Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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The house felt cavernous; empty. Elliott's absence was a tangible thing, a silence that screamed in my ears. He'd been gone for days, and the knot in my stomach tightened with each passing hour. I still couldn't understand it. One minute we were something. The next, he was gone. Just vanished.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration gnawing at me. We'd been good together. Or at least, I thought we were. The notion that I'd misread everything, that I'd been a fool, stung more than I cared to admit. And the worry... the worry was a constant, icy grip on my heart. He was vulnerable, exposed. Dark Side; they were still out there, and I knew, deep down, that Elliott was in their sights. After all he'd been through, it broke me to even think that he could be in danger.
I grabbed my phone, my fingers dialing one of my aides.
"I need you to find him," I said as soon as my contact answered. "Elliott Miller. I don't care how, just find him. And keep him safe."
I looked in the mirror, adjusting my tie. Elliott's sudden absence had derailed some of the important work we'd been doing, and it was yet again my fault. That seemed to be a common pattern in both my personal and professional lives. Here's to killing two birds with one stone.
My phone beeped, signaling that my ride was here, so I took my things and left, making sure to secure the house one more.
-----
The sterile white walls of Mr. Grey's office seemed to close in on me, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of my heart. I'd rehearsed what I was going to say a hundred times in my head, but now, standing before him, the words seemed inadequate, flimsy. He sat behind his large mahogany desk, his posture impeccable, his gaze unwavering. He exuded an air of quiet power, a man who commanded respect without demanding it. His eyes, a steely grey, held no judgment, no anger, just a cold, calculating assessment.
"Marcel," he greeted, the single word heavy with disapproval. It wasn't a question, not a greeting. It was a statement, a disappointed one at that.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry.
"Sir," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. I forced myself to meet his gaze, trying not to flinch. I refused to show the turmoil that raged within me.
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. Mr. Grey's expression remained unchanged, his eyes still fixed on me.
"How do you plan to fix this?"
I opened my mouth to respond but the words remained stuck in my throat. It took everything in my not to scream out in frustration and curse everyone and everything.
Mr. Grey remained silent for a moment, his gaze unwavering. He seemed to be looking into me, searching for the truth. Finally, he sighed, a sound that spoke of years of experience and difficult choices.
"I know you care for him, Marcel. And your heart is in the right place," he said, his voice calm and even.
"Yes, sir," I replied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I knew he was right. Logically, rationally, I understood. But my insides still ached with a dull, persistent pain.
"But there is one part of caring so much, where you feelings may blindside you," he continued, his voice unwavering. "They compromise operations. They make you vulnerable."
"I understand, sir."
"I'm not going to reprimand you for having feelings," he said, surprising me. I'd expected anger, disappointment, maybe even a threat. But his voice was calm, almost... understanding.
"You're human, Marcel. You're an extraordinary human, just like your father was. But you're not a machine, just like he wasn't. You were wrong. You were careless. You inadvertently jeopardized the operation. You let him get away. And now," he paused, his gaze stiffening, "It must be fixed."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"This gang... they're more dangerous than you might fathom. They're ruthless. They won't hesitate to use anyone, anything, to get what they want. In their eyes, Elliott a loose end now. A liability. He knows too much."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Elliott, a liability. The thought was horrible.
"I'll find him, sir," I said, my voice hoarse. "I promise. I'll bring him back."
"You will," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You have to. For his safety, for the safety of the operation, for the safety of everyone involved. You will find him, Nixon. And then," he paused, his eyes meeting mine, "we'll deal with them. Together."
Back at the house, I threw myself into the search. I spent the entire day glued to my phone, sifting through every piece of information my contacts could gather. Social media, local news, police reports- anything that could give me a clue.
Finally, after hours of fruitless searching, I got a text. They'd found Elliott. He was upstate, with his manager, where he seemingly had been since the day he left.
Hope surged through me, a sharp, almost painful sensation. But that hope soon evaporated, as cold, hard realization struck me. The gang had one of their main bases upstate. Elliott had unknowingly drifted closer to them whilst trying to get away from me. I knew I had to do something, anything in my power to end all of this.
I sent a message to HQ, informing them of my plans. Leaving everything non-essential behind, I hopped into my car and backed out, calculating that if I was fast enough, I could drive upstate in about two or three hours.
I couldn't wait any longer. Not if I could fix all of this.
