, faded with age into a pinkish-beige haze.

A muffled cough came from somewhere at the back.

“I’m fucking coming…” a man’s voice muttered.

Hart emerged. He was about fifty, with a round belly, a reddish beard, and a bloated face. He wore oil-stained coveralls and had a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. He looked at Cross like a man who was already sick of everything life had to offer.

It was cool inside. The sharp smell of gasoline and rust had worked its way into the walls. And there was something else… something old and male, the kind of smell that settled on your skin like dust. Hart dropped into the chair behind a heavy wooden desk, opened a bottle of cheap bourbon, and drank straight from it without offering any. Cross stood opposite him, in no hurry to speak, watching him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Listen, Hart,” Cross finally began. “I need a car. Let’s make a deal. You give me what I need. I give you what you need.”

The man raised an eyebrow skeptically, fiddling with the bottle cap.

“Yeah. Well, go on, pick one. Pay, and we’ll draw up a contract. Sign it, then go wherever the hell you like.”

Cross pressed his lips together, gave a brief nod, and slowly exhaled.

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

They left the stuffy office and went into the yard. Several old cars stood among scattered tires and fuel cans, their bodies scuffed and scratched, some with no wheels at all. They seemed to have been forgotten while waiting forever for new roads. A van with peeling paint, a sedan with a cracked window, two pickups old enough to remember Christ, and a couple of equally ancient SUVs for the local crowd.

Hart smirked.

“This is all junk. The stuff out here. But if you want something cleaner, follow me.”

They went farther into the garage. Inside was a different world altogether. The floodlights came on, their beams cutting through the dimness and reflecting off polished bodies, glass, and clean black tires. A couple of dozen cars stood in close rows, while the corners of the building remained in shadow.

Hart waved a hand as though showing him a shelf of wine.

“There. Take your pick. Just don’t touch. Look.”

Cross walked along the row, examining the cars. They were in varying condition, but clearly well cared for.

“Dodge Charger, 2015,” Hart grunted. “Still got some attitude. Jeep Grand Cherokee, 2013. Drinks gas, but it’s king in winter. Toyota Tacoma, 2011. Old pickup, but it’ll last forever. Ford Escape, 2014. Economical, but it’s got character. Chevy Malibu, 2013. Strictly for cruising down the highway with chicks. And this…” He pointed toward a black SUV. “Nissan Xterra, 2012. A favorite with people who go by instinct. Fully serviced. But it’s got a mean face, like my ex.”

Cross stopped beside the Xterra, looked over the body, and peered inside.

“An ideal car for winter,” he said calmly. “In a town like this, it would be the first to sell.”

“Interior’s good,” Hart added. “Heater, heated seats, winter tires, cargo space the size of a room. You could even sleep in it.”

Cross looked around, his eyes moving slowly over the cars. His tone was thoughtful.

“You’ve got good taste in cars, Tom.”

Tom looked at him without speaking.

“Just a bad display out front,” Cross continued quietly.

“What?” Hart frowned. “What kind of bullshit are you feeding me? You one of those guys who practices that Latin American ‘magical thinking’? Ran out of steam on the way here, so now you’re selling miracles?”

Cross grinned and nodded, entirely untroubled by the jabs. Gesturing toward the yard, he added calmly:

“People see that junk first. Then they leave.”

Tom went still, narrowing his eyes slightly. Cross gave a brief sigh and looked at him with a barely perceptible glint of amusement.

“You’re not lazy. You just don’t like people. You sell to whoever comes to you. And I… I can bring in the people who don’t.”

Hart pressed his lips together and said nothing. His gaze sharpened as he took Cross in. Slowly, his eyes traveled upward from the heavy boots to the trousers, the jacket, the confident posture, and finally stopped at his eyes. Cross stood with one hand in his trouser pocket, completely at ease.

“Here’s what I propose.” Cross paused for a second, giving the man time to form the impression he wanted. Then he spoke again, his tone wholly serious. “You let me have the Xterra. No rental fee. No paperwork. I use it, and I bring you buyers. At least two. You get paid. Then we’ll see.”

Tom stared at him in complete bewilderment.

“Give it to you?”

Cross smiled faintly without answering. His eyes remained calm and direct.

“Listen here,” Hart grunted, spitting his gum aside. “I’ll believe you, just for the hell of it. But you’ve got twenty-four hours. Understand? Exactly one day. If at least one customer hasn’t walked through my door by tomorrow evening and said, ‘I want that car,’ you can fuck off back to wherever you came from. Clear?”

Cross held out his hand, a broad smile spreading across his face. He shook Tom Hart’s hand firmly and confidently.

“Deal.”

Hart kept looking at him, still faintly puzzled.

“Now get the fuck out of here and surprise me!”

Cross left the garage with a chuckle, as though he had just finished a business meeting with a rat in a tank top. He adjusted his backpack, glanced at the gray sky, and continued along the slippery road. Hunger made itself felt, dull but persistent, his stomach complaining like an old friend about a miserable life. He looked around. Signs were few and far between, but one caught his eye.

Maggie’s Diner. Peeling letters trying to promise a little comfort.

He pulled the creaking handle and stepped inside. The bells by the door stirred and rang. A woman of about forty-five appeared from behind the counter, wearing a fitted top, her hair straightened to within an inch of its life and styled as though no one would ever forget prom night in 1996. Her makeup said “everything at once,” and her perfume said “no cowboy gets away.” Well groomed, with manicured nails and a plunging neckline, she looked as though she had known a newcomer would walk in that very day.

Without making a production of it, Cross tossed his backpack onto an old sofa in the corner, sagging like the saddle of an old mustang, and approached the counter.

“What’s there to eat?” he asked, looking at her directly but politely.

“We’ve got a Texas-style burger, steak and eggs if you’re not afraid of cholesterol, and the best coffee around,” she said. “I’m Maggie. And you don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“Right on the money, Maggie. I’m just… looking around. Looking for opportunities.”

“Opportunities, you say?” She narrowed her eyes. “Then you’ve certainly come to the right place.”

“You must be psychic.”

“Not psychic. It’s just that every newcomer here is like a comet. Nobody stays very long…”

“I’ll have the steak and eggs. If it’s good.”

“All right, but it’ll take about twenty minutes.”

“I’m in no hurry,” Cross said, holding back a grin.

Twenty minutes later, as promised, his order arrived on a plate in front of him.

Maggie moved the bread basket and condiment holder closer, never taking her eyes off him. Cross ate calmly, then looked up.

“What can you tell me about your town? Anything interesting?”

Maggie coyly traced a finger along the edge of the table.

“It’s a terribly uninteresting place. Everybody knows everybody like family, and everybody’s sick to death of one another. And you, mister… you’re a breath of fresh air.”

Cross almost choked and wiped his lips with a napkin.

“Is that so…”

“Are you staying long?”

“Depends on how interesting I find it,” Cross replied.

Maggie lightly bit her lip. Cross smiled with his eyes alone, then lowered them. After a pause, he asked:

“By the way… Who runs things around here?”

She gave him a sly smile, her gaze still fixed intently on the newcomer.

“Want to know our secrets, Mr. Back?”

Cross nodded with a smile and put another piece of steak into his mouth.

“Well… if you’re willing to share… I’ll be a regular customer, Mrs. Maggie.”

Maggie perched on the edge of the chair beside him and adjusted her hair. Cross gave her a quick glance.

“We don’t have many influential people,” she drawled. “Everyone’s quiet, peaceful, and… boring.”

“But still?” Cross grinned and washed down the meat with tea.