Predator

Folders lay spread across the table: sales reports, supplier contracts, warehouse lease documents, and an agreement with a logistics company. The store shelves were overflowing with goods, the second floor was packed to capacity, and profits were growing steadily.

“We’ve secured supplies from three major farms and signed an agreement with a transport company out of Bozeman,” one of the managers reported. “Deliveries are running smoothly.”

“Good.” Cross nodded, turning the pages. “We need to think about expanding. People in town are already talking about our store, and demand is growing faster than we can bring stock in. That’s encouraging…”

“Are you suggesting we open more stores?” Kacper asked, leaning forward a little.

“Exactly,” Cross replied firmly. “I’m thinking of two new locations. One in the southern part of town, closer to the highway, where the truckers and tourist buses come through. The other in a town nearer the border. We need to reach different groups of customers. I’ve already found a few premises for the new stores. I’ve come to terms with the landlords, but I haven’t given a final answer. I wanted us to discuss everything together first. It’s not a question of grabbing more space. It’s a question of which places we can actually handle, and where we can grow without overloading the team.”

He looked around at everyone, his gaze lingering on Roy and Bett.

“So right now, we need to assess our resources: staff, logistics, sales volume. If we can’t handle it, no lease is going to save us. But if everything adds up, we can move on to the contracts.”

A pause settled over the room as everyone took in what he had said. Roy gave a restrained smile.

“We’re becoming a chain.”

Cross tapped his fingers on the table and gave a cold smile.

“We already are a chain. The only question is how soon everyone else finds out.”

Clyde leaned back in his chair, rubbed his temples, and gave a dry chuckle.

“Chris, do you realize those two new stores will turn the rest of my hair gray? Your marker lines already live in my head. I wake up and see arrows on a map.”

Beatrice couldn’t quite suppress a smile.

“Then draw thinner lines. But seriously, if we open the southern store by the highway, I need an early ‘cold-chain window,’ with unloading between five and seven in the morning. Otherwise, we run short of ice during the day and end up paying for it in write-offs.”

Cross took out his planner and clicked his pen.

“Writing that down: early cold-chain window, five to seven, for the southern store. What about the second location, nearer the border?”

“That’s more about customer flow than refrigeration,” Roy put in. “People come through buying small wholesale quantities. They want everything in one go: canned goods, dairy, dry mixes. The displays need to make an immediate impact.”

“Which means,” Beatrice continued, “we need a small cross-docking setup at the warehouse: assemble pallets for both stores in the evening, load them at night, so by opening time the stores are ‘breathing’ stock instead of empty air.”

Kacper turned to Bett.

“What do you think, Bett?”

The accountant pushed her glasses up her nose and pointed her pencil at a statement.

“I’ll give you the boring answer: cash-flow gaps. We pay suppliers on net fourteen, net ten for some items. Sales bring in cash every day, but payroll, refrigeration, and fuel costs are rising. If we take on two stores at once, we need either to negotiate discounts for paying upfront or to get bank financing.”

Kacper nodded slightly.

“I’ll talk to the bank. Arrange an unsecured working-capital line based on our turnover. I’ll need the figures by this evening.”

Clyde raised a finger.

“And another thing: staffing. We needed someone to handle morning deliveries at the main store the day before yesterday, and each new store will need a manager. We’ll have to train them here. Roy?”

“I’ll recruit three people to have in reserve,” he replied briefly. “Let them shadow me and Beatrice for a week. We’ll soon see who can handle it. And, Chris, I’m still going to ask for a camera at the back entrance. ‘Hidden shrinkage’ isn’t just about fish.”

Cross made a note in his planner.

“Camera at the back entrance by the end of the week. As for the fish display, we keep the ice island by the entrance, like today. It works.”

“And you call that ‘not giving orders’?” Bett said with a wry smile, though there was relief in her voice.

“I’m recording the decisions,” Cross replied gently. “The team makes them. If there’s something we can’t handle, say so straightaway. We’ll sort it out faster.”

For a second, everyone fell silent. Sounds drifted in: a van door slammed beyond the wall, and someone laughed on the sales floor.

“As for the product range at the southern store,” Beatrice said, returning to business, “I want to push harder on prepared salads and cold sandwiches. Something truckers and road crews can grab and go. That will give us turnover without putting more strain on the kitchen.”

“Agreed,” Kacper said with a nod. “Just keep the prices reasonable. Let them buy two instead of one.”

Clyde tapped his knuckles on the table.

“To support that, we’ll rent one more refrigerated truck for three months. If the stores take off, we’ll get one on a lease.”

“Go ahead,” Cross said. “But with an option to return it. And check the insurance. We’ve already had our ‘Lewiston.’ We’re not taking that chance twice.”

Bett turned over a sheet.

“And one last thing: reporting. I physically can’t handle two more stores on my own. I need an assistant for the day-to-day paperwork, and once a week I need a summary for the whole chain in one file, instead of three different realities.”

“Hire an assistant,” Kacper replied at once. “And give yourself a bonus. We see how hard you’re working.”

Bett looked embarrassed and merely nodded.

Roy looked at Cross.

“Do you want to open both stores at the same time?”

“No.” Cross put down his pen. “One after the other. The southern store first, with three weeks to prepare. Then the border store, two weeks after the first one opens. We need one variable at a time. We’re building a schedule, not playing roulette.”

Clyde let out a relieved breath.

“Then I might manage to keep my hair from going gray.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Beatrice said. “I’ll turn it gray myself.”

Everyone laughed, and the tension eased.

Cross closed his planner and smoothed a palm over the cover.

“Let’s sum it up. Southern store: cold-chain window from five to seven, grab-and-go food, a camera at the back entrance, and an extra refrigerated truck with an option to return it. Border store: opening two weeks after the southern one; pallets assembled at night. Staffing: three prospective managers in reserve, and someone to handle morning deliveries, urgently. Money: Mr. Mazur handles the bank credit line; Bett puts together a cash-flow gap forecast and hires an assistant. Monitoring: a weekly summary for the chain every Friday, all in one file.”

“And KPIs,” the elder Mazur added. “For everyone. Short and clear.”

“Yes,” Cross confirmed. “No phantom metrics. Turnover, write-offs, gross profit, inventory turnover rate, NPS at the checkout. Numbers are the language we use to understand each other.”

The noise of the sales floor rose again beyond the door, and someone called Roy’s name. He stood up.

“I’ll go check the ice island.”

“And the smile,” Beatrice reminded him. “We’re a chain now.”

Roy gave them a thumbs-up as he left. Clyde followed him. Bett gathered her papers into a neat stack and, already at the door, let out a breath.

“Thank you for the assistant. And for Fridays: one summary will save my life. And, by the way… for the bonus!”

Three of them remained. Kacper looked up at Cross.

“Two stores means we’re no longer responsible just to one another. We’re responsible to the town. Ready?”

Cross gave a barely perceptible smile.

“I’m ready. So is the town.”

He stood and picked up his jacket from the chair. Cool air carrying the smell of fresh fish drifted in through the gap in the door. Suddenly, a summer breeze from the open window mingled with it, damp, warm, and full of movement.

“Let’s get to work,” Mazur said.

Cross offered no objection. He simply nodded, clicked his pen, and took another look at the map with his marker lines.

Chapter 16

Back in the car, heading toward Greyfield, he thought over what he had heard. One thought caught on another, forming a picture of the future. “A chain of stores” sounded good, but it required a strong supply base and substantial investment. Expanding the dealership, reaching agreements with dealers… more puzzles to solve. But he was already in up to his neck, with neither the intention nor the desire to get out. The excitement had taken hold of him too, just as it might in a casino.

They left the store’s profits untouched, apart from a small percentage to cover living expenses. Everything else went back into the business. They had begun paying interest on the loan Kacper Mazur had secured at the bank’s head office, but those payments did little to change the picture and had no effect on performance. Sales were booming. The same was happening at the dealership. Hart counted every cent that was “his” and, with complete trust, put it into the new venture, drawing funds from his old business to invest in the current project.

Cross was doing the same. Despite mixed results along the way, his trading had already earned him hundreds of thousands of dollars. The prop trading firm had signed a new partnership agreement with him, or with Kacper Mazur on paper, for a five-percent share of total earnings, and Cross was now all but sailing on his own. Of the money he was trading on the market that day, a little more than half was his own, earned capital, a fact the firm had formally acknowledged. But Cross kept the agreement in place, preserving a fallback channel so he could always bring in more capital if unforeseen circumstances arose.

Yes, business was going better than ever. It would have been better still if he hadn’t been pulling hundreds of thousands from the account and pouring them into businesses outside the market. Had every last cent stayed on the exchange, he might have settled his wager with Lance as soon as tomorrow. But the ventures he had drawn half of Greyfield into were worth it.

Cross pondered that. It was strange that Lance hadn’t raised the alarm, and that the oversight committee they had assembled hadn’t bothered him once. Surely they knew about everything. Well, almost everything, except his arrangement with Honnar. Even so, Cross could honestly tell himself, at least, that Devereaux had played no decisive part in his success. Yes, he had done some running around to get the paperwork sorted, and his people sent customers to the dealership, but someone else Cross had reached an agreement with could have done that too. Couldn’t he have found someone? Of course he could. Devereaux had simply been quicker.

Cross drove attentively, thinking. It was all very strange… and at the same time, predictable. John Lawrence, who managed Cross’s company, Begovich Trading, in New York, almost always sent reports showing positive results. Cross took out a cigarette, flicked his lighter, and drew deeply on it, sinking into his thoughts. Surely everything couldn’t keep going this smoothly, without a single serious hitch…? A little more, and he would reach the million. But while things were looking up, he had to keep climbing.

An image of Bob Colton’s farm rose in his memory. Hart, Bob, Roy… these were the people who had believed in him six months earlier, when he arrived with a backpack and a hundred dollars in his pocket. Now it was his turn to believe in them.

He turned sharply off the highway onto the country road leading to the farm. The dogs began barking while he was still at the gate. Cross took out his phone.

“Hey, buddy. Are you home?” His voice sounded confident.

“Yes, just got back. Good to hear from you, Chris. Things seem to be going well. I’ve been meaning to thank you, but I still haven’t managed to come by,” Bob replied.

“I’m at your gate. Open up.”

Soon they were sitting in the kitchen at a large wooden table. Cross praised him for getting the work running smoothly and for keeping his word. Then, looking him straight in the eye, he said seriously:

“It’s time to move up. Your farm needs to grow. I need more produce, and I want you to be my main partner, someone I can rely on.”

Bob went still, then clasped Cross’s hand in both of his. Something new flickered in his eyes: a mixture of gratitude and faith.

Cross sat in the farmer’s spacious but slightly worn kitchen. A pitcher of milk and fresh bread stood on the table in simple country fashion. Somewhere farther inside the house, he could hear Bob’s wife and daughter talking. Bob, a heavyset man with a weather-beaten face, spoke with some uncertainty.

“I’d be glad to increase the herd, but where would I put them…? There isn’t enough land. We haven’t got the pasture for it, and feed gets more expensive every day. That’s what it all comes down to.”

Cross leaned back in his chair and spent a few seconds thinking in silence. Just then, his gaze happened to catch on the partly open window. A dull, rhythmic thudding came through it, like a drum. Cross stood and went to the window. In the backyard, beneath a shelter, a boy of about seventeen was pounding an old punching bag. His punches were sharp but haphazard. His hands were fast, but his technique was rough, his blows flying wide.

Cross watched him for a while. Following his gaze, Bob fell silent and waited. But the shadow of his uncle rose in Cross’s memory: training on the damp concrete floor of a Bosnian basement, the smell of leather from old gloves. His own awkward movements as a teenager, and the trainer’s stern shout. Cutting the memory short, he returned to the table.

“Listen, Bob.” His voice was firm. “I’ll think about how to arrange it all. But start with the basics: find a suitable place for a bigger farm. Work out an estimate for pasture, feed, and expanding the herd. And calculate exactly what you have available yourself. The figures need to be absolutely clear. I need an accurate picture, and then we’ll start taking steps.”

Bob came alive at once. His eyes lit up, and he almost rushed over to Cross, caught his hand in his own heavy hands, and shook it hard.

“God, son… I thought everyone had written me off. You have no idea what this means…” His eyes shone with immense gratitude and hope.

Cross clapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m not doing this just for you, Bob. It’s for all of us. And for the town. Greyfield needs to grow.”

Then he went out into the backyard. Without asking his host’s permission, he pushed open the kitchen door and found himself facing Bob’s son, a lean, wiry boy with a stubborn face. Seeing Cross, the boy stopped and lowered his hands in embarrassment.

“What’s your name?” Cross asked.

“Nate,” he replied, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Without a word, Cross took off his shirt, tossed it onto the railing, and held out his hand.

“Gloves.”

The boy blinked in surprise, as did his father, watching from the window. Then he fetched another battered pair and tossed them to Cross. Pulling them on quickly, Cross turned toward the bag.

“Watch closely. A punch isn’t just about strength. It’s rhythm, breathing, and control.” Taking his stance, Cross struck once, then again, faster and sharper now. His technique had been honed until it was second nature. His voice catching with exertion, he added, “Footwork, body movement, defense. All of it together.”

The dull blows merged into a rhythm in the vibrating air. The boy watched, spellbound, his mouth slightly open.

“Try doing that,” Cross said, stepping aside to let him take his place.

That evening, he stood at Milena’s door with the basket of strawberries he had picked up at the store that morning. She opened it, and her hair, loosely gathered at the back of her head, caught the light from inside. Cross stepped in, took off his shoes, kissed her tenderly, and went into the living room. Two plates and a chilled bottle of white wine stood on the table.

“You always turn up like a bad habit and good news,” she said with a smile.

“I have a gift for colorful descriptions,” he replied, setting the basket on the table. “And seasonal fruit.”

They ate and talked: about a cashier who had come up a couple of dollars short, the manager who had made a scene, and Milena defending the girl at work (“You should have seen his face!”); about the downstairs neighbor (“She spies on my drying rack”); about how he had rearranged the delivery routes that day with three lines of a marker. She shared her own stories and listened closely to his, but what she wanted to hear was news about him, rather than the business.

“You know,” she said quietly, “you do everything as though you’re half a step ahead. And everyone trusts you so much, Chris.”

“This is only the beginning. And yes, a pretty good beginning…” he said, with a distinct note of pride.

Almost inaudibly, she said:

“Move in with me.”

Cross met her gaze.

“Give me a little time. We’ll have it all…”

Milena nodded. Neither a yes nor a no. She understood. Perhaps in her own way, but he didn’t launch into explanations or promises. He was happy with her, here and now. And yes, he had serious plans for their future, something she didn’t yet suspect, but he wasn’t rushing things.

Later, when lights were going out across the town, he stepped onto her porch. The night smelled of strawberries and her scent. His phone chimed with an incoming message, a brief report from Roy: “Ice island by the entrance. A line this morning like at the movies.”

He replied: “Same again tomorrow. Get the fish on display early too.”

He put down his phone and went back inside, where warm arms were already waiting for him. He allowed himself to turn his attention away from the charts and all the bustle of business, giving himself entirely to feeling and passion.

Chapter 17

Two more stores opened before the end of summer. The business was growing, and so was the team: salespeople, cashiers, warehouse workers. All of Greyfield was being drawn into its orbit. Cross increasingly handed management over to Roy, teaching him every aspect of delegation. Roy caught on quickly and was gradually becoming a leader in his own right.

Through his contacts, with Devereaux behind them, Brian was securing premises for a second dealership. Cross, meanwhile, had thrown himself into trading, spending every available moment in front of the screens, catching the market’s impulses and building his capital. He had set himself a goal: settle his agreement with Lance by the end of September, reclaim his name, and take Milena to New York.

Meanwhile, Colton had found a plot for the new farm: level ground beside a river, with good pasture. He wasn’t rushing, but he walked around it as though he could already see his herds there. Kacper Mazur stepped in at once, calling on every contact he had to secure a loan for the land and the first batches of livestock, which Bob had already arranged to buy. Chain Hamilton helped with the paperwork, using his influence to speed up registration and clear the bureaucratic hurdles.

Cross had no time to get involved in the details, nor did he need to. The authority he had built in such a comparatively short time was already enough. Once he gave the go-ahead, everything ran smoothly. In fact, people were doing things he hadn’t even had time to put into words. A little longer, just a little longer, and his hands would be free!

But that was precisely when the troubling calls from New York began coming more often. John Lawrence, his manager and right-hand man at Begovich Trading, was contacting him more frequently than usual. The business had begun to falter, and Cross’s involvement was becoming essential. He gave instructions remotely, but the company needed him there in person. Eventually, he called an urgent meeting with the oversight committee and, of course, Lance. In New York.

“There’s a problem, and I want to discuss it in person. Not over the phone,” he told Toby.

“Of course, Cross. Need a hand? Shall I buy a ticket?”

“No, Toby. It’s not a personal problem. It’s the business. I’ll let you know when I’m arriving. We’ll meet at my office.”

Toby’s first response had been that of a close friend, without bureaucracy or references to signed documents. But after speaking to the others, he called back. By then, Cross had already booked a ticket on the next available flight. Toby’s voice was firm.

“Lance is completely against you returning to the company’s affairs, at least without someone accompanying you. He doesn’t trust you.”

Cross gripped the phone, barely containing his fury. Without answering, he lowered his hand. He sat in silence and began rapidly weighing his options. Send Lance a million dollars and cut him out of his life forever? Or what?!

Twenty minutes later, after washing his face with cool water, he called Lance.

“Hello, Cross.” His friend’s voice was heavy. “You got yourself into this mess. Making the agreement legally binding was your idea, not mine. And a million dollars is a million dollars,” Lance began at once, without waiting for Cross to speak.

“What do you want? I never promised I’d let my business collapse for the sake of our arrangement,” Cross countered calmly, though he was clearly struggling to control himself.

“And what would you do in my place? How would you handle it?”

“First of all, I wouldn’t show off at a party by making my friend look like some useless bastard sheltering under his parents’ wing!” Cross gestured with his index finger as though Lance stood before him. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and fell silent until Lance spoke again.

“I told the truth, whether you like it or not. But that was the only time in our friendship I didn’t keep my mouth shut, which is what you’ve always been used to, my friend! Whatever stunt you pulled, whatever you did, it was always treated as the right decision. But it wasn’t always right, far from it! And none of us dared say it to your face. But behind your back…”

“Shut the fuck up, Lance,” Cross said through clenched teeth. “This isn’t about the money. I could make a million a million times over, and giving it to you would be no problem. All you’d have to do is ask. But you’re trying to drag me through the mud, and you shouldn’t…” He paused to contain his rising anger. “I could fly over right now and terminate every agreement I have with you.”

“Your choice. But I didn’t draw it up, and I’m not the one who should break it. Want to fly over and get back to your business? Go ahead. But that will mean you’ve signed off on your own result. I’m just warning you. And by the way, this conversation is being recorded, so you can’t deny what you said later.”

Cross almost choked in disbelief. The man who had once been his closest friend, who had been through hell and high water with him, was speaking to him like a stranger. Memories flashed through his mind: all the times he had bailed Lance out, given him money, even fought for the son of a bitch, all but pulled him out of prison and out of a noose. Lance always managed to land himself in some fresh pile of shit, and Cross was there. He had always been there for him! And now… he couldn’t believe his ears…

He hung up and immediately called John. Glancing at his watch, he reckoned his assistant might still be at the office. It was just after six.

“Mr. Begovich?!” John sounded composed, though slightly tense.

“Contact our lawyers. I’ll be at the office tomorrow at eight. Everyone needs to be there.”

“Will do,” John replied briefly, and Cross ended the call.

Toby was next.

“I expect all of you at my office at nine. This is important.”

“So you’ve decided to terminate the agreement after all, Cross?” Toby asked gently, almost soothingly.

“Yes. But Lance is in for a surprise. I was planning to strike in September, but since he’s asking for it, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Cross…”

“Toby, I’ll see you at nine. And… keep what I said about the surprise between us. Agreed?”