Predator

“Mr. Mazur, I have another request…”

“Of course. I’m listening.”

Cross thought for a moment, choosing his words.

“Find a way to arrange authorization for me to drive your son’s car without Roy seeing my name on either my license or the paperwork.” He looked at Kacper.

The man coughed, paused, and said:

“We’ll arrange everything. I’ll have the authorization made out to me, and then we’ll legally transfer the right to drive the car to you.”

At last, they said good night, and Cross went to the room they had given him. But sleep took a long time to come. He tossed and turned, thinking over his plans and everything that was happening. Two people already knew his real name. Perhaps the secret would soon travel from door to door. Well… In any case, he had never given his word that he would change his name. That had been entirely his own idea, for convenience and safety. He had only agreed not to do business under the Cross Begovich name. And he was keeping his word.

Let’s see what happens next.

Chapter 9

Over the course of a month, Cross gradually settled in and threw himself into business with enthusiasm. Within a week, he had arranged to supply meat products to several stores in Salt Lake City and a couple of nearby small towns. Bob Colton bought himself a new car and paid cash. So did Mr. Kacper Mazur and two new customers Cross had found in Salt Lake City and brought to Tom Hart’s dealership in Greyfield after negotiating discounts. Hart, in turn, listened to his successful new partner’s advice and began repairing and tidying up his garage. He hired a team, opening up jobs for local young people. Colton did the same.

Cross Begovich continued living at Roy’s house. They had already divided their roles in the future partnership and become friends. Their proposal, drawn up as a full business plan, submitted by Mr. Mazur and refined by Cross, went to the bank for consideration. A week later, the answer arrived: no.

“We could put up property as collateral,” Mr. Mazur said without looking up from the papers neatly arranged on his desk.

His study was filled with heavy furniture and long cabinets whose shelves held old volumes. The persistent scent of expensive tobacco lingered in the air. Although he rarely smoked cigars, the smell had soaked into the wood a decade earlier.

“No need,” Cross replied evenly, leaning back in his chair. “We’re not building a business at the risk of losing the roof over our heads.”

He said it calmly, but in a way that closed the subject without room for appeal.

After that, he became quiet and withdrew into his work. For several days, he barely left his room, spending hours at the small laptop he had bought in a hurry earlier. He read market updates, reviewed reports, noted trends, searched for patterns, and calculated possible scenarios. He built a plan in his head, putting his cool logic to work at full capacity and allowing no outside discussions to distract him.

One morning, over a cup of strong tea in the kitchen, when he and Kacper were alone, Cross said almost casually:

“Mr. Mazur, I’d like to come by the bank in the next few days. Tomorrow, perhaps. There’s something we should discuss there, in your office.”

Mazur raised his eyebrows slightly, but nodded.

“Of course, Mr. Begovich. I’ll make time tomorrow. Is it important?”

“Important,” Cross replied briefly.

The following day, in the formal quiet of the bank manager’s office, Cross explained his idea. He needed neither a loan nor a guarantee. He proposed that Mr. Mazur open a separate trading account in his own name to take part in the evaluation process at one of the proprietary trading firms that admitted traders by selection. Cross would have full responsibility for managing it.

“We’ll put the terms into a legal agreement,” he said. “I’ll start working with a prop firm. It’s the best way to raise the initial capital I can put into our project. The account will be in your name, with separate access for trading. I’ll take on all the risks and responsibility.”

He paused briefly, considered everything, and added:

“We’ll also need an additional subaccount in your name so the funds can be withdrawn separately and I can manage them. We’ll need powers of attorney authorizing me to operate both accounts. But only the two of us should know about it.” He held Mazur’s gaze. “Do you have someone you trust?”

Mazur thought for a moment. After a minute’s pause, he replied:

“Yes. A licensed attorney. He’s handled corporate transactions for both the bank and me personally. He’ll draw up an agreement that won’t raise any questions.”

“Excellent,” Cross replied briefly. “Arrange a time.”

The meeting took place in the same office at the bank. Time was pressing, and just a day later, a man of about forty walked in carrying a briefcase. His suit fitted perfectly. A stylish, tightly knotted tie and neatly smoothed hair gave him an air of authority and seriousness. He greeted them, looked a little more closely at Cross, and suddenly asked:

“Mr. Begovich… that Mr. Begovich?”

Mazur calmly stepped in.

“That’s precisely why we need you. Mr. Begovich’s name must stay between us.” Then he turned to Cross. “Allow me to introduce Andrew Caldwell.”

Cross rose from the sofa, where he had been sitting at ease with one leg crossed over the other. They greeted each other.

“It’s a pleasure to be of service,” Caldwell said.

“Thank you,” Cross replied, returning to his seat and leaving their host to lead the discussion.

Mr. Mazur invited the lawyer to sit at the desk and briefly explained the situation, emphasizing the requirement for complete confidentiality.

Mr. Caldwell gave Cross a brief, understanding look and nodded. Then he took a pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, wrote a figure on a sticky note lying on the desk, and slid it toward Kacper: $5,000.

Mazur quietly read the amount aloud and looked at Cross. Cross gave an almost imperceptible signal with his eyes, then said:

“Five hundred now. The rest in three months.”

The lawyer smiled faintly and agreed.

While he prepared the paperwork, Cross ordered a complete trading workstation. The technician arrived with boxes and bags full of cables. Something didn’t fit, one component had to be replaced, and another required a trip to the neighboring town. For two days, the sounds of a screwdriver, brief curses, and tapping keys drifted through the house. Roy watched with curiosity and confusion as some strange machine grew in their study like a black monolith.

On the third day, the equipment stood ready in Kacper Mazur’s study, which he had kindly made available: two wide monitors, a wireless keyboard, and cables neatly gathered into bundles.

A cup of black coffee stood on the desk. Cold air came through the window as the town settled toward evening. Cross sat down, looked around the space, and began doing what he did best. Finding vulnerabilities in the chaos of the market.

He was a trader again. This time, not in a skyscraper overlooking Manhattan, but in an old house on the outskirts of Greyfield. Sometimes a window shutter banged in the wind outside, firewood crackled in the fireplace, and only the light from the screen reflected in his intent eyes.

The first stage wasn’t the trading itself, but an evaluation. The prop firm didn’t hand money to anyone who wanted it. First, he had to pass their selection process. It was a kind of exam: trading on a demo account under their rules, with limits on losses and a profit target. Cross knew the conditions thoroughly, having studied them before proposing the idea to Mr. Mazur. Only after the trial period would the serious game begin, with profits split eighty-twenty in the trader’s favor.

On the first day, he laid his notebook open on the desk and launched both trading platforms. The market was nervous, but to him it was music. Sharp moves, false breakouts, panic selling. He worked quietly and attentively, barely moving, making notes only now and then.

Roy looked into the study a couple of times, trying to understand what his strange, mysterious friend Chris was doing. All he saw were charts and Cross’s concentrated gaze.

By the end of the week, Cross had completed the first phase of the evaluation. Next came the second, more demanding phase: the same strategy, but with tighter limits and greater consistency required. For most people, it became torture. Cross treated it as a chess game with the market.

By the middle of the month, he had passed the entire evaluation. The first funds arrived in the firm’s live account. They weren’t his yet, but capital allocated for him to manage. From that moment, the game moved onto a real playing field, where every trade could bring him closer to that million-dollar mark… or push it farther away.

“Do you think he even has a plan?” Roy quietly asked his father.

“Of course,” Mazur replied. “If he didn’t have a plan, he wouldn’t have settled here. He would have left.”

Another night. The house was quiet. Its old walls creaked in the wind, and the light of occasional headlights swept past the windows. In Cross’s room, there was only the soft hum of the computer tower and the faint glow of three monitors. He sat motionless, staring at the screen, his hand still on the mouse and his back tense, completely absorbed in his work.

A currency pair was open in front of him. USD/JPY. A five-minute chart. The market twitched like a wounded snake, and for three hours he had been watching it like a predator watching its prey. He needed a particular signal, with its own tone and rhythm… the very one he had once woven into his team’s algorithms, different from all the standard signals described in textbooks.

His finger paused over the button. A click. The trade was on.

The risk was exactly half a percent of the account balance: $500.

He wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t thinking. Only watching. The trade moved into profit. Then into loss. Then up again. Higher still. He took the profit.

+$650.

For someone else, a small amount. For him, the first stone in the foundation.

He stood, stretched, took a sip of cold coffee… and sat down again.

The second platform. Another pair: the pound against the Swiss franc. This time, he gave the market a little more room to move.

Risk: one percent of the account balance, $1,000.

There was a small drawdown in the first few minutes. Then a candle moved in the right direction, and the next confirmed the momentum. He closed the position at the peak of the move.

+$2,340.

Total for the day: $2,990 net. Almost three percent of the account. A perfect start.

Cross leaned back in his chair. Only the lights of the charts flickered in the dark study. He rubbed his eyes with his fingers and let his shoulders relax a little. The work, cool and mathematical, demanded all his concentration and kept him under intense strain. Excitement counted for nothing here, and luck could offer no help.

“Chris…” Roy began, almost on a sigh.

They were sitting in a corner of a spacious living room. The evening was unfolding around them, with guests laughing and glasses clinking. An old friend of Kacper Mazur’s had invited them to his birthday party. It was a society gathering, with all of Greyfield’s “upper crust” in one room, including Sheriff Chain Hamilton and his wife, Helen. Chris Back, as everyone here now knew him, was to be “brought into the circle.” He didn’t object, although he had no need of it.

“Yes?” Cross turned, looking directly at Roy, his gaze calm but tinged with weariness and caution.

“I’ve never seen anyone become such a part of a community in just a couple of days. People trust you. They talk about you, discuss you. What’s the secret?” his friend asked.

Cross pressed his lips together and lowered his eyes. Then he sighed, looked back at Roy, and answered:

“Knowing you can handle it.”

“I don’t think that’s enough. There’s something else. What is it?”

Cross looked at him for a long time before asking:

“Tell me, how would you feel if you knew you had a million dollars in your account, but couldn’t withdraw it until you’d put another million in?”

Roy smiled. Then he shook his head, looked at him, and said almost inaudibly:

“So that’s what this is all about…?”

“Not in my case. But that’s the mindset.”

The conversation stayed with Roy for a long time, perhaps forever. He stopped wondering who his friend really was and getting tangled up in doubts. Instead, he stopped drifting around without purpose and threw himself into the work as seriously as Cross did.

Cross switched to a new car, a Nissan Xterra bought from Hart on an installment plan at no extra cost. Roy took his own car back and, as agreed, assumed responsibility for part of the business. While Cross immersed himself in charts, sometimes until morning, Roy visited outlets, looked for new partners, and worked with his father to negotiate with suppliers of seafood and other goods for their future store. He also searched for suitable premises in the areas he and Cross had already discussed, while developing the repair-shop idea alongside it.

Every evening, over dinner or just afterward, they reviewed their progress. Each day brought better results.

By the end of February, the system had put out its first shoot.

A fresh sign gleamed on the front of the new two-story store: Mazur & Sons.

Roy Mazur was listed as the legal owner. The paperwork was still being finalized, but all the necessary licenses had been obtained. Cross remained behind the scenes, the unseen power overseeing every process. Meanwhile, Kacper Mazur, encouraged and full of hope, became a co-owner and partner. He contributed half the initial capital from his savings, the money he had been putting aside for a new house for his son. Roy added his share, partly from money he had saved and partly from borrowing. By then, Cross had managed to cover the remaining thirty percent. The total investment came to $120,700. Projections for the Salt Lake City market suggested that turnover by the end of the year should be at least twice that amount.

By mid-March, Kacper had secured an investment loan from the bank’s head office after all, apparently even sooner than he had expected. With that added support, the business began growing rapidly.

The pop of a champagne cork mingled with applause as friends and partners celebrated the launch of their first venture inside the Mazur & Sons food store in Salt Lake City. The staff was still modest, just five people, but their ambitions were anything but.

Meanwhile, Cross kept his own count of the time left to make a million, crossing weeks off his mental calendar. Six gone already.

The phone on his desk vibrated, and Lance’s name appeared on the screen.

“Hey, buddy.” His friend’s voice held a mixture of warmth and a less obvious attempt to take stock. “How are you doing? I hear you’ve become part-owner of… a grocery store?”

“Hi. Yes, we’re working on it.” Cross sat at his computer without taking his eyes off the monitor.

Lance knew about his retail business but had no idea he was currently working with a prop firm, which was reassuring. Cross knew that the less Lance knew, the easier it would be for everyone.

“A store, you say…” Lance drawled, as though savoring the word. “And how’s it going?”

“Same as it does for everyone at first. Expenses are higher than income. But we’re working at it. We’ll see…”

A pause lingered on the line. Lance seemed to be listening for something beneath his words.

“Well, well…” he said, a sharp hint of irony slipping into his tone. “I’m here if you need me.”

“Yes, I know,” Cross replied briefly. “I don’t have time to relax yet.”

“I believe you,” Lance said. “But you know, you and I always have time for a good talk…”

“I’ll call when I need to,” Cross cut in. “Thanks for calling.”

He hung up without looking away from the chart. Price lines still flickered on the screen, while the invisible trace of Lance’s pause seemed to linger in the air.

Chapter 10

Spring came cautiously to Greyfield. The March sun was already breaking through the grey clouds, but the wind still carried cold air down from the mountains. Meltwater sloshed in the streets, and grey islands of snow lay along the edges of the sidewalks.

Cross and Roy walked into Maggie’s café, shaking wet sand off their boots. It was warm inside, and the smell of pastries and coffee stirred their appetites. A radio played softly above the counter, while two farmers at one of the tables argued over the price of barley.

“Take a seat, handsome boys.” Maggie emerged from behind the counter with a notepad in her hand, though her eyes were fixed on Cross. “What’ll you have?”

“Black coffee and fried eggs for me,” he said.

“And a burger for me, as usual,” Roy added.

“Will the burger have a friend?” she asked with a sly squint at Cross. “Maybe some cherry pie to go with your eggs?”

“No, thank you,” he replied evenly but politely.

When she left, Roy picked up the bottle of water on the table and took a sip, gathering his thoughts. They had been discussing the store on the way over, and the conversation naturally continued at their table.

“The meat from Bob’s coming in fine, no problems…” He paused, adjusted his sleeve, and grinned. “Though last time his worker nearly sent us half a carcass marked for dog food. Got the warehouses mixed up.”

Cross managed something resembling a smile but did not interrupt.

“Seafood… that’s where we’re having trouble. The supplier’s two days late, and you know how it is: nobody in a big city’s going to wait two weeks for oysters. Had to make do with frozen stock. The dairy from River Springs arrived on time, no problems there. I’ve already paid for the last shipment.”

Just then, Maggie plonked a plate of pie down in front of them and nodded toward Roy.

“That’s for him, so he won’t grumble.”

“Thanks.” Roy lifted a piece with his fork and went back to business. “Hired two more guys to unload deliveries. I can’t keep up on my own anymore. But I’m still being careful about adding new products. There isn’t much money to expand.”

“Are we growing?” Cross asked.

“Little by little.” Roy shrugged. “More customers, but the expenses are biting too.”

“We’ll do an audit at the end of the month,” Cross said calmly. “A full one. I want to see how every item is moving.”

“Next you’ll tell us to wear ties.” Roy grinned, but took out his battered planner and made a note.

Maggie returned with a tray and, as she set down their plates, “accidentally” moved the cherry pie closer to Cross.

“Just because it’s spring,” she whispered with a wink.

Roy gave her a puzzled look, then exclaimed indignantly, “Only for him? Where’s mine?!”

Cross burst out laughing.

At that moment, the door creaked open, letting in a stream of cold air. Tom Hart came in wearing a leather jacket, a faint smile on his face. He spotted them and walked over to their table.

“Gentlemen, good to see you,” he said.

The men rose slightly and shook his hand.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Of course.” Cross nodded.

Hart pulled out a chair, sat down, and put his cap on the seat beside him.

“Heard about your store,” he said, looking at Roy. “Well done. Business picking up?”

“We’re working,” Roy replied. “Doing what we can.”

“It shows.” Hart smiled. “And you, Chris, have forgotten your old friends entirely. No customers coming my way from you anymore. Shame.”

Cross tilted his head slightly.

“I haven’t forgotten. I’m a little busy right now.”

“Well… if you come back, I’m willing to raise your cut,” Hart said. “Your guys helped me make good money back then, and I haven’t forgotten it.”

Cross turned to Roy.

“Do you and Hart see much of each other?”

“Now and then,” Roy replied. “Sometimes I help him, sometimes he helps me. These days I’m mostly busy with the store, though some of my helpers still drop by his place.”

Cross nodded and said thoughtfully, “Then perhaps we should consider a partnership? On a percentage basis. And expanding into a chain…”

Hart raised an eyebrow.

“If you’re involved, I’m in.”

“Roy can handle it,” Cross replied calmly. “My part is to guide things and help the business grow. We’ll discuss the details later.”

Hart smiled, clearly intrigued.

“All right. I’ll be waiting.”

Meanwhile, Cross was gaining momentum on two fronts at once: retail and the investment business.

His days followed a busy rhythm. He began each morning with market prices over a cup of strong coffee, and spent his afternoons at places of business in Greyfield and the surrounding area: the bank, farms, the offices of small suppliers, branches of larger companies, and sometimes Hart’s garage. People invariably gathered around him, and respect was showing in their eyes more and more often. Conversations grew brief and businesslike, with no unnecessary words or emotion. His arrival visibly changed the atmosphere. Everyone could almost feel it physically. A single look from Cross was enough to make the person facing him feel as though they were taking an exam, instinctively straightening up before speaking. Cross saw it and knew things were going as they should.

He oversaw the store in Salt Lake City mostly from a distance, through reports and occasional visits, leaving Roy to manage it. People in town already knew that “Mr. Back” was involved, though no one quite understood what he actually did.

Some had seen him talking with Kacper Mazur behind a closed door at the bank. Others had seen him standing at the edge of the farmers’ market, amid the smell of fresh hay and chilled meat, watching produce being loaded for delivery. Sometimes they simply spotted him driving his Xterra down Main Street, and whispered behind his back:

“Is that him?”

“They say it is…”

But no one really knew what sort of man he was.

By April, the reports no longer looked like tentative first efforts, but the confident work of an experienced player. He kept his distance from the curious, yet listened closely to anyone who brought him an idea with potential. There was a scent of change in the Greyfield air, and Cross knew very well that he had had a hand in it.

He turned off his laptop, stretched in his chair, flicked his lighter, and went outside. The April evening air was cool, but no longer stung; it merely brushed softly against his skin. Cross lifted his head toward the pale blue sky, where the first stars were faintly appearing, and stood for a while, breathing out a thin stream of smoke.

His phone rang. It was Roy.

“How are things at the store?” Cross asked, taking his time as he tapped off the ash.

“Busy. Three more companies came by today, offering us goods to sell on consignment.”

“What kind of goods?”

“Canned food, cookies, some frozen stuff.”

“Don’t chase volume,” Cross replied calmly. “Take a box of each to try. We’ll see how they sell.”

“Got it.”

As they talked, he walked onto Main Street and made his way to the little grocery store where he had once drunk coffee and eaten a second croissant “on the house” at Mr. Jobson’s. It was warm inside, with a pleasant smell of fresh pastries crowded onto a shelf beside the register.

“Good evening, Mr. Back.” The owner nodded.

“Evening.” Cross picked up a couple of cans of Coke and a packet of crackers, then lingered at the counter, his eyes drifting absently over the shelves.

Automatically working things out: canned meat would sell well in that part of the store, dry goods over there, and imported products could fill this niche…

He paid, offered a brief word of thanks, and headed for the exit. As he pushed the door open, a young woman stepped into the doorway. Their movements mirrored each other: he was going out, she was coming in. His hand instinctively held the door open, but his gaze had already caught hers and stopped.

For a second, the beat of his heart grew louder than the world around him. They barely brushed against each other, yet an impulse ran over his skin, a tiny spark like static electricity.

She lifted her head, and their eyes met. Green eyes, so clear and deep, with an unusual cool shade, as though they reflected a forest covered in frost. Her gaze was direct and intent. Cross looked her over from the bottom up, lingering on her eyes, and for a moment there was no one else in the world but the two of them.