The Lazarus Job

Waking Up to Choices

Ethan woke to the dull gray light creeping through the blinds, his head heavy with sleep he hadn’t earned. The fog of alcohol clung to him like a second skin. He stayed on the couch, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the city. A distant siren wailed, melancholy and sad, but it was just the world moving on, indifferent.

He turned onto his side, feeling the faint stickiness on the arm of the couch where he had lain the night before. The room smelled of neglect: old smoke, a hint of sweat, spoiled food, and the sharp tang of cheap liquor. Empty bottles were scattered across the floor like casualties from some forgotten battle. He pulled himself upright slowly, bones complaining, and surveyed the disarray. His apartment was more than messy; it was a reflection of him, abandoned, unloved, left to decay.

Dragging himself to the kitchenette, he flicked on the small stove. The flicker of the single burner was almost hypnotic. He cracked eggs into a pan, uneven, watching the yolks waver as they cooked. Bread went into the toaster, smoke curling lazily into the air. Coffee bubbled in the chipped mug, its aroma clashing with the heavier, sourer smells lingering in the room. He moved slowly, deliberately, as if each motion could anchor him to the world.

While he ate, his mind wandered back to Lex’s words. “Some things you’re meant to see for yourself… your talent wasted in a world that betrayed you.” He chewed slowly, grimacing, feeling the weight of every syllable. He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it clung, lingering like smoke. Could he still do something meaningful? Or had the fire of purpose long since died, replaced entirely by bitterness and wasted potential?

After breakfast, he sat at the small table by the window, staring at his phone. A stubborn idea had formed: maybe, just maybe, his old friend in the FBI could help. He knew the number of one person he had trusted once, long ago, when the world had made sense. Maybe he could clear his name the old-fashioned way. Maybe it was foolish, maybe it was pride or desperation, but he had to try.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, before finally dialing the number he knew by heart. The line rang. Once. Twice. Three times. The line clicked, and a voice answered, clipped and professional.

“Ethan Cross.”

“Marcus…” Ethan’s voice was rough, hoarse. “It’s me.”

There was a pause. “Ethan. I didn’t think I’d hear from you.”

“I… I need your help. Just this once.” Ethan ran a hand over his face. “I can’t do it alone.”

A bitter laugh echoed on the other end. “You? Help? After everything you’ve done? After how the bureau had to clean up your mess?”

“My mess?” Ethan snapped. “You know damn well it wasn’t my mess. You set me up. You know it. I—”

“Enough.” Marcus cut him off sharply. “Don’t start blaming me. Everyone saw the reports. The scandal. You’re done, Ethan. You were done the moment you fell for your own pride.”

“I didn’t fall for my own pride! You lied to me! You used my record, twisted every attempt to defend myself!” Ethan’s chest tightened; the anger and shame coiled together. “I put years into that agency. Years! And you tossed me out like I was nothing!”

The line was silent for a moment, heavy and uncomfortable. Then Marcus spoke, his voice quiet, almost coldly reflective. “You made your choices. You can cry about it, rage about it, but the bureau doesn’t wait for anyone. And neither do I.”

Ethan’s hands shook around the phone. “I trusted you. I trusted you more than anyone.”

“And I didn’t trust you.” Marcus’s voice was a flat, cold line. “That’s why I did what I did. You were already dangerous to yourself, Ethan. Dangerous to everything we had built. I can’t, won’t, undo it. Not for you.”

Ethan ran a hand through his hair, defeated. “So that’s it, then? Nothing left? I… I was hoping… I don’t know… maybe…” His voice trailed off, swallowed by the weight of reality.

“You have nothing left in the bureau, Ethan. No career. No allies. You’ve burned every bridge. Stop wasting your energy. Move on… or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.”

The line went dead with a click.

Ethan stared at the phone, his heart heavy, his jaw tight. Humiliation, anger, and despair swirled in him, but beneath it, a tiny ember of resolve began to glow. He could no longer count on the old world, on old allies. And yet, the gnawing sense of purpose Lex had planted remained. The thought came unbidden: *If I’m done with the system… maybe I do this on my own terms.*

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone she had delivered. Hesitation lingered for only a moment before he dialed. The line clicked almost instantly, and her calm voice greeted him.

“Ethan Cross.”

“I… I’ll do it,” he said, his voice rough but decisive.

There was a pause. “Good. Come to the hall on 18th Avenue, abandoned warehouse. It will be our workspace. Bring nothing but what you need. Midnight. Don’t be late.”

Ethan’s stomach tightened. He hung up, the weight of choice settling firmly on his shoulders. He was committed now. There was no turning back. His gut churned with nervous anticipation, lingering doubt, and the tiniest trace of excitement. He could almost feel the life he’d lost slipping back into his hands, like a current rushing under the ice of his despair.

The morning stretched on. Even as he prepared to leave for the warehouse later that night, he moved deliberately, savoring small details: the faint smell of frying eggs, the uneven streaks of sunlight on the floor, the way the city outside moved at a rhythm he no longer felt a part of. Each step toward the warehouse was a step into something new, something uncertain, and yet… necessary.

At midnight, he stood slowly, stretching the stiffness from his back, and left the apartment for the first time in days. The city moved around him, indifferent as always. The streets were alive with early commuters and the distant hum of traffic, but none of it reached him. Not yet. Tonight, he would step into something he didn’t fully understand, into a world he hadn’t touched since he’d been betrayed. But maybe, just maybe, this time he could play the game on his own terms.

He arrived at the abandoned hall, the city’s lights reflecting off cracked windows and peeling paint. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, feeling the dust settle around him like a warning. And there she was, waiting. Lex. Calm, composed, and unreadable.

“Welcome,” she said. “Let’s get started.”

Lex gestured to a set of folding chairs in the center of the hall. Dust motes danced in the weak streams of light filtering through the broken windows. Ethan lowered himself onto one of the chairs, feeling the metal bite into his legs. He didn’t speak, just waited, tension coiling in his shoulders.

“First,” Lex began, “you need to know who else is involved. You’re not doing this alone.”

From the shadows emerged a tall, slender woman with sharp eyes and an effortless confidence. "Maya Torres," Lex said. "Face of the operation. A conwoman and master of disguise. She gets into places and out again without leaving a footprint. Her flaw? She trusts no one and holds grudges. Cross her, and she won’t forget."

Maya gave Ethan a brief nod, just enough acknowledgment to confirm she was real, breathing, and dangerous.

Next came a young man, slightly hunched, with thick-rimmed glasses that reflected the dim light. A laptop bag swung at his side, wires peeking from the seams. “Cipher,” Lex continued. “Technician. Hacker extraordinaire. He’s obsessed with Lazarus’s collection for reasons of his own. Paranoid and socially awkward, but if you need a network breached, he’s your man.”

Cipher gave a small, nervous wave, his eyes darting to the corners of the hall as if expecting something to leap out at him.

A burly man with broad shoulders and a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes stepped forward. “Damien Cole,” Lex said. “Muscle and infiltration. Former soldier, more comfortable breaking in than breaking bread. He’s greedy and impulsive, but reliable if you can keep him on task.”

Ethan noted the glint of restlessness in Damien’s eyes. Already, the potential for friction was clear.

Lex paused, then added two more: “Sharon and Eric. Logistics and transport. Don’t underestimate them. They keep the operation moving, and without them, this is just a plan with no legs.”

Sharon and Eric offered quiet nods. Both carried the aura of people accustomed to being unseen yet indispensable.

Ethan shifted in his chair, scanning the room. The variety, the conflicting energies, the potential for brilliance and disaster, all concentrated in one hall. He felt a flicker of unease.

Lex spread the carefully folded map across the table, smoothing the creases with a deliberate hand. Ethan leaned over, his eyes narrowing at the marks, tracing corridors and guard posts with a finger.

“So this is it,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “Every door, every corridor… every camera?”

Lex nodded, her lips tight. “Every single one. Thanks to our inside man, we know how many guards there will be on auction day, where they’ll be posted, the types of cameras, even the laser grids in the galleries. He called it the survival map.”

Damien whistled low. “Survival map? Feels more like a damn battlefield.”

“Better think of it as a puzzle,” Ethan replied, his brow furrowed. “If we misplace one piece, someone gets caught, or worse.”

Maya leaned in, pointing at a hallway near the main gallery. “See here? Motion sensors, infrared panels, reinforced doors to the east wing. And these cameras, they can tilt, zoom, and track movement. If you get caught on one, they’ll know your shirt color, hair length, probably your favorite coffee.”

Cipher adjusted his glasses, quiet but intense. “And the number of guards?”

“Thirty,” Lex said. “Full strength during the auction. Plus extra event staff mingling with the crowd. They’ll be everywhere, but predictable. That’s our edge.”

Ethan let out a low whistle. “And the art pieces? What are we expecting to see?”

Lex leaned back, crossing her arms. “We have confirmed five major ones. Van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhône - $50 million; Rembrandt’s Storm on the Sea of Galilee - $35 million; an African bronze mask, 15th century - $8 million; a Hokusai scroll - $15 million; and an unpublished Da Vinci sketch, conservative estimate - $60 million. That’s just the big five. The inside man says there are twelve in total, all high-value, all insured.”

Maya’s eyes widened. “Sixty million for a sketch? And fifty million for the Van Gogh? Jesus… that’s insane.”

Damien smirked. “That kind of money… I could clear every debt I’ve ever had, start fresh. Maybe even buy a ranch far from everything.”

Ethan shook his head, rubbing his chin. “You’re thinking too small. Fifty million… even thirty-five… that could rebuild a whole life for someone careful. A business, freedom, no more chasing scraps.”

Maya tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Or pay off favors, secure power. Think about what someone could do with that kind of leverage. Influence. Freedom. Fear.”

Lex smiled faintly. “And that’s why we need to be careful. High stakes bring high risk. If we fail, all we get is jail time, or worse. But if we succeed…” She let the thought hang, letting each member’s imagination fill in the blank.

Cipher leaned forward, his voice a whisper. “I’ve never had anything like that. Not money, not freedom… just obsession. But if we pulled this off, it would mean finally getting what’s owed, my family’s stolen history returned, in a sense.”

Ethan’s gaze hardened. “This isn’t about dreaming. It’s about precision. We can fantasize later. For now, we need to know the building, the guards, the layout, every inch.”

Maya smirked faintly. “Yeah, but can we really ignore the fantasy? I mean… imagine walking out with one of those Da Vinci sketches. One step, and your life changes forever.”

Damien chuckled, shaking his head. “And here I thought we were just stealing paintings. Now we’re stealing dreams, too.”

Lex’s eyes scanned the group. “Good. Keep that in mind. Dreams are what make the risk worth it, but discipline is what keeps you alive. Preview Day is in two weeks. That’s when we’ll see these pieces for ourselves, understand the real security, and start shaping our cover identities. Until then, study the map, plan, and imagine… but don’t get carried away.”

Eric, who had been quiet, finally spoke. His deep voice carried a rough edge, like gravel underfoot. “You’re all talking about dreams and freedom, but you realize Preview Day isn’t a walk in the park. We can’t just show up in jeans and sneakers. This crowd? They’ll smell impostors a mile away.”

Lex nodded. “Exactly. Preview Day means playing rich, playing entitled. We need clothes, cars, jewelry, the whole package. They’ll check credentials at the door, run quick searches on names. If you don’t exist online, you don’t exist to them.”

Cipher pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That part’s on me. I can create full digital backstories for all of us: social media accounts, business websites, even mentions in niche blogs. Fake philanthropy, fake corporate profiles. If they G****e you, they’ll find something.”

Damien snorted. “What, you’re gonna make me a CEO? That’ll be rich.”

Cipher didn’t smile. “If you want through those doors, you’ll be rich. On paper, at least.”

Damien smirked, leaning back in his chair until it groaned. “Sounds simple enough. Play dress-up, walk around, take notes. Easy payday.”

Maya’s gaze snapped to him, sharp as a blade. “You think it’s easy because you’ve never had to actually blend in. These aren’t backroom poker games, Damien. These are billionaires who can tell a fake Rolex from three tables away. If you open your mouth too much, you’ll give us all away.”

Damien leaned forward, his grin widening. “And what about you, princess? You think because you can smile and bat your eyelashes, you’ll charm security into ignoring us?”

Maya’s hand twitched, but she stopped herself, settling for a cool smile instead. “Better that than stinking of cheap cigars and overconfidence. At least I know my role.”

Ethan cut in, his voice low. “Enough. We’re not here to measure egos. We’re here to plan.”

Eric, arms crossed, snorted. “Planning’s fine, but I don’t like relying on strangers. This Cipher guy says he’ll cook up fake identities, fine. But one bad code, one lazy trail, and we’re done. Prison or worse. You’re asking me to trust someone I just met with my life.”

Cipher adjusted his glasses, unblinking. “If you’d rather walk in with your real name, be my guest. See how long before Lazarus’s men pin you to the ground.”

“Hey,” Eric started, but Lex raised her hand, silencing them both.

“This isn’t about liking each other. You don’t have to trust. You just have to function. Each of you has a role, and if anyone slips, the whole thing burns.”

Maya leaned back, crossing one elegant leg over the other. “And the clothes. I know a place in Milan that rents authentic designer wardrobes for events. Discreet. Pricey, but worth it. Exotic cars? Same story. We’ll need to blend in as high bidders.”

Ethan frowned, leaning on the table. “All of this… it’s a damn circus. We’re going to show up pretending to be millionaires? And no one’s going to notice we’re faking?”

Lex met his eyes. “Ethan, it’s not about being perfect, it’s about being convincing. These people see arrogance, wealth, and confidence every day. If you walk in like you own the place, half the job is done.”

Eric chuckled, a low rumble. “Confidence, huh? Good thing I’ve got that in spades.”

Maya gave him a look. “Confidence isn’t enough when your suit still smells like whiskey and cigars. You’ll need grooming. All of you.”

Damien grinned, nudging Ethan. “Hear that? Haircuts and showers. Guess we’re really going undercover.”

Ethan didn’t return the smile. His mind was still spinning from the numbers Lex had rattled off earlier. Fifty million. Sixty million. He rubbed his temple. “And what about Preview Day itself? How long do we get inside?”

“Three hours,” Lex replied. “Enough time to view the auction pieces, mingle, and observe the crowd. And more importantly, to study Lazarus’s security, guards’ patterns, how the staff moves, and how the crowd is managed. It’s the only chance to walk through without suspicion.”

Cipher tapped a corner of the map. “And I’ll need high-res photos of every security feature we spot: cameras, doors, guards. Preview Day isn’t just for art lovers; it’s our reconnaissance mission.”

Maya’s eyes gleamed. “And maybe I’ll get to see that Van Gogh in person. Fifty million, just sitting there under glass. God… you could buy entire countries with that.”

Damien whistled again. “You know what I’d do? Forget the ranch. I’d take that money, disappear to the Caribbean, and never look back.”

Eric gave a dry laugh. “And that’s exactly why you’d get caught. No one just disappears with fifty million and a smile. You’ve got to be smarter than that.”

Doubt flickered in each pair of eyes, and mistrust simmered under the surface, quiet but alive. These people weren’t friends; they were desperate strangers bound by greed and necessity. Still, the lure of the art, the promise of fifty million locked inside a single canvas, held them together.

Maya finally broke the tension with a breathy laugh. “You know what? For all our fighting, this could work. We’re not perfect, but that’s what makes us harder to predict. They’ll never see us coming.”

Damien raised his glass of whiskey. “To not being perfect, then.”

Reluctantly, Eric clinked his glass against Damien’s. Maya followed, then Cipher, then Ethan, who hesitated before lifting his drink. Finally, Lex leaned in, her eyes cutting through them like steel.

“To Preview Day,” she said firmly. “Two weeks. We walk in rich, we walk out ghosts. That’s the only thing that matters.”

For a moment, the room warmed with something close to camaraderie. The mistrust didn’t vanish; it lingered in the corners, in the tightness of jaws and the dart of eyes, but it was tempered by the weight of what lay ahead. They were a mismatched crew with frayed edges and sharp tongues, but for now, they shared a single heartbeat: the silent thrill of chasing an impossible prize.

Outside, the city buzzed with its usual chaos, unaware that inside a dusty abandoned hall, a fragile alliance had been forged, with one week to prove itself, one week to hold steady before the first true test.

And as the map was folded and tucked away, Ethan couldn’t shake the thought that one wrong move, not on Preview Day, not even during the heist itself, could shatter everything before it even began.