Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The pen moved steadily across the page, smoothly filling in the narrative of his latest brush with Toronto’s underworld.  A brush that he would’ve preferred to avoid, save for the fact that the man he’d interacted with had, in his own way, become one of Lieutenant Greg Parker’s friends.  Rather ironic, that a cop could call a mobster ‘friend’ – and vice-versa.

The officer sighed and shook his head, then re-read what he’d written, weighing each sentence and word as though it was a negotiation.  A few more lines, he decided, just enough to finish outlining the ‘official’ story; a part of him was uneasy at withholding the full story, but it was necessary.  Expected when it came to confidential informants.

Four lines later, it was done; Parker breathed a full and genuine sigh of relief as he tucked the paperwork away.  He would give it to Commander Holleran later in the day, once enough time had passed that it wouldn’t appear to be anything other than a subordinate reporting to his boss.  In the meantime, he had a mountain of other paperwork.

The stocky, balding lieutenant turned his head, glaring at the tower of white perched atop his inbox.  At least his emails were under control – those were easy enough to check, even while on patrol with his team.  Unfortunately, email was about all he could check – leaving the remainder of his lieutenant duties unfulfilled for more days than he cared to count as Team One’s shifts demanded all his time and attention.

Something was going to have to give – soon.  To fill in for an absent team member or go on hot calls when his paperwork was under control was one thing.  To be a semi-permanent replacement for Spike while he was out with a – hopefully temporary – vision disability…  That was proving to be quite another thing.

They’d managed it in the beginning, though Eddie nagged about all the workouts he was skipping.  But as time wore on, Greg began to realize just how much he was falling down on his own job in his quest to work two jobs at once.  If he took action now – talked Commander Holleran into rescinding Team One’s exemption to the seven-man rule – then he could continue to act as Spike’s replacement while his own replacement was recruited and trained.  After that, if Spike still couldn’t come back, then the team could recruit a second member.

Greg knew his team would fight against his fledgling plan, intent on maintaining their team, but he just couldn’t do it anymore.  He couldn’t work two jobs at once, not without sacrificing his own integrity as an officer.  And a new member would solve the ever-present problem that Spike’s injury had brought to the forefront.  Namely, how was Team One supposed to handle things when someone was – inevitably – sick or injured?

Maybe he should take Ed and Wordy with him when he went to talk to Holleran?  That would give them an inside look on his perspective and the challenges he was facing.  He knew they’d still be upset that he was permanently leaving the team, but if they knew why, then that might make it a little easier for them.

Satisfied with his tentative plan, the officer tugged the top sheet off the stack of paperwork and set to work.  The more he could get done during the morning downtime, the better.  Especially after Commander Holleran had started kicking him out if he ‘worked too late’.

He’d gotten through the first two sheets when someone knocked on his door – a frown surfaced as he looked up.  Normally, he didn’t mind if a member of the SRU came right in, but he’d specifically asked Ben to alert him if anyone was coming in.  He needed all the time he could get before the rest of Team One showed up and dragged him out.

“Enter!”  Best to just get it over with.

The door opened and four men streamed in, none of them SRU and all of them in plainclothes that screamed Internal Affairs to the veteran cop.  Hazel widened and Greg reared back in his chair, hands lifting in instinctive surrender.  He spied his pen still in his right hand and hastily put it down.

Inhaling slowly to control his reaction, the lieutenant surveyed his guests.  “May I help you, gentlemen?”

“Lieutenant Gregory Parker?” a large man in a gray-blue business suit asked.

“Yes.”  One brow hiked in question and dread swam in his gut.  He knew what this was, but what he couldn’t fathom was why.

The big man stepped forward, jaw set.  “Lieutenant Parker, you are under arrest for murder and organized crime.  Put your hands on the desk and don’t move.”

Shock reverberated in the small room, all of them watching Parker’s response.  He stiffened automatically, but carefully held still – there would be a time and place to fight this, but it wasn’t now, during his arrest.  So he obeyed, placing his hands flat on the desk and following each order given to him as they confiscated his sidearm and badge before cuffing him.

The walk out of his office, past his coworkers – his friends – was humiliating, but the negotiator never let himself show it.  Instead, he walked as proudly as he could with his hands cuffed behind his back, never letting a smidge of guilt or doubt show.  Whatever IA thought they had, he could beat it.  He just needed a chance to look at their evidence and disprove his involvement.  Then he could come right back home to his kids and the SRU.

* * * * *

65 hours earlier (3 days earlier)

Greg Parker walked into his apartment, a sigh of relief escaping as he pushed the door shut behind him, flipped both locks in place, and hung his keys on the wooden key holder fastened to the wall next to the apartment door.  Though part of him smarted at the way his commander had evicted him from his office, the rest of him was extraordinarily relieved to finally be off-duty after a grueling hot call and several additional hours spent doing paperwork – a futile attempt to winnow down the mountain of white paper atop his inbox.

The officer limped as he headed for his kitchen – he’d been on his feet so much during the hot call that old injuries were flaring up a bit, compounded by sheer exhaustion.  With any luck, he could snag a plate of leftovers, plus a low-level Pain Potion, and fall into bed once he was done eating.  Thank the Lion it was Friday and he didn’t need to work again until Monday.  Two days to sleep, eat, and play with his kids was just what the Healer ordered.

He’d just located a plate and was reaching for the refrigerator door when his cell phone shrilled in the silence.  Groaning, Parker dug in his jeans pocket for the device, praying it was just some creative spam caller who’d made it through the goblins’ anti-spam protocols.  Hadn’t happened yet, but there was always a first time…  A quick glance at the caller ID brought a frown and he thumbed the ‘call accept’ icon as he brought the phone up to his ear.

“Anthony?”

“Boss.”

Relief and hope and pain, so tightly tangled together that Greg knew in an instant what was happening.  His jaw clenched and his stomach wailed, but he was already turning away from the clean, empty plate on his counter to hurry for the door and his keys.

“Status and location,” he ordered, detouring to his bedroom for his personal weapon.

“They got me in the chest, Boss.”  A gasp and distant yells in the background.  “Got ‘way, but they’re still lookin’.”

Parker cursed inside his mind – depending on where the bullet had hit, Anthony might only have minutes.  And he’d have to listen to the other man die; bad enough when he had to listen to that on a call, when it was a stranger, but for it to be a friend…  The lieutenant picked up his pace, rapidly punching in the keys to open his gun safe and wishing for his comm.  Seizing his gun, he lofted it up to the bed and whirled away to grab his spare gun belt and holster.  He wanted to run right out the door, but that would put Anthony in more danger, not less.

“Anthony, text me your location, then find a place to hunker down.  Put as much pressure on the wound as you can; I’m on my way.”

A ragged, thankful rasp.  “Thanks, Boss.  Knew you’d come.”

“I’ll be there,” Greg promised before hanging up.  He tossed the phone towards his bed and yanked his belt through the loops in his jeans, only pausing when he got it ‘round to his right side.  He slid his off-duty holster in place, first one side, then through the jeans belt loop, and finally through the other side, securing the holster in place so it couldn’t move.  He finished fastening the belt, thankful the slide buckle (1) worked via friction instead of a traditional belt hole.  It might’ve taken some time to get used to after his kids ordered it a year or two ago for his birthday, but now he wished he could trade his work belt for a similar style.

Dismissing the idle thought, the officer scrambled back to his bed, scooping up his off-duty gun first; a quick rack loaded the first round and he slid the gun into his holster, automatically pulling the retention hood up and into place.  With his other hand, he grabbed his phone, thumbing the power button so he could see Anthony’s text.  He nodded once at the location, then turned and ran from the bedroom, racing for the door and his keys.  With a gunshot wound, every second counted.

* * * * *

The sleek SUV pulled up close by to an old, ramshackle warehouse.  The type that Greg usually wouldn’t approach without Team One at his back – but he couldn’t do that tonight.  Not when calling in backup would put his CI at risk.  His shiny, fairly new – and in excellent condition – vehicle was bad enough, but it was the only transportation he had.

Grimacing, Parker slid out, quickly thumbing the button on the door handle; the car beeped once as locks thudded down.  Shifting to a crouch, the officer drew his gun and hurried around the front of his vehicle, angling through an overgrown field of tangled grass and weeds, all of it tan from lack of water.  As he moved, he focused on listening, doing his best to locate his injured informant – without any innate link to Anthony, he was back to old-fashioned tracking.

Or…  Considering, Greg slowed his pace, scanning the ground as he tugged on his magic.  It took a few moments, but then his eyes acquired a slight burn, the telltale sign of his native scarlet glittering in hazel irises.  Hearing grew more sensitive, picking up the traffic and the soft whistle of wind through the meter-high grass around him.  He sniffed cautiously, wincing at the deluge of scents, most of them rather sour to his gryphon senses.  But…there…the slightest tang of blood.  Recent, with a freshness that spoke to a wound still gushing.  Not close by, though – probably from the ramshackle warehouse.

With a nod, Parker shifted his stance just a bit more, taking advantage of the gryphon instincts running hot in his veins, and shot forward in a breakneck run.  Though the grass rustled in his passing, nothing else betrayed the born predator’s presence.

* * * * *

As an officer working after dark, he was trained to clear any space with gun and flashlight – preferably mounted to his weapon, but otherwise ideally in his opposite hand.  As a gryphon, he didn’t need the flashlight.  His vision might not be as acute after dark as it was during the day, but he’d done most of his hunting during the midnight ‘witching’ hours during his cross-country marathon home and never had a problem catching his prey.

So he prowled through the building without a sound or a single gleam of light to betray his location, weapon partially up and ready.  Every so often, he sniffed the air, focusing on the distinctive scent of blood; deep inside, his predator side perked up, but his human revulsion at the idea of hunting a fellow human kept those instincts firmly in check.

Even so, he couldn’t help the realization that his prey was wounded – an easy catch.  Easy to track and finish off; his soul was horrified, but that was simply the way his gryphon side was wired.  He knew he wouldn’t hurt Anthony – and that had to be enough because he needed his gryphon side to track the gravely injured man.  Even if his gryphon side did think too much like a predator for his human tastes.

As he turned the corner, he sniffed again – and his head came up.  Close now; very close.  And what luck – this corridor was so rundown that he could jump up into the next floor, right where the scent was coming from.  His human side drolly observed that such a jump was risky, particularly given the clearly unstable surroundings, but Greg was acutely aware that Anthony was running out of time with each passing moment.

He dared not use his wings, but a crouch, a running start, and a jump carried him up to the next floor; he landed hard and skidded a few inches.  Bringing his weapon all the way up, he slowed his breathing and listened – that had caused way too much of a racket, how stupid could he get and…  Good, good…he couldn’t hear anyone coming.  Not yet.  Just the startled, sharp intake of breath from ahead of him and carefully regulated pants as his prey readied a defense.

Pitching his voice low, he called, “Anthony?”

A second startled noise.  “Boss?”  Mixed hope and shock – did Anthony really think that little of him?

Parker lowered his weapon and moved forward, peering through the gloom to spy the mobster.  Anthony sat against a mostly solid wall, gun held awkwardly in his left hand while his right hand covered a dark spot on his jacket – the dark spot was spreading, making it clear where the other man had been shot.

Training screamed to call in EMS, but he couldn’t.  He’d put himself, Anthony, and the paramedics in danger if he was that stupid.  Greg restrained a grimace and hurried to the injured man’s side.  Sparing no more than a moment to check the injury, he sorted through their options and nodded once.

“Anthony, have you got a holster?”

“Yeah, but…”

Parker shook his head.  “I have my weapon, but we need to get you out of here.  Fast as possible.  Can’t do that if you’ve got your gun out.”

He waited for the grimace and nod before taking the gun and holstering it.  Then he shifted, getting right next to Anthony on his left side.

“Okay, grab on.  Keep your right on the wound.”  He reached out, grabbing hold of Anthony even as the wounded man grabbed him.  The officer levered them up, ignoring the pained moan from his CI.  Inside, his heart twanged, but there was no time.  They had to get out of the building, faster the better.

Lowering his head a hair, he did his best to meet Anthony’s eyes.  “I’m gonna go fast, but we’re gonna make it.  My word on it.”

The mobster’s expression tightened, but he nodded.  Then he leaned into Greg’s support, murmuring, “Knew you’d come for me, Boss.”

With a sad smile – he was a cop, not a mob boss – Greg turned his attention to their route out of the building and back to his car.  With any luck, they wouldn’t even need the distractions he’d planted along his original route.

* * * * *

Parker hefted Anthony up into his passenger seat and helped the semi-conscious man get the seat belt buckled before he closed the door and hurried around the front of his car, cell phone in hand and already dialing.  He swung into his own seat, started the engine, and pulled out just as the call connected.

A yawn came through the line, followed by a sleepy, “Doctor Jesse Travis speaking.”

“Dr. Travis, this is Greg Parker.  I’ve got a medical emergency and I’m coming your way.”

There was a beat, then Travis demanded, “Why me?  Isn’t the hospital closer?”

Darting a glance right, Greg replied, “It is, but I’ve got an injured CI.  I take him to the hospital and he’ll be exposed.”

“You want me to treat someone under the table?” Jesse sputtered.

“Please,” Greg whispered.  “He’s a friend.”

Travis grumbled something rude under his breath.  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a jerk sometimes, Parker?”

“Practically every single hot call I’ve ever been negotiator on.  And Giles called me a troll a couple weeks ago.”

In spite of himself, the doctor laughed.  “He’s learning.”  A huff.  “Fine, Parker, but if this goes south on me, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Copy that, Dr. Travis.  I owe you one.”

* * * * *

“You owe me more than one,” Jesse announced as he inspected his patient and the bullet wound in Anthony’s upper chest.  “I’m a general practitioner, not a surgeon.”

“Bullet didn’t go through?” Anthony gasped out.

“Nope, it’s still in there,” Travis replied, deeply unhappy with his own conclusion.  He glanced up at the watching lieutenant.  “You’d be better off with the hospital, Parker.”

Greg sighed, rubbing his chin – he winced at the feel of evening growth, but set it aside.  “Any chance your sister can help tonight?”

Jesse blinked.  “Yeah, she’s off, but…”  He cast a pointed glance at Anthony’s distinctly techie attire.  “You sure you want your guy here to meet her?”

“Whatsa matter, doc?  Don’ want your sis to meet a real man?” Anthony slurred, leering as best he could with a gunshot wound to the chest.

“I doubt you would survive the experience,” Greg countered, tone mild as he gestured for Jesse to calm down.  “Susan has no tolerance for fools or those who go against doctor’s orders.”  He cast a pointed glare at Anthony and the injured man turned pink, both of them recalling a number of times when the mobster had done just that – though he’d never gotten shot before.

Hazel shifted back to Jesse.  “Anything you have on hand to help with the pain?”  He backed the question with a meaningful expression.

Travis blinked at him, frowning, then brightened as he caught the real question.  “Yeah, I got just the thing,” he confirmed, heading to a nearby cabinet.  “Pretty fast-acting, too.”  He rummaged around for a few seconds, then pulled out a small vial with a dark purple liquid inside.

“I ain’t takin’ that!” Anthony protested.  “How’m I suppose t’ know what that junk is?”

“Anthony, do you trust me?” Greg asked, pulling the mobster’s eyes to him.  He waited for the other man’s expression to twist, then added, in a gentle tone, “I know you’re scared, Anthony.  I know you feel like everything is suddenly out of your control, but Jesse is not going to hurt you.”  He gestured to the vial, watching dark eyes dart to it and back to him.  “I’ve taken that myself; I know what it is and how it works.  Jesse’s right; it works fast and you won’t feel any pain until it wears off.”

“Promise, Boss?”

“My word on it.”  He reached out, resting a hand on Anthony’s uninjured shoulder.  “You’re going to be alright.  I just need you to trust me, okay?”

Fear shone in Anthony’s eyes, but he nodded, his trust outweighing that fear.  Jesse reached across the examination bed, handing Greg the potion vial.  The lieutenant opened the vial and offered it to Anthony, not a smidge of hesitation or doubt on his face.

“You…you sure, Boss?”

“Absolutely sure,” Greg reassured the frightened man.  “I know it looks a bit…odd, but it’s very effective at controlling pain.”

Doubtful, Anthony stared at the dark purple potion, a few sparkles shimmering in its depths.  Then he took the vial and threw it back, swallowing before the taste registered.  His expression twitched; he blinked once, twice, then slumped sideways and Greg caught the sleeping man before he could fall off the bed.

As Parker pushed Anthony back into place, Jesse found a pillow to slide under the mobster’s head.  “He really trusts you, doesn’t he?”

“Yes,” Greg confirmed, soft with sorrow.  “He was my second when I was undercover.”

Travis whistled.  “Sounds like he’s still your second.”

The officer sighed and nodded.  “I’d appreciate if you didn’t spread that around, Jesse.  Rather not find myself undercover again.”

“Not a word from me, Lieutenant.  I’ll call Susan and we’ll get your guy all fixed up.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”  Greg brought his head up, meeting Jesse’s eyes.  “He might walk on the wrong side of the law, but he’s a good man.”  Humor crinkled hazel.  “Mob activities notwithstanding.”

* * * * *

By morning, Anthony was in the small medical practice’s recovery room, breathing slow, steady, and unhindered by the bullet that had ricocheted off a rib and come within millimeters of penetrating the heart.  There had been a great deal of internal damage and bleeding, but with Susan’s healing magic at work, Anthony would survive with only a scar and a few weather-wise aches.

Greg himself had stayed the whole night, only leaving long enough to buy some dinner for himself and the siblings, plus a quick call home to his answering machine.  Hopefully, the kids would find the message before they panicked over his absence.

Leaning back in his chair, the officer debated, then sighed and rearranged himself to be a bit more comfortable.  Dropping his head down onto his chest, he tugged at his magic, ‘asking’ it to wake him when Anthony stirred.  Scarlet purred acknowledgement, then tugged back, gently pulling him down into much needed slumber.

[1] This unique belt design is sometimes called a crossover belt – for a good description and image, I recommend looking up CrossBreed Holsters, specifically their Thin Line Crossover Gun Belt.

Chapter Text

As soon as Anthony shifted on the bed, scarlet magic hummed beneath Greg’s skin, nudging him awake.  The stocky man yawned and rubbed his face – not even the slight rasp of stubble was enough to bother him, not as tired as he still was.  Sighing, he pushed himself up from the chair and walked around the room, working the kinks out of his back and shaking off the last of his short slumber.  Not nearly enough after pulling an all-nighter, but hopefully enough so he could debrief Anthony and head home.

It took another couple minutes before Anthony fully stirred; reaching up, the mobster yawned, drawing an involuntary echo from Parker, and rubbed at his chest, right by where he’d been shot.  His jaw scrunched and he rubbed harder, before jerking upright, eyes shooting open.  Wide dark eyes scanned his surroundings, latching onto Greg.

“You said it was for the pain!”

Amused, Parker arched a brow and crossed his arms.  “I said you wouldn’t feel any pain as long as it was in your system.  And you didn’t.”

Anthony glowered.  “You know I don’ like losin’ control like that, Boss.”

Humor drained away, replaced by solemn regard.  “Yes, I do, Anthony, and I’m sorry, but it was necessary.”  He stepped closer, holding the other man’s gaze.  “Thank you for trusting me enough to take it.”

The mobster glared harder.  “You tricked me an’ you just expect me t’ be okay with that?”

“I don’t, but, again, it was necessary, Anthony.  Believe me that I didn’t choose that course lightly.”  When the glare didn’t abate, Parker sighed heavily and ran a hand through the remnants of his hair.  Striding over to the nearby counter, he picked up a to-go container and brought it over to the mobster on the medical bed.  “Here.  Jesse was willing to make a run to your favorite takeout place this morning.  Should still be warm.”

Wary, Anthony took the foam container and opened it up, eyes widening at the contents.  “You didn’t spike this, did you?”

“No,” Greg promised.  “No need; you’re past the worst of it and Susan already headed home, anyway.”

Startled, Anthony looked up.  “You put me out ‘cause of the woman?”  Hurt rang.

The older man sighed again, understanding the source of Anthony’s distress.  “No, that’s not it at all, Anthony.”  He returned to his chair and dragged it over to the bed before sinking down in it.  He nodded to the food and waited until Anthony had eaten a few bites before speaking again.  “Susan is in the medical field, like her brother, but her methods are unique.”  He let that hang, then added the punch line.  “And classified.”

The mobster froze, gawking at him with wide eyes.  “Classified?  Like whatever was up with you when you went down that one time?”

He nodded once.  “They aren’t directly related, Anthony, but the core source is the same.”  His jaw twitched.  “I couldn’t take you to the hospital and Jesse couldn’t treat the gunshot.  Not without help.”  He closed his eyes.  “We had to put you out so Susan could come in and help.  So, I’m sorry I violated your trust and used your faith in me against you, but I won’t regret making the call.  It saved your life.”

For several long minutes there was silence.  Up on the wall, the clock ticked along and Anthony stared down at his meal.  After a minute or two, he started to eat it again, but didn’t speak.  Still sitting in the chair next to the bed, Greg kept quiet, though he had to swat his gryphon side down as it whined, hungry for the food he could smell.

At last, Parker’s stomach growled, breaking the quiet.  Anthony jerked, staring at him for a long moment.  Then he laughed.  “How’d you ever get that big when you don’t eat?”

A rueful smile surfaced.  “Because I used to, Anthony,” Greg countered, rising to his feet.  “But I’d better get home before mio nipotes send out a search party.”

“You ain’t gonna ask?”

Parker halted and shifted back.   “I should, Anthony, but I won’t.  Not after I violated your trust.”

The other man squirmed, gathering himself.  “You, ah, you might wanna rethink that.”

One brow went up.  “Anthony?”

Sorrowful misery stared up at him.  “We got a couple new players in town, Boss.”

Hazel tightened, flicking back and forth in thought.  Then Greg huffed.  “Okay.  But let me get some breakfast before I debrief you.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

* * * * *

By the time he got home, it was partway through the day already and he was beat.  Even so, there was quite a bit of information from Anthony that needed to be passed onto his commander.  So Greg Parker summoned up his remaining reserves and called Commander Holleran.

The commander picked up after the second ring.  “Lieutenant Parker?”  Worry and chiding, all rolled together.

“Sorry to bother you at home, sir, but my CI called after I got home last night.”

Holleran exhaled hard, something in the sound giving Greg the image of his boss pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation.  “One of these days you’re going to work yourself right into the ground, Parker.”

“Been there, done that,” Greg countered, chipper and glib in his exhaustion.

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”  The commander huffed again.  “I take it you received some actionable intelligence?”

“Yes, sir,” Parker confirmed.  “Some of it, we’ll need to pass on fast.”

“Copy.  Give me the rundown and I’ll take care of the rest.”  A pause.  “You can fill in the CI paperwork on Monday, Greg, as long as you promise to eat and go to bed right after this call.”

“Already ate and bed’s my next destination,” the stocky man promised.  Rubbing his forehead, he said, “Anthony’s still working on tracking down the last of Troy’s guys, but he says we’ve got a new player in town.  Must’ve been getting the lay of the land for awhile; some of his guys ambushed Anthony last night down by the old warehouses – the ones the city’s working on condemning so they can rip it all apart and start fresh…”

* * * * *

On Monday morning, Greg levered himself out of bed, grumbling at his alarm even though he’d been the one to set it an hour ahead of his usual start time.  Quietly, he slipped through the dark apartment and took a quick shower, just long enough to scrub down and finish waking up.  Sneaking back to his room, he dressed and headed for the kitchen, nabbing a quick meal before writing out a note for his kids to find.

* * * * *

Once he reached the barn, Greg arrowed for the locker room and changed into his uniform as fast as possible.  In fact, he hustled so fast through his changing that he was still fastening the last buttons as he headed up the ramp into the atrium.  Pausing by the dispatcher desk, he waited for Ben to look up.

“Need you to call me if anyone wants to talk to me this morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben agreed.  “Early warning for Commander Holleran and Team One?”

The stocky officer allowed a faint smile.  “Exactly.”

“Got it covered, sir,” the young dispatcher promised.

Greg’s smile broadened and he nodded thanks before heading past and towards his office.  Kira and Winnie would never let him get away with it, but Ben was still too much of an eager-beaver to think of questioning his superiors.  He’d eventually grow into his role and start pushing back against his lieutenant’s ‘early-hours-don’t-count’ strategy, but in the meantime, the extra time was invaluable for putting a dent in the Paperwork Mountain Range atop his desk.

But first…  Parker detoured to his commander’s office, slipping in long enough to snap up the CI paperwork Holleran had already partially filled out for him.  Much as his other paperwork might scream, CI paperwork took precedence – and was easier to do if he didn’t let too much time go by before filling it out.  Especially the narrative…

Once in his office, Greg finished a few last items of prep before sitting down in his desk chair and locating his favorite pen.  Quickest done, quickest over, he told himself as he stared down at the page, replaying every single memory from the previous Friday evening in his mind.  Letting himself fall into a half-officer, half-mob boss mentality, Greg leaned over the paperwork and started writing.

The pen moved steadily across the page, smoothly filling in the narrative of his latest brush with Toronto’s underworld.  A brush that he would’ve preferred to avoid, save for the fact that the man he’d interacted with had, in his own way, become one of Lieutenant Greg Parker’s friends.  Rather ironic, that a cop could call a mobster ‘friend’ – and vice-versa.

Even more ironic that this mobster was someone Greg would trust to have his back, come hell or high water.  Just not with the welfare of his children.  Or maybe he would; Anthony – Scarface – was adored by the organization’s little ones and still regarded Parker himself as his boss, Elias, so he might well go to the wall to protect any of Greg’s kids.  Not that the lieutenant had any plans on introducing his kids to the mobster – that, he felt, would be a bridge too far back into his undercover op.

Bad enough that he was still maintaining any contacts from that period of his life – if City Hall got wind of the fact that the SRU’s lieutenant was still trusted by one of the city’s top mobsters, Greg had a nasty feeling he’d be back undercover before he could blink.  Particularly since Commander Holleran had finally presented the SRU’s requested budget for the upcoming fiscal year – and their plan to expand the unit for the first time since Greg himself was a rookie.  Ambitious, perhaps too much so; rumor held that Holleran’s new second-in-command was the driving force behind the normally conservative SRU Commander’s aggressive push for increased funding.

The officer sighed and shook his head, returning his full attention to the narrative.  A few more lines, just enough to finish outlining the ‘official’ story; a part of him was uneasy at withholding the full story, but it was necessary.  Expected.  Any cop with a confidential informant was expected to withhold information that might jeopardize their source – the bureaucrats might squawk, but even they knew the necessity of guarding the fragile shield of anonymity that protected sources.

Four lines later, it was done; Parker breathed a full and genuine sigh of relief as he tucked the paperwork away.  He would give it to Commander Holleran later in the day, once enough time had passed that it wouldn’t appear to be anything other than a subordinate reporting to his boss.  In the meantime, he had a mountain of other paperwork.

The stocky, balding lieutenant turned his head, glaring at the tower of white perched atop his inbox.  At least his emails were under control – those were easy enough to check, even while on patrol with his team.  Unfortunately, email was about all he could check – the rest of his lieutenant duties required more attention than he could give them, not when his teammates needed him on patrols, hot calls, and everything else.

Something was going to have to give – soon.  To fill in for an absent team member or go on hot calls when his paperwork was under control was one thing.  To be a semi-permanent replacement for Spike while he was out with a – hopefully temporary – vision disability…  That was proving to be quite another thing.

Oh, they’d managed it in the beginning, although Eddie nagged about how many workouts he was skipping.  Unfortunately, the paperwork ‘fairy’ he’d never caught had stopped helping out not long after the latest ‘Marina incident’.  So as time wore on and the paperwork stack on his desk began to grow – as the reports from Ed and the other Sergeants went unattended to, Greg began to realize just how much he was falling down on his own job in his quest to work two jobs at once.

He’d known for months that he wasn’t a Sergeant any more.  He’d even known his new role as the SRU’s lieutenant second-in-command would require sacrifices.  He just hadn’t realized – until now – that one of those sacrifices was his ability to be a fulltime frontline officer.  Deep inside, his gut tightened, because…  Much as he hated it – another sacrifice was probably going to be his unofficial status as a member of Team One.  The team already ran lean with six members; if he had to bow out because of his mounting paperwork and other duties, then Team One would be down to five.

Worse, even though Spike’s magical core was healing right on schedule, he hadn’t even gotten a glimmer of vision back.  With help from Elyan Coulby’s sister Gwen, the constable was beginning to relearn how to live without his sight, but the sad truth was that the SRU couldn’t afford to have a blind man in their ranks.  Other departments could and Greg was already discreetly looking into one that might be a good fit, but the SRU’s physical requirements precluded officers with disabilities, even if they were already in the SRU.

If he took action now – talked Commander Holleran into rescinding Team One’s exemption to the seven-man rule – then he could continue to act as Spike’s replacement while his own replacement was recruited.  If, at the end of the new guy’s adjustment period, Spike was still blind, then Parker could bow out and let Team One recruit a second new member.

Greg knew Eddie would fight against him – the bonds of the ‘team sense’ might’ve loosened enough to let ‘outsiders’ in again, but Team One was still fiercely devoted to maintaining the status quo, keeping ‘their’ team intact.  The problem was that Greg couldn’t do it anymore.  He couldn’t work two jobs at once, not without sacrificing his own integrity as an officer.  Even with his tentative plan, he was still going to be overloaded for weeks, if not months after he finally eased off the front lines.

And a new member would solve the ever-present problem that Spike’s injury had brought to the forefront.  Namely, how was Team One supposed to handle things when someone was – inevitably – sick or injured?

Maybe he should take Ed and Wordy with him when he went to talk to Holleran?  He knew his friends wouldn’t blabber his concerns all over the station – and if they could see the problems building up for him, maybe they’d be more open to his solution.  Maybe with four heads on the job, they could even find another solution – much as he doubted that another existed.

Satisfied with his tentative plan, the officer tugged the top sheet off the stack of paperwork and set to work.  The more he could get done during the morning downtime, the better.  Especially after Commander Holleran had started kicking him out if he ‘worked too late’.  After all, that was how he’d ended up off-duty when Anthony called…

He’d gotten through the first two sheets when someone knocked on his door – a frown surfaced as his head came up.  Normally, he didn’t mind if a member of the SRU came right in, but he’d specifically asked Ben to alert him if anyone was coming in.  He needed all the time he could get for paperwork before the rest of Team One showed up and he was inevitably harassed from his office to the briefing room.  The workout room if Eddie could manage it.

“Enter!”  Best to just get it over with.

The door opened and four men streamed in, none of them SRU and all of them in plainclothes that screamed Internal Affairs to the veteran cop.  Hazel widened and Greg reared back in his chair, hands lifting away from his paperwork and spreading in an instinctive show of non-threatening compliance.  He spied his pen still in his right hand and hastily put it back down on the desk.

Pulling in a deep breath to regain his composure, the lieutenant surveyed his guests.  “May I help you, gentlemen?”

“Lieutenant Gregory Parker?” one of them asked, a large man in a gray-blue business suit who was giving him a look of pure contempt.

“Yes.”  One brow hiked in question, though dread was filtering through his system.  He knew what was coming, but what he couldn’t fathom was why.

“We’ll need you to turn over your badge and gun, and come with us, Lieutenant.”

“On what charges?”

“Right now, it’s just an interview.”

Hazel narrowed a hair.  They had charges – there was no way they’d march in here and demand his gun and badge if they didn’t have charges.  But his reputation in the SRU was no secret and gossip had run rampant across the Toronto Police Department after his ‘return from the dead’ – IA was hoping to avoid a scene right in the heart of Parker’s home turf.

Fixing the four detectives with a disapproving look, the lieutenant lowered his hands and laid them flat on his desk.  “Gentlemen.  If it’s an interview you want, I can arrange that.  Just not today.”  Leaning forward just a touch, he added, “But if it’s just an interview, you wouldn’t be demanding my badge and sidearm right off the bat.”

“Lieutenant.  We’re giving you a chance to do the right thing.”

“No, as a matter of fact, you’re not,” Greg replied, tone mild.  “You are demanding that I disarm, ostensibly for an interview, without telling me what you’re investigating me for or enunciating any charges I may be facing.”  He lifted his left hand and spread it, palm up.  “If it’s just an interview – without charges – then I can’t call a union lawyer in to represent me.”  His left shoulder shrugged.  “Unless you’ve got charges, you could be interviewing me about something I might’ve observed in last week’s hot call – no reason for a lawyer if that’s the case – and that’s exactly what the union would tell me if I call in.”

They stared at him and he grinned right back with a gryphon’s predatory joy.  He knew the procedure when it came to officers who ended up tangled in the court side of law enforcement – and not just as a witness in a court case, either.  He’d learned early, mostly because although he’d been a pariah after arresting Castor Troy, he’d been represented by a union lawyer from start to finish.  Not to mention everything he’d learned from Detective Archer, the prosecutor, and even a few things from the judge – both during the original trial and two years later after Reese’s murder.

The big man in the gray-blue suit stepped forward, jaw set.  “Fine then.  Lieutenant Gregory Parker, you are under arrest for murder and organized crime.  Put your hands on the desk and don’t move.”

Shock reverberated in the small room, all of them waiting for Parker’s response.  Watching for any hint of resistance.  He stiffened automatically as the charges were rapped out, expression twisting, but – after a few moments – nodded acceptance.  He knew he’d get a chance to fight, but during his arrest was not the time.  And so, with a hard swallow, Greg returned his left hand to the desk – his right had never left it – flattened them both, and rose to his feet, kicking his chair away to give the detectives full access.

They moved in, securing his sidearm before pulling his hands behind his back for the cuffs.  Once he was cuffed, two of them hauled him away from the desk and their leader smirked as he checked the officer’s pockets and pulled out Parker’s badge.  Though the negotiator kept his expression perfectly calm and placid, his heart twisted at the sight of his badge in a stranger’s hands.

But far, far worse than his badge in the hands of an Internal Affairs detective was the walk out of his office and the barn, past his horrified, gawking colleagues.  Greg fought the urge to duck his chin and hunch his shoulders, guilt wrenching his insides.  With an effort, he pushed the guilt away – he hadn’t done anything wrong and he knew it.  So instead of acting like a guilty, cornered suspect, the SRU lieutenant lifted his head high and adjusted his stance to walk as normally and proudly as possible while his hands were cuffed behind his back.  Confident serenity radiated from him – whatever IA thought they had, he could beat it.  He just needed a chance to look at their evidence and hopefully point them in the direction of the real criminal.  Then he could come right back home to his kids and the SRU.

* * * * *

When they cuffed him to the iron ring under the interrogation desk, Greg was sorely tempted to lash out.  He could do it, too – he’d practiced using both the locking and unlocking spell on a plain pair of cuffs as well as his gun safe until he could do it in his sleep.  Right along with the silencing ward, though that required more raw power and he could only manage about four wards in a row before he gave himself a nasty migraine for the rest of the day.

Indignation throbbed under his skin, but he forced it back with a slow inhale, exhale, and a pleasant smile for the big man in his gray-blue suit.  The officer shifted subtly in his seat, relieving the pressure on his wrists and shoulders, then hiked an inquiring brow at his opponent.

The other smirked and leaned over the table, landing his palms flat in a mockery of Parker’s stand-down in his office.  Pale gray eyes glittered with triumph beneath a high forehead and carefully combed back brunet hair.  On the sides of his head, the brunet was beginning to turn silver, but unlike the stocky lieutenant, the IA detective possessed a full head of hair.

Beneath a strong nose, though, the detective’s years of good living were catching up to him – cheeks and chin possessed more flab than they should’ve and the gray-blue suit had been left unbuttoned, displaying a pale blue starched collar shirt and a dark red tie with a crosshatched black diamond pattern.  Although it was possible the suit was unbuttoned to allow for greater ease of movement and flexibility, Greg doubted it.  Maybe to allow an easier draw from the holster tucked at the detective’s side, just visible underneath one side of the suit jacket – he’d believe that.

“Been looking forward to this, Parker.  For a long time.”

“And why is that, Detective?” the lieutenant inquired.  “I wasn’t aware I’d done anything to warrant landing on Internal Affairs’ radar.”

“Is that so…”  The other trailed off insinuatingly, frowning when Parker merely gazed back, unconcerned and patiently waiting for the rest.

Reaching over, the large man tugged a folder over, taking his time in slowly flipping it open.  Greg regulated his breathing, refusing to let any panic build up – he’d been a Homicide detective, he knew the standard tactics for ratcheting up the tension in an interrogation, goading the suspect into a response, even if the suspect never said a word.

Thunk.  Despite himself, the officer jumped, hazel widening involuntarily at how close the detective was – almost nose to nose, contempt blazing in the big man’s pale gray.

“Don’t get smug with me, Parker,” the other man growled, looming over his shorter, seated opponent with palms flat on the metal table again.  “You and I both know you’re anything but innocent.”

A slight frown of his own emerged.  “You have yet to elaborate on whom I’m accused of murdering or what evidence you have that I’m involved in any crime, much less organized crime.”  He leaned back, ever so slightly.  “And since my lawyer isn’t present yet, anything I say now can and will be used against me.  I fail to see how keeping quiet until my lawyer arrives is being smug.”

The other snorted, loud and derisive.  “Keep tellin’ yourself that, Parker.”  He twirled the folder around on the desk and shoved it towards his stocky prisoner.  Greg found himself looking at a photo of his SUV, gleaming under the streetlights as it pulled out of his apartment complex.  A meaty hand smacked down on top of the photo – once again, Parker couldn’t quite help the tiny jump at the sudden noise.

Smirking at the reactions his prisoner couldn’t help, the detective spread out the stack of photos, all of them taken at night and most of them featuring his SUV – at first, Greg was confused, but then he spied a picture of his SUV parked next to an overgrown field, with a warehouse off in the background.  A chill ran up his back – someone had been following him.  He’d been hurrying to help Anthony and he’d missed a tail.  How the heck had he been that stupid?  If it hadn’t been IA, he could’ve walked himself and his gravely injured CI into a trap.

Even more horrifying was the final photo the IA detective pulled out of the stack – a photo that the other man dropped right under his nose, triumph fairly vibrating in the air.  A picture of him, gun in his right hand as he supported an injured, bleeding man up into the passenger seat of his SUV.  Anthony’s face hadn’t been captured by the photographer, but that was about the only saving grace Parker could see.

“Where’d you take him, Parker?”  The big man leaned back, surveying the lieutenant.  “Sure didn’t take him to any hospital; he lyin’ in some field outta town?  Maybe a quick trip out on the lake?”  A suggestive leer.  “Handy construction site?”

Beneath the desk, his fists clenched at the insinuation he would harm one of his own; Anthony might be a mobster who didn’t know a thing about magic, but that didn’t mean anything.  He was Greg’s friend and the lieutenant would never abandon any of his friends, never mind in such a cruel, unfeeling way.  But aside from the fist clenching and the lethal glare he landed on his opponent, the negotiator didn’t respond.  That was what the other man wanted.  For him to get angry, lose his temper, and give IA enough rope to hang him with.

* * * * *

The IA detective was gearing up for another goading session when someone knocked on the door to the interrogation room.  Both men inside the room looked up just in time for the door to swing open – a dark-haired woman strode in, right past a sour-faced detective who scowled at the woman’s back.  She appeared to be of average height, with brown eyes, a pert nose, and a full mouth; her red lipstick distracted from the tiny mole at one corner and complimented her high cheekbones and slim eyebrows.  Her dark brown, almost black, hair fell to her chin and hung free around her face, curling up at the ends.

“I hope you haven’t been interviewing my client without me present, Detective Niebaum,” the woman remarked.  “I’d hate to have drag you in front of SIU for breach of protocol.”  Again.

“Nothin’ wrong with a lil chit-chat while we wait for you, Counselor,” Niebaum replied, tone smooth and unconcerned.

The lawyer cast a glance at the photos still spread over the table and cast the detective an insincere smile.  She placed her briefcase on the floor and collected the chair next to Greg’s.  Sitting down, she leaned forward and folded her hands together as she gazed up at Niebaum.  “Well, now that I’m here, perhaps you could elaborate on the charges my client is facing.  And then I’ll have to ask you and your colleagues to leave while I consult with my client.”

The big detective scowled, but he had no choice in the matter and all present knew it.  To violate attorney-client privilege was to destroy his case before it could even be prosecuted, casting a dark shadow on his career as an Internal Affairs detective.  So, with a huff, he turned back to his folder and pulled out several more photos.

“Well, Counselor, it seems our upstanding Lieutenant Parker here has been moonlighting as a mob boss, right here in the heart of the city he swore to protect.  Even goes out of his way to pull his confidential informant – aka his second-in-command, Scarface – out of the fire when he should be tucked in at home, nice and snug after an all day shift.”

Parker’s muscles tightened, but he kept his mouth shut.  His lawyer might be present now, but if he lost his temper, he’d give Niebaum free ammunition.  Which would be a bad thing, particularly with the sneaking suspicion rumbling around in the back of his mind.

For her part, his lawyer tapped the tips of her fingers together, expression placid as she said, “That would be the organized crime charge, I imagine.  What about the murder charge I heard about?”

“Murders, actually,” Niebaum countered.  A heavy glare was angled in Greg’s direction.  “One of them was one of ours – Detective Brenda Kastor.”

“And who else?”

“Brenda’s older brother, Castor Troy.”  Niebaum shook his head, shoulders bowing in sorrow.  “Good man – least he was till Parker here shot him!”

Parker’s teeth ground together as he wrestled every last scrap of outrage back into the mental ‘cage’ he’d once employed for his gryphon form.  Aside from his return glare, he didn’t say a thing, though he was sorely tempted to.

Next to him, his lawyer absorbed the information, frowning thoughtfully.  “Anything else?”

Niebaum shook his meaty head.  “We’ll leave you two alone to discuss your client’s options, Counselor.”

* * * * *

Greg waited until he and his lawyer were alone, even signaling her to stay quiet while he turned his head towards the one-way glass and tilted his head, listening.  Nothing but the hum of the building A/C.  Good.

Shifting back to the brunette, he said, “Lieutenant Greg Parker, SRU.”

She smiled back.  “Claire Kincaid.  I’d shake your hand, but…”

“But I’m a little tied up right now,” Parker finished for her, a slight smile tipping his jaw.  It fell away as he sobered, meeting her gaze.  “How familiar are you with the name ‘Castor Troy’?”

Keen brown studied him in turn for several long moments.  “I’m still fairly new to Toronto, Lieutenant Parker.  Moved up here from Manhattan a couple months ago.”

Parker sighed, wishing he could rub his head.  “Alright, then, Counselor, let me give you the whole rundown, but before that…”  He hesitated.  “Do you know how much time they usually give for lawyer/client consults before coming back?”

Kincaid blinked, surprised.  “You think we’ll need more than that?”

“Yes,” he replied simply.  “Castor Troy’s history in Toronto goes back over twenty years; he was active before I even enrolled in the Academy.”

The young lawyer whistled low, surveying him with new eyes.  “Give me a few to let Niebaum know he can’t come back in here until we’re done.”

“Copy that.”

* * * * *

It took almost two hours to lay out the whole of the history behind Castor Troy, his two siblings, and the swathe of destruction they’d once carved through Toronto and her police force.  He named every victim he was personally aware of and even the victims Detective Archer had told him about.  The initial arrest, the trial afterwards, and the car bombing that had claimed John Reese’s life.

From there, he gave a brief overview of his own career and how, twenty years after the trial, Castor Troy had managed to escape from prison, murdering Archer, the judge, and their families.  How Pollux Troy and Brenda Kastor had conspired to force him out of the SRU and into an undercover role as an Italian mob boss, robbing him of protection and backup, right when he needed it most.  Commander Holleran’s shooting and the fiery standoff that followed, leaving him badly injured and struggling to come home.

The officer freely admitted that he had pulled his former criminal second – now his confidential informant – out of danger the prior Friday, but insisted that he’d never used his personal weapon.  He acknowledged that he’d kept his CI away from the hospital, but taken him elsewhere for medical attention, something that wasn’t entirely uncommon when it came to CIs.

Kincaid’s pen flew as she wrote down his information, a slight frown emerging as the story unwound.  By the time he was done, Parker was getting a very sinking feeling in his stomach; as his lawyer, Kincaid couldn’t reveal any of what he’d told her in confidence, but if she didn’t believe him…

When he was done, he waited for her to finish writing and read over the story once again.  At last she turned towards him, a glimmer of skepticism in her eyes.  “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight.  You’re admitting that IA is right – you did kill two people and you were a mob boss in the same city you’re supposed to protect.”

He bristled at the last.  “I wasn’t even given a choice in going undercover, much less what my role undercover was going to be.”  Hazel narrowed a hair.  “And while I regret that I had to take Brenda down with her brother, what I will not regret is protecting my former teammates and my family from what Castor would’ve done to them if things had escalated any further than they did.”

He let that hang in the air a moment, then allowed his shoulders to slump down and glanced away, tilting his head to expose his neck in a show of submission.  “I know it was vigilante ‘justice’, Counselor.  I’m well aware that I appointed myself Judge, Jury, and Executioner – and that is something I will live with and regret for the rest of my life.  But.”  His head came back up.  “My family is still alive.  That’s a lot more than any of Castor Troy’s other victims can say.”

“Then we have mitigating factors,” Kincaid mused.  She considered, then nodded to herself.  “I recommend we cut a deal with Internal Affairs.  I’ll obtain the evidence of your undercover assignment, get them to take organized crime off the table, and plead you down to a lesser sentence on the murder charges.”

“Cut a deal?” Parker echoed incredulously.  “Counselor, Detective Niebaum was on Castor Troy’s payroll!  I found evidence of that while I was undercover and handed that evidence over to my commander.  I got no idea how he wriggled his way out of that, but I wouldn’t trust him to protect my hamster, much less my three kids if I’m put away on murder charges!”

She eyed him disapprovingly.  “Lieutenant, you just confessed to murdering two people in cold blood.  Even if we could prove that they posed an imminent threat to your family, do you honestly believe you can walk away from this?”

His shoulders hunched as if she’d struck a physical blow.  Then he shook his head.  “It wasn’t like I walked up behind them and shot them in the back.  After they ambushed Commander Holleran, I knew they wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than slaughtering my teammates and my children in front of me.  Maybe they’d even drag out the killing, just to ensure I broke, right before Castor executed the last man left from the original trial.”

Hazel bored into her brown.  “So, yes, I lured them onto my turf, to a location I’d prepped beforehand, but they didn’t have to come.  They didn’t have to start shooting at me after I sprang the trap.”  He shook his head slowly.  “If they’d run in those first few seconds, I would’ve had to let them go.  They would’ve gotten away scot-free and I’d’ve had to come up with some other way to take ‘em down.

“But you know what they did instead?  They both pulled out automatics and started shooting.  Even though it was obvious I had the high ground and they were fighting at a disadvantage, they still attacked me.  Neither one of them were willing to fall back – no, they had to take me down.  Right then.  Right there.  They needed to prove that if anyone, cop or not, challenged Castor Troy, that person was a dead man walking.”

“So.  You think you did the right thing.  You murdered two people, but as long as your motives were pure, you don’t care about real justice.”

“Archer did the right thing,” Greg countered, soft.  “I arrested Castor Troy, but Detective Archer’s case is what put him away.  For life.  He was retired, Counselor.  He, his wife, and his daughter, they moved to the States years ago.”  The lieutenant shook his head sadly.  “For doing the right thing, he had to watch as everyone he loved was murdered, right in front of him.  We’ll never know what Castor did to him before he died – his head was cut off and shipped to his old precinct, but they never found his body.  Only his family’s bodies; he was the primary suspect in their murders till Captain Cragen called the department near where he lived.”

The brunette Kincaid paled at the additional details, but her mouth was tight with stubborn displeasure.  “That doesn’t make your actions justifiable.”

“Doesn’t it?” Greg questioned.  “Doesn’t a man have the right to protect his family, even if it’s technically against the law?”  He let that hang, then added, “Besides, Castor was an escaped prisoner.  As a cop, it’s my duty to protect the citizens of Toronto from men like him; Brenda was aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice – I had a duty to stop her as well.”

“By arresting them, Lieutenant Parker.”

“Arrests weren’t possible.”  Parker set his jaw and stared at her.  “No deal, Counselor Kincaid.  Niebaum wants my hide, he’s going to have to get it the hard way.  In court.”  Teeth flashed in a savage grin.  “I have no doubt I’d win in a jury trial – ‘specially since my kids were on the line – but I won’t risk it.  I want a bench trial, Counselor.”

Kincaid’s mouth went just a bit tighter, but she nodded acceptance.  “Very well, Lieutenant Parker.  I’ll bring Detective Niebaum back in.  Once you’re booked, I’ll arrange a meeting with the prosecutor and arrange for a bench trial.”

As she rose and departed, disapproval still tangible around her, Parker exhaled and wished he knew more about the New York lawyer who’d been assigned to represent him.  He was prepared to fight to the bitter end, but he definitely would’ve preferred a lawyer who believed in him rather than someone who was just doing her job.

Chapter Text

There were no words to express Sergeant Edward Lane’s fury and disgust when Commander Holleran broke the news to him and the other Sergeants.  How dare IA charge Greg with organized crime when he’d been forced undercover as an Italian mob boss.  Forced to deceive everyone he knew and loved – left high, dry, and void of the backup he deserved when the real mob boss came after him.  How dare IA charge Greg with murder when he’d had to choose between ‘doing the right thing’ and protecting his family.

If it had been him, Ed knew exactly what he would’ve done to protect his Sophie and their kids.  And he wouldn’t have been as nice about it as Greg.  Greg – the honorable, secretly chivalrous knight of a cop – he’d given them a fighting chance.  A chance to retreat and survive another day, but if it had been up to Ed…  No matter how good Castor Troy and his loathsome sister had been, there was no way they could’ve survived his sniper’s round.

Jason Cooper swore as their commander finished, turning away as if to deny the charges against their leader.  Next to him, Troy Vio’s expression was closed, with a glimmer of despair in their depths – Ed was reminded of when, years earlier, the lean raven-haired man had been briefing him and Greg about Danny taking over the briefing room.  The hesitation right before he’d confessed that Greg’s kids were inside the room – Danny’s unknown captives.

Nathan Roenick crossed his arms, a savage glitter in the depths of his eyes.  Wisely, he kept silent, perhaps realizing that if he crowed over Parker’s arrest, Commander Holleran would turn a blind eye to the thrashing he’d get from his fellow Sergeants.

“What now?” Ed demanded, fists clenching by his sides.  “There’s got to be something we can do to help.”

Holleran nodded once.  “I still have all the evidence that Greg passed to me via the cemetery dead-drop we set up.”

“What about the paperwork for the transfer and the gag order?” Jason asked, swinging back.  “That would prove Parker didn’t want to go undercover in the first place.”

Their commander frowned, considering.  “I should have that, but I’ll have to find it.”  He nodded to himself.  “Captain Cragen will have all the evidence that was collected after Detective Archer and his family were murdered.”

“And the judge,” Vio put in, eyes widening.  “Didn’t Judge Gordinski and his family get murdered after Parker went undercover?”

Nathan snorted.  “They could claim Parker did the judge and his family.”

“They’re welcome to make that claim, Sergeant Roenick,” Holleran remarked, tone dry.  “It wouldn’t fly, though.  They’d open the door to admitting evidence from Castor Troy’s original trial, where he was convicted of murdering several law enforcement officers and their families in the same manner as Gordinski, Archer, and their families were killed.”

Ed’s blue eyes widened, right before he frowned.  “Sir, why can’t we introduce records from the original trial?  If Gre… Lieutenant Parker’s claiming self-defense, then the original trial would show that he had reason to believe that his family’s safety was at risk from Castor Troy.”

Commander Holleran stilled, considering the argument.  Then he sighed and closed his eyes.  “I’m not a lawyer, Lane, but the trial records are still sealed.  We’d need to get them unsealed before we could even consider adding them to Parker’s defense.”

“Get Parker’s union lawyer on it,” Roenick opined.  “What’re we payin’ her for?”

Their commander stiffened, enough that all four Sergeants stared at him, silently demanding answers.  Reluctantly, he explained, “Her name is Claire Kincaid; she used to be an assistant district attorney in Manhattan.  She moved up here to Toronto shortly after the warehouse fire – she has no firsthand knowledge of Castor Troy or his activities in this city.”

“And?” Sergeant Vio pressed when their commander hesitated.

“I’ve spoken to all the officers she’s worked with thus far – from what they’ve told me, she’s a very good attorney, but none of them want to work with her again.”

Roenick allowed a sneer.  “I know just the type, sir; too busy lookin’ at the law to see the real live guys behind the law.”

Ed’s heart sank.  “You mean, she’d see going lethal on a mob boss as murder?”

“In the context of a hot call, no,” Commander Holleran replied.  “Unfortunately, Lieutenant Parker was not on a hot call when he took down the Troy siblings.”

And that, Ed realized, was enough.  Because Greg had gone outside the letter of the law, his own lawyer believed him guilty of murder.  His stomach lurched; if Greg’s lawyer didn’t believe in his innocence, then the odds of him winning at trial – even a bench trial – were extremely low.

So low, in fact, that even Roenick had dropped the devil-may-care attitude and bore a grim, serious expression.  And that was the most frightening fact of all.

* * * * *

Silverock fidgeted as he entered the human law office.  Initially, he and his honored sire had intended to contact the United States Navy lawyer who’d assisted the House of Calvin before, but Lord Calvin had put paid to that plan.  Not without regret, as Bud Roberts – recently promoted to the rank of full Commander – was an honorable man and an excellent lawyer with a great deal of experience defending clients in the courtroom, but he wanted nothing more to do with the wizarding world.

Fortunately, his sire had anticipated that Lord Calvin might refuse to override Commander Roberts’ stated wishes; even as he’d been planning on contacting the Navy lawyer, he’d set Silverock to investigating alternatives.  Of course, Silverock had started with lawyers in Toronto, but not long into his investigation, another name had come across his desk.  Not Canadian by any means and potentially difficult to lure from his native territory, but the man’s record was most intriguing.  If convinced of his client’s innocence, he was ruthless as a goblin in court.  Perhaps even outside of court if Silverock’s suspicions were correct.

One hand lifted briefly to his shoulder, checking that the goblin glamour was in place and active.  Then he stepped forward, nodding greeting to the woman behind the desk in the small office.  “Good day, Madame.”  The goblin extended his card, waiting for the secretary to take it.  “I have an appointment with Mr. Matthew Murdock of Nelson and Murdock.”

“Oh, yes, his 8:30 appointment,” the secretary replied, consulting a book on her desk.  “Let me show you in, sir.”

Silverock inclined his head.  “My thanks, Madame.”

Brisk, the redhead stepped around the front of her desk and guided the goblin through the small office to a plain door without any adornment – not even a nameplate.  Inwardly, Silverock was surprised, but then he reconsidered.  Despite the small law firm’s many successes in court, the majority of the firm’s clients were too poor to fund larger, more elaborate premises.  It stood to reason that the two lawyers of the firm would forego any unnecessary expenditures.

He therefore made no comment as his guide opened the door and announced, “Mr. Murdock, your 8:30 is here to see you.”

“Thank you, Karen,” the man inside the office said, rising to his feet to greet his perspective client.

The goblin moved past the secretary, nodding to her in thanks as humans were expected to do.  Then he turned his full attention to the young lawyer, evaluating him even as he was evaluated in turn.  Tall and lean, Murdock wore the customary business suit of his trade – a dark gray suit and starched white shirt adorned with a gray and black striped tie.  Silverock judged him to be a brunet, albeit with hair dark enough to be mistaken for black, particularly when paired with the dark-red glasses he wore.

A cane leaned against the wall behind Murdock’s desk, within easy reach of its master.  The handle was a deep red hue – crafted of fine, quality wood.  The stick itself was white, though there were dark rings between each extended section and Silverock caught a glimpse of an emblem at the very top of the cane, one he would’ve liked to examine up close.

Murdock tilted his head, a frown appearing on his face.  “You’re shorter than I expected.”

Silverock chuckled, a gravely sound in the small office.  “A lack of height runs in my family, Mr. Murdock.  We have learned to compensate with our minds.”

The frown shifted to a brief smile, there and gone in an instant.  “I apologize; you didn’t come here for me to insult your height.”  Or lack thereof.

The goblin waved the apology away, smirking when Murdock’s head shifted in time with his movements, as though the blind lawyer could see his movements.  “I shall overlook the matter, Mr. Murdock.  If we may proceed to business.”

“Of course,” the lawyer replied, gesturing to the seat before his desk.  “I understand from your message that you’re looking for a defense attorney?”

“My client is,” Silverock corrected, ignoring the way his feet dangled once he was sitting in the human-sized chair.

Murdock frowned and steepled his fingers.  “I prefer to meet with my prospective clients myself, sir.  Nelson and Murdock only takes cases where our clients are innocent.”

“I am aware of your ethics, Mr. Murdock,” the goblin replied.  “But I am afraid it is quite impossible for my client to travel to New York at present.  He has already been arrested and is being held until trial.”  He let that sink in, then added, “In Toronto, Canada.”

Murdock stiffened, eyes widening behind his glasses.  “You’re coming to New York for a defense attorney?  I don’t even have a license to practice in Canada!”

Silverock was caught off guard and it was his turn to frown.  “Forgive my ignorance, sir; my client’s current attorney also hails from Manhattan and used to practice here as a district attorney.  I was not aware that she was required to obtain a new license to maintain her profession.”

“Who is your client’s current lawyer?”

“Her name is Claire Kincaid.”

The young lawyer blinked, then sighed and reached up, removing his glasses to briefly rub at his eyes.  “I heard she moved out of New York and went into private practice.”  Shifting back to his guest, he added, “She’s a good attorney; your client should be in good hands with her.”

The goblin scowled.  “My client’s friends and family are not so sure, Mr. Murdock.  The circumstances surrounding the crimes my client is accused of are somewhat…murky.  For those who know the full story, his actions are quite understandable, but Miss Kincaid views the law very…narrowly.”  Spreading his hands, Silverock continued, “You are known to be zealous in defense of your clients – so long as you believe in their innocence.  Also, you and your partner tend far more towards the spirit of the law, then its letter.”

“I still don’t have a license to practice law in Ontario,” Murdock pointed out.  “I’d have to pass the bar exam before I could even think about accepting your client as my own.”

Silverock fell silent for some minutes – he knew how slow the Muggle world could often be.  Lieutenant Parker did not have time to wait for Murdock passing the Canadian bar – and that was assuming that Murdock could go straight to the bar exam and not be waylaid by other bothersome bureaucratic requirements.

At last, choosing his words with care, he said, “Would you be willing, Mr. Murdock, to come to Canada to meet my client?  There may be ways to overcome the obstacle you have outlined, but there is little point unless you are willing to take the case.”  The goblin dipped his head.  “As you have stated that your firm does not accept clients unless you believe them to be innocent, only a face-to-face meeting will do for your requirements.”  He studied the young lawyer and added, “We would, of course, pay for your time and all travel expenses, regardless of the outcome.”

Murdock’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses.  “If your client is already in line for a trial…” he began.

“Allow me to worry about that, sir,” Silverock countered.  “I have simply asked you to come and meet my client, with no expectations about what happens after that.”

The young lawyer frowned deeply, but finally agreed to the proposal.

* * * * *

Foggy offered to come with him, eager to escape the Big Apple, if only for a few days.  Matt accepted with a wry grin and even paid Karen to take the rest of the week off out of the expense money he’d gotten from the mysterious Mr. Silverock.  Foggy whistled low at the advance funds and Karen gasped at how much their prospective client was already paying them – Matt knew his two friends were already very willing to take the case, despite the fact that he and Foggy were only licensed to practice in the State of New York.

Despite his own misgivings, Matt Murdock was curious – what was it about this case that had driven a client from Toronto, Canada to seek out a New York lawyer?  After all, a city the size of Toronto was sure to have many attorneys – good, bad, and indifferent.  Surely there was a local attorney – who already had a license to practice law – who could take the case?

* * * * *

Claire Kincaid met them at the hotel – Matt and Foggy had never met her in person before, but they knew her reputation as a tough, but fair assistant DA.  There was a tartness to her voice as she brought them up to speed on her client, a local cop with an excellent reputation who’d been accused of organized crime and double homicide.  Murdock stiffened, thinking of Fisk and how the ruthless crime lord hid beneath his masquerade as a respectable businessman.  Fooling nearly the whole city of New York even as his thugs ran amok.

Kincaid couldn’t tell them everything, of course; there was a great deal that fell under attorney-client privilege, a privilege that neither Matt nor Foggy were bound to.  Nevertheless, by the time she was done, the two New Yorkers knew for a fact that Kincaid believed her own client guilty of the crimes he stood accused of.  Turning his head ever so slightly, Matt nodded to Foggy, agreeing with his partner’s unspoken conclusion that Kincaid wouldn’t represent her client to the best of her ability.  How could she, when she was a former DA accustomed to trying criminal defendants.  Her own convictions would hobble her efforts to defend the man.

“Can you get us in to meet Parker?” Foggy asked.

“I’ve already arranged it,” Claire replied.  “Can’t say I’m surprised Parker’s people went to New York for a lawyer, though.”

“What makes you say that?” Matt questioned, arching a brow behind his trademark dark-red glasses.

Kincaid shook her head and didn’t reply until she’d gotten them out of the hotel and to her car.  Once they were in the vehicle and headed towards the Toronto prison where Lieutenant Parker was behind held, she spoke again, as if no time at all had passed between Matt’s question and her response.

“I haven’t been here very long, Murdock, but there’s all kinds of rumors about the Strategic Response Unit.  Most cops around here call them the cavalry, you know.”

“What, like they’re the SWAT big guns?” Foggy asked.

Air shifted in the car, as if Claire had nodded.  Then she huffed.  “Sorry, Murdock, forgot.  Yes, that’s right.  But don’t call them SWAT – they’ll insist that they’re ‘talk before tactics’.  At least, that’s what Sergeant Lane did when I went to talk to them about Parker’s case.”

“Being Canadian SWAT doesn’t sound like much of a rumor, Kincaid,” Matt observed.

“No, but try this on for size, Murdock.  While he was still a Sergeant, Parker disappeared for two months, right after a four-alarm fire.  Even his own team thought he was dead.  Then, just about the same time his team ended up in the middle of a bombing case, he reappears.  Fit as a fiddle and they say he rescued his old team leader from a burning building.  Got him out right in the nick of time.”  She let that hang, then added, in a very dry tone, “His team was suspected of setting the bomb that caused the fire, but once it was all over, everything got hushed up and swept under the rug.  And that’s not even the wildest rumor I’ve heard, boys.”

“You’ve got wilder than coming back from the dead?” Foggy blurted – Matt knew his best friend’s eyes were wider than saucers.

“Yep, sure do,” Claire replied.  “Supposedly, a year or so back, his nephew got in a car accident the same day he got his license.  Not the kid’s fault – the other driver was so drunk, she’d already had her license suspended a couple times.  Lost it for good after that accident.”

Matt whistled low from his spot in the backseat and heard Claire nod agreement with Foggy’s slack-jawed astonishment.

“Long story short, Parker’s car burned to a crisp – coroner issued a death certificate for the kid – but a week or two later, the kid turns up alive.  Supposedly, some lady walking down the street kidnapped the kid ‘cause he looked like her dead son.  And get this, the one of the guys who found the kid was his team leader’s younger brother.  Heck of a coincidence.”

Murdock frowned, seeing Claire’s point.  Convenient.  Very convenient.  Maybe someone could get that lucky once.  Maybe, although he doubted it.  But twice?  Three times?  No way – that screamed cover-up.  For what, he wasn’t sure, but he could understand why Kincaid found it so hard to believe someone who resorted to such ridiculous cover stories.  And apparently covered for his own team’s criminal activity.

* * * * *

Matt Murdock settled in his seat and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the metal table of the prison interview room.  Next to him, Foggy was fidgeting, rustling through his briefcase in search of pen and notepad.  Kincaid was standing by the wall, waiting for Parker to be brought in by the guards.

The blind lawyer tilted his head, hearing the sound of footsteps from outside the room.  The soft jangle of cuffs around a pair of wrists.  A frown threatened; the person wearing the cuffs was limping.  Not a great deal; Matt doubted either Foggy or Kincaid would notice anything once the man was in sight; but for Murdock, the difference in tread between right and left was plain.

One hand lifted into Foggy’s line of sight; his friend stilled, then lightly nudged Matt’s elbow in acknowledgement.  Murdock nodded thanks for his partner’s ready acceptance, then shifted his attention back to the door.

The guards ushered their prospective client inside – a man that was perhaps about Foggy’s height, though there weren’t enough echoes in the room for Matt to be completely sure.  He moved with a grace that intrigued Murdock – a student of the martial arts, possibly even a master.  He accepted the guards’ manhandling without a wisp of objection, sitting down in the single chair on the opposite side of the table and waiting patiently for the guards to cuff him to the metal ring beneath the table’s surface.  Even when the guards departed, he didn’t speak, waiting for his guests to make the first move.

Murdock allowed a tiny smile.  “Lieutenant Gregory Parker, I presume?”

“Greg is fine, Counselor,” the other replied.

The blind man tipped his chin in a nod.  “Matt Murdock.”  He tilted his head sideways.  “My partner, Franklin Nelson.”  He waited a beat, then asked, “So…Greg…when were you injured?”

Parker inhaled, caught off guard, and Murdock heard Kincaid straighten up, examining her client with razor-sharp eyes.  “I haven’t been injured recently, Counselor.”

The lieutenant’s heartbeat never faltered, a sure sign he was telling the truth, but Matt frowned anyway.  “I could hear you limping,” he pointed out.

“Ah.”  The other man shifted in his seat, fidgeting as best he could.  “It’s an old injury, Counselor.  Been acting up ever since my first night here.”

The lawyer winced, filling in the details.  Prison beds weren’t comfortable and he could easily see how the metal frames and hard, thin mattresses could aggravate preexisting injuries.

Glancing towards Foggy, he nodded once before turning back to their prospective client.  “Perhaps you could fill us in on your side of the story, Lieutenant Parker?”

“You aren’t under attorney-client privilege,” Kincaid pointed out.

“This conversation is under attorney-client privilege, regardless of the outcome,” Murdock replied, firm and unyielding.  Shifting back to Parker, he explained, “My partner and I aren’t licensed to practice law in Canada.”

“Then why come up here?”

Murdock acknowledged the question with a tip of his chin.  “Your representative, a Mr. Silverock, came down to New York and asked myself and my partner to evaluate you as a potential client.  We have…strict requirements for any of our clients.”

Parker considered, though Murdock heard him huff and mutter, “Silnok,” under his breath in an exasperated, yet affectionate tone of voice.  Then he lifted his head.  “All right, Counselors.  One question of my own – have either of you ever heard of Castor Troy?”

Matt blinked and glanced towards Foggy, one brow arched in question.  His friend shrugged and answered for both of them.  “Nope, can’t say we have, Lieutenant.”

The officer exhaled, the sound one of exhaustion and resignation.  “Copy that.  From the top, then.”

“I’ll let the guards know we’ll need more time,” Kincaid announced.

As she left, Murdock felt his other brow go up and interest feathered at his insides.  Something told him he was about to find out why someone from Canada needed a lawyer from Hell’s Kitchen.

* * * * *

Matt Murdock didn’t need his long-lost sight to know that Foggy had just turned a very vivid shade of green at the photos in the Archer murder file.  He turned his own head to regard the still closed file on Commander Holleran’s desk – the murders of retired Toronto Judge Dale Gordinski and his entire, extended family.  The blind man’s hand clenched around his cane, fingering the silver devil’s head that adorned the top ring of white.

“Does the MO of the recent murders match to the historical ones?” he inquired.

“If anything, the newer murders were more brutal than the ones back in the day,” Commander Holleran replied.  “But his grudge against Archer and Judge Gordinski was a lot bigger, too.”

“What ‘bout the prosecutor?” Foggy asked, hurriedly flipping the folder in front of him shut.

Holleran’s voice turned wry.  “He was fortunate enough to die of a heart attack several years before Troy broke out of prison.  His widow moved to be with her family – she might’ve been a target once Troy took care of the others, but Lieutenant Parker was the one opponent he couldn’t beat.  Then or now.”

Murdock stiffened.  “Then or now?” he repeated.

The commander audibly hesitated, then sighed.  “Two years after the trial, Counselor.  Constable Parker’s patrol car went up in flames; car bomb.”

Foggy whistled low and Matt tilted his head.  “How did Parker survive?”

“His patrol car, but he’d switched with another constable that day,” Commander Holleran explained.  Pausing, the man fixed them both with a stern glare – despite his lack of sight, Murdock shifted uneasily in his chair under that glare.  “I can get you the full file on the car bombing if you need it, gentlemen, but one thing I know for a fact – if Greg had had any inkling that there was a bomb in his patrol car, he would’ve sounded the alarm.  The man driving was a friend of his; one of the few he had back then.”

Matt didn’t reply – here was yet another coincidence in a long line of coincidences that favored one Gregory Parker.  So many times when he shouldn’t have survived and yet he had.  It didn’t make sense – little wonder that Claire Kincaid was doubtful of her client and ready to believe he’d orchestrated far more than just the crimes he was accused of.  Even Foggy, normally game to believe in their clients – albeit not without his fair share of grumbling over the many barter arrangements – was uncertain of Parker.

Oddly enough, Matt was not.  The officer had answered all his questions – even the insulting ones, when he’d been doing his best to push the other man’s buttons.  Never once had Parker’s heartbeat faltered, confirming he believed in what he was saying.

Murdock considered the possibility that Parker had a pacemaker – those tended to screw up his normally impeccable sense for if someone was lying or not – but somehow, he didn’t think a SWAT cop could maintain his position if he had a pacemaker.  Surely, any form of physical impairment would disqualify him for duty – and from what he and Foggy could gather, Parker was still active in the field despite his promotion to lieutenant.

The blind lawyer lifted a hand, drawing Holleran’s attention.  Waiting a moment for Foggy to look up as well, he asked, “Commander, how many miracles would it take for you to stop believing in Lieutenant Parker?”

There was a long, long silence.  Then the commander sighed heavily.  “You’ve picked up on all the gossip, then?”

“All of it?” Murdock mused.  “I don’t think we’ve been here long enough for that.”  His teeth bared in a grin.  “But definitely enough to wonder when your unit fell off the edge of the map.”

Holleran barked a laugh and sat down in his chair.  “I suppose it does sound rather unbelievable from the outside.”  He considered, steepling his fingers together as he regarded the two Americans.  “Lieutenant Parker and Team One have my full faith and trust, gentlemen.  They’ve had each other’s backs through thick and thin – I’d trust them to get the whole of Toronto through the Apocalypse intact, if it ever came to that.  They are the finest officers – the finest men – I have ever had the privilege to command.”

The older man paused and air shifted, enough that Matt could ‘see’ the commander glance down at his desk, gathering his thoughts.  Then Commander Holleran looked up again, determination shining.  “If my unit is off the edge of the map, Mr. Murdock, then maybe you need a bigger map.  One that includes the many, many monsters my people have dealt with for the past five years.”

Matt’s scalp prickled – because the commander wasn’t kidding.  At all.  And all of a sudden, he was remembering a time during his childhood when one of his friends had gotten a toy pirate’s map.  They’d both been fascinated with it, particularly by one side of the map that was all dark with tiny creatures depicted in the waves and a flowing script atop the whole thing.

You’re off the edge of the map, Mate.  Here there be Monsters.

Chapter Text

There were times when Greg Parker wondered why he even bothered to get out of bed each morning.  Times when he wondered just how long he could keep going to work, doing his job despite being beaten down, exhausted, and hurting.  Sometimes physically, most often emotionally.  He loved his job in the SRU, but some days – it was hard to remember why it was worth it.

But for all that sometimes he hated the job he loved, Greg would’ve happily traded his best day ‘inside’ for his worst day ‘outside’ – and that included the shameful day he’d run away on his team during a hot call with two people trapped inside a propane-powered burn house.

Sadly, going back in time wasn’t a viable escape plan – and against magical law, besides.  So Parker pushed himself up and off the top bunk in his cell, tossing a warning glare at his cellmate as he landed on his feet.  The other man – big, burly, with a forest of tattoos all over his arms and chest – scowled back, but the two had reached an agreement of sorts as to who was in control.  Of course, said agreement had been negotiated by virtue of a very thorough – if discreet – beat down, but such was life ‘inside’.

Neither man said a word to each other, not even when the guards arrived to escort them for the prison’s version of breakfast.  During the trek, Parker focused on his predator aura, letting it coil within; he never let the guards feel that aura, but it was invaluable whenever he was forced out of his cell and into the prison’s general population.

When they reached the commissary, Greg shifted to the side, letting his cellmate go first.  Letting him attract attention from the prisoners already inside the large eating area; the scant seconds were just enough for Parker to get away from the guards before changing his stance and letting the predator out.  A savage grin curved his jaw as those nearest to him edged away, intimidated without understanding why.

Collecting a tray, the stocky man made his way through the line, collecting the slop that passed for food inside the prison.  It was terrible, tasteless junk, but Greg knew he had to maintain his caloric intake as much as possible – although his human metabolism wasn’t as fast as his gryphon form’s, it was faster than most humans’.  He was already losing weight, despite eating as much as he was allowed each meal, and it was likely to be several weeks, maybe even months until his case came to trial.

Assuming he survived that long…  Parker yanked his tray away from a large, totally bald man with muscles that rippled across his frame.  The shorter man glared up at his would-be opponent, dialing up his predator aura and letting out a faint growl.

Canines flashed and the bigger man took a step back.  Then he realized what he was doing and stiffened.  A sneer curled his jaw and he stepped forward, reaching for the tray full of food.  “Seems like you got mor’n your fair share there, cop.  Spare a cup?”

Greg didn’t bother responding; he whisked his tray out of reach again and angled a kick at the big man’s knee, backing it with a tiny flare of scarlet magic.  The other roared as he went down, clutching at his leg while Parker disappeared into the nearby mass of inmates.  By the time the guards arrived, batons at the ready, he was long gone.

* * * * *

It was a welcome reprieve whenever his team of three lawyers visited; Greg wasn’t sure how Silnok had managed to get temporary Canadian law licenses for the two New Yorkers – and he wasn’t asking – but Murdock had turned the whole defense effort around.  Ironic how a blind lawyer could see far better than his two sighted colleagues; his belief in Greg’s innocence had – eventually – convinced them as well.

Murdock’s partner, Nelson – short and stocky to Murdock’s tall, lean build – came around first; not just because he trusted his best friend, but because he’d seen firsthand how uncannily accurate Murdock could be.  While Kincaid was still arguing vehemently against Greg’s defense of justifiable homicide – right in front of him – Nelson casually challenged his partner to an old game between the two.  Two truths and a lie, with first Kincaid and then Greg as the contestants against Murdock the human lie detector.

Kincaid, taken aback by the idea of playing a children’s game, threw out two truths and a lie so fast and so glibly that Nelson laughed at her and Murdock didn’t even bother to point out the lie – Parker kept quiet, but rolled his eyes that her lie was what color her car was.

The professional negotiator schooled his expression, but otherwise didn’t employ any SRU tricks as he told his two truths and a lie – he had three kids, one biological, the other two semi-adopted, he’d wanted to grow up to be a pilot until his acrophobia kicked in, and he’d had a pet Labrador as a rookie constable until he’d moved to an apartment complex that didn’t allow dogs.

Murdock leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, then glanced towards his partner.  “Which one?”

“The pilot line,” Nelson replied, curly black hair bouncing with his vehemence.  “He’s a Canadian SWAT cop – no way he’s afraid of heights.”

The brunette nodded thoughtfully, dark-red glasses turning to Kincaid.  “Which one?”

Kincaid considered, then replied, “The first line.  He does have three kids, but he hasn’t adopted any of them; one is his son and the other two were awarded to him by CPS (2).”

Parker snorted.  “Where’d you get that from, Counselor?”

She swung towards him, eyes widening a hair.  “You have guardianship papers for them.”

“Yes,” he agreed.  “But not from Child Services.”  He let that hang, then lifted a brow.  “Their parents put me in the will for guardianship.”

“And you consider them your own, hence the semi-adopted line,” Murdock announced.  “You’re both wrong, by the way; Parker may have had a dog, but it wasn’t a Labrador and he didn’t get rid of it because of any apartment rules.”

Parker leaned forward, focusing on the lawyer.  “Not bad, Counselor.  Care to go again?”

Murdock tilted his head, then grinned, slow with a hint of gleeful challenge.  “You think you know how I do it.”

Greg lifted one shoulder.  “Might have an idea.”

“Well then,” Murdock invited, spreading his hands.  “Stump me.”

Shifting in his chair, the SRU negotiator steadied his expression and regulated his breathing, concentrating on maintaining a steady heartbeat.  “Point one, she was a beagle, not a Labrador.  And point two, I actually couldn’t take her with me when I moved away from home.”

Murdock’s dark-red glasses bored into him and Parker held perfectly still, staring right back at that blind gaze.  After several long moments, Murdock tapped the table.  “You’re really very good, Lieutenant Parker.  Almost fooled me that time.”  Slowly, he tilted his head the opposite way.  “But you shouldn’t have brought up your childhood home – thinking about it makes you angry, even when you’re trying to stay calm.”

Parker bobbed his head in acceptance of the jab, right to an old emotional wound he’d exposed himself.  “Copy that, Counselor.”  He let both shoulders slump and gazed up at Kincaid.  “After I arrested Castor Troy, I was put in protective custody.  By the time I talked Archer into going back for Rosalie, they’d already killed her.”  The shoulders slumped a little lower as Nelson and Kincaid gawped.  “Poison.”

Murdock’s expression turned sorrowful.  “And you never got another dog.”

“No,” Greg confirmed.  “Archer never showed me any pictures, but I sure didn’t want that to happen again.”  He allowed a brief shrug.  “By the time I felt safe enough to try again, I’d already met Catherine and she didn’t like dogs or cats much.”

Silence fell between the four, but despite the pain of talking about Rosalie again, Parker suspected it was his beagle’s death that finally convinced Kincaid that he’d had no other options.  Someone who could kill an innocent, defenseless animal in so ruthless a fashion…  They simply couldn’t be allowed to run free, even if that meant putting them down.

* * * * *

Despite the natural difficulties of being a cop ‘inside’, Greg was holding his own.  Part of that was his training and experience – he knew how to avoid being cornered by the other inmates.  Knew how to keep escape options open, even if they were unconventional.  Then there was the gryphon factor – short and stocky Parker might’ve been compared to the majority of his opponents, but he was stronger and tougher than any of them gave him credit for.  In an all-out, beatdown brawl, his predator side gave him an undeniable advantage.

But another advantage was his anonymity – sure, his cell mate and everyone on the same cell block knew he was a cop.  And yes, rumors about his status had spread around the prison, but it turned out that even criminals had a certain amount of respect for Toronto’s cavalry.  The SRU was the best Toronto had to offer and – much to Greg’s bemusement – that reputation sheltered him to a certain extent.

Then, one evening, a local news channel decided to remedy their ‘slow news day’ by running a special about Toronto’s very own undercover mob boss.  Carl Elias, aka Lieutenant Gregory Parker of the SRU.  A guard who’d caught the preview hauled Parker out of his cell before the show actually aired and he spent the night in Solitary, but come the morning, the grim expressions on the guards’ faces told the whole story.  Every single inmate in the entire prison knew he stood accused of being the mysterious Carl Elias – and in their minds, the accusation was as good as a conviction.

“Any chance I can stay in Solitary?” Parker asked, hoping against hope – and hating that he had to beg.  He was a cop; he should’ve been assigned to Solitary from the very beginning, darn it!  Putting any cop in General Population was a virtual death sentence; he’d only survived thus far because of his gryphon form and the SRU’s surprisingly criminal-friendly reputation.

The two guards traded looks, both honestly regretful.  Then the older one swung back.  “Sorry, Parker.  Dunno who made the call, but one night was all we could do for you.”

The lieutenant slumped down, not bothering to hide how disheartened he was.  “Can I at least have a cell to myself?” he pleaded.

The older guard started to shake his head, but the younger spoke up.  “We can do that, Mac.  That guy Evans practically lives in the med ward anyway.  Won’t be any trouble if we reassign him a couple days.  Just enough to get through the worst, right?”

Mac considered, frown turning thoughtful.  Dark blue flicked to Greg.  “In for grand larceny; got a side hobby of bad checks.  Used to be a nurse ‘fore one of his patients turned him onto meth.  Got clean, but not fast ‘nough.”

Parker nodded, understanding that the drug charges had likely been pled down to in-prison rehab and possibly community service after release.  “Sounds like a better rap sheet than my current cell mate.”

The dirty-blond guard allowed a grunt.  “True ‘nough, Parker.  Can’t keep you outta the exercise yard or the commissary, though.”

“Copy that,” Greg whispered.  If he could have a safe ‘home turf’, he might just survive this.

* * * * *

It was worse than he’d feared.  By the time he’d finished breakfast, he’d deflected four attempts to shiv him, broken six fingers, and dislocated one attacker’s shoulder.  And that was playing nice – with each attack, Greg felt himself sinking farther and farther into a feral ‘kill-or-be-killed’ mindset.  His human will to survive mixing with his gryphon predatory instincts.

When the guards hauled him out of the mob, he nearly lashed out at them, only just managing to restrain himself when he recognized the familiar uniforms.  Even then, it took an act of will to cage the predator and submit to their authority.  Not a good sign; he could practically feel his sanity slipping away, right between desperate mental fingers.  As the guards escorted him back to his cell, one on either side in a protective stance, he fought to calm himself.  Regain control.  But he was too on edge, too jittery from the adrenaline pouring through his system and the hostility radiating from every occupied cell they passed.

Once locked inside his own cell, Greg retreated to the lower bunk and sat down heavily, panting for some minutes before he regained complete control.  Leaning over, he rested his elbows on his knees and debated his options.  If the exercise yard was as bad as breakfast had been, then it was no longer a matter of if he would go berserk, but when.

So long as the fights had been minimal, with only a few cuts and bruises to worry about, they’d actually helped; within a day of being arrested, he’d discovered that his gryphon side simply couldn’t tolerate being locked up.  Deprived of freedom; his wild side might wish he lived out in the country rather than in a crowded, close-quarters city, but at least he’d had his liberty.  And he hadn’t been alone…  Parker hated himself for the moments when he’d longed for even one of his Pride to be there with him.

But now…  With the whole of the prison population enraged over the revelation that Carl Elias, Italian mob boss, and Greg Parker, SRU lieutenant, were the same person, there was not a prayer of slipping under the radar.  No chance that his predator aura could sufficiently intimidate any would-be opponents.

Whoever didn’t hate him for being a cop would hate him for being Elias – defeating him would garner prestige he could only guess at.  They’d come at him as hard as they could, as often as it took.  They’d never realize that their all-out attacks would inevitably provoke him past his hard-won, iron-clad self-control.

How long he sat there, he didn’t know, but eventually he heard sound from outside his cell and looked up to see a guard eyeing him warily through the bars.  “Yes?”

“It’s,” the man faltered, then forged ahead, “it’s this cell block’s turn for the exercise yard.  You’re the last.”

Parker blinked, glancing around at the nearby cells.  Hazel shifted back to the guard, turning hopeful.  “Any chance I can skip it today?”

The dark-haired guard blinked, but recovered his poise a moment later.  “No exceptions unless you’re on punishment.”

He grimaced and stood, careful to avoid the top bunk, but the hair on the back of his neck prickled.  A cold wind blew through him, congealing the dread sinking into his gut.  The sensation of being watched – eerie, bone-chilling laughter right on the edge of hearing.  A sixth sense, confirming intuition he hadn’t even been paying attention to.

If he would not yield, would not break – then his death would be sufficient consolation.

* * * * *

By the time he was escorted to the exercise yard, the ‘team sense’ was locked down tighter than America’s Fort Knox, barricaded just as much by the gryphon’s protective spirit as his human willpower.  No matter what happened, he would not risk his friends’ sanity.  If the darkness won this round, the grief would be more than enough for them to deal with; he wouldn’t add magically induced psychic trauma on top of that.

Not that he was going to make this easy for his opponents.  Oh, no – if they wanted the ‘prestige’ of taking down notorious mob boss Carl Elias, they were darn well gonna have to work for it.  Unfortunately, he was fairly sure they knew that just as well as he did.  Breakfast – that had been testing the waters.  The opening moves, probing his defenses and trying to wear him down.  The prison equivalent of swatter calls.

Worse, an open, outright assault in the exercise yard would get shut down by the guards in no time.  His attackers would get in a few blows, but nothing life-threatening – again, a fact they knew as well as he did.  If they were that stupid, Greg fully intended to laugh in their faces right before he backed off and let the guards handle them.

However…  If his foes were as organized and determined as he suspected, then their best strategy would be a prison riot.  Wouldn’t be the first time a prison riot had been triggered specifically so one group inside a prison could have a free shot at their top rivals.  The only question was if they’d had enough time to move all their pieces into place – the news report had only been broadcast last night.  Prior to that, most of his trouble had been general hostility towards the cop in General Population.

Intellectually, Parker knew he was overreacting – there was no logical reason supporting an attack the day after that damning news report.  But…  If there wasn’t going to be an attack, why the unseen observers?  Why the sinister laughter, just higher than hearing, and that bone-white chill sweeping through his blood?

He stepped inside the exercise yard, hazel sweeping around and every sense on high alert.  He could feel eyes on him, all unfriendly and several sinister.  Deliberately, he strode forward, angling for the part of the yard that was well within the range of multiple cameras.

A small group moved to meet him, led by a tall man with a shaven head, a strong nose, and small silver earrings in both ears.  Not as tall or lean as Eddie, but not as solid as Parker either.  A snarl contorted his face, hatred shining in brown eyes – Greg had never met him before, but he knew who the man was.  Dietrich Hassler, Castor Troy’s foremost lieutenant until he’d been arrested in an SRU raid by Team Two.  A raid that had only been possible because Greg had passed on crucial information regarding Hassler’s location, internal setup, and gang numbers.

On Hassler’s right was Greg’s burly, tattooed former cell mate, but on his left…  Parker faltered, fresh horror settling into his gut.  “Will?”

The young dark-blond – a lower-level member of Carl Elias’s gang – sneered back.  No one knew his real name; though Parker had asked Commander Holleran to do a background check, concerned he might have an undercover Fed on his hands, not even Holleran had been able to trace the streetwise, self-named ‘Will Scarlet’ back to his original identity.

Parker swallowed hard, understanding.  Anthony might’ve been willing to accept his true identity as a Toronto officer, but as far as the rest of Elias’s organization was concerned, he was the worst of traitors.  Someone who’d gained their faith and trust, rallied them against a common enemy – only to hand them over to his fellow law enforcement officers.

Hassler gave him a shark’s grin, but didn’t speak.  Instead, he glanced towards Scarlet in invitation.  The younger man stepped up, bristling as his former boss met his gaze.  “Once a cop,” he spat, “always a cop.”

“I assume you speak for everyone else?” Parker inquired, level and outwardly unconcerned.

Will shoved him and he allowed it.  He didn’t even dodge the sharp backhand that followed, though it cut his lip.  Behind the rage, the younger man’s expression held nothing but hurt.  Loyalty broken by the realization that he’d been helping the enemy.

Hazel locked on the young man, as if no one else in the exercise yard existed.  Soft, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

If anything, the apology only fanned the flames of Scarlet’s anger.  “Sorry doesn’t cut it, cop!”

He nodded once, accepting the jab, and stood straight.  Tall, with a gryphon’s pride as he swept his gaze to include all three of his opponents.  “Understood.  But here’s your one and only warning, all of you.”  He adjusted his stance, letting the predator out.  “You’ll pay in blood to take me out.  The entire time I was undercover, I held back.  Never let any of you see exactly what I can do.  But if you come at me now, you will see what I can do.  May even be the last thing you see.”  Scarlet magic glittered in the depths of hazel irises.  “Better make sure you count the cost.”

Will and Parker’s ex-cellmate paled, stepping back as the full force of Parker’s threat slammed into them.  But Hassler didn’t so much as twitch.  Instead, he examined his foe with a dismissive air.  As though he’d already won.  “See, that’s what your problem is, cop.  You play it straight.  Fair.”  He grinned savagely.  “We never do.”

Behind Greg, he heard a man scream.  Heard him fall, smelled the blood gushing.  Razor – in, out, fast with an arterial bleed.  The guards yelled and closed in, weapons up.  Hazel widened in realization and he drew breath to yell warning.

Only for his yell to mix with the roar of a dozen enraged inmates as they turned on their captors and attacked, plunging the whole prison into chaos.

* * * * *

His sole salvation was that they underestimated him.  They saw him as a cop and a wannabe mob boss, not a born predator.  The clubs and fists they brought to the fight meant little against a gryphon’s agility, strength, and sheer inventive viciousness.  Not just for his own sake, but for the guards – as soon as the first guard went down under the mob’s fists, he flew into a berserker rage, red tinting his vision and every blow meant to maim or kill as he battered his way through the melee to the fallen guard.

The other guards had closed ranks, fighting shoulder to shoulder in an effort to survive – the gryphon hissed approvingly and hoisted the injured guard before making his way to that knot of safety.  Once there, he pushed the guard at his comrades and whirled to face the mob.  A challenging snarl rose, but something prodded at him.  Instinct, whispering that these guards could take care of themselves.  Other guards, the ones who’d been patrolling inside, they were all alone.  Cut off from their Pride and surrounded by foes.

He lashed out at the closest human; satisfaction hummed at the crunch of breaking bones.  Then he stole a look around, evaluating his path, and plunged straight through the mob, leaving a trail of disabled victims behind him as he headed for the far exit.

* * * * *

He unintentionally terrified the first four guards – perhaps it was his scarlet eyes and animalistic growls?  Distantly, he felt bad for them, but so long as they were safe, he didn’t particularly care if they screeched louder than prey as he shoved them in empty cells and slammed the doors behind them.

The fifth guard was more difficult – he’d been cornered by two prisoners armed with shivs – but the gryphon pounced on the enemy from behind.  The first human went down with an agonized scream, clutching at its dislocated shoulder and broken collarbone.  The other human swiped at him, he grabbed its wrist and twisted, liberating the creature’s weapon as he shoved it into the wall – hard.  Snarling, he brought the human’s makeshift weapon up…see how it liked a taste of its own medicine.

“Parker, stop!”

His name – he stilled, glancing towards the guard.  Didn’t the guard want him to stop the rampaging human?  He heard a sharp inhale and cocked his head, letting out a soft whine.

“Look, Parker, just get me outta here.  They’re not gonna hurt anyone else.”

He considered, then gave a sharp nod, accepting the guard’s Judgment, and dropped the human.  Moving to the uniformed guard, he let the shiv fall to the ground and kicked it away.  Then he hefted the guard up and headed for a nearby room that smelt of the weapons that the guards carried.  His guard would be safe there.

“Guess some of those rumors aren’t so wild, huh, Parker?”

He rumbled, noncommittal.  There were more guards to save; he could only spare so much time and attention for this one.

“Didn’t know the SRU took crazies, though.”

He shot the guard a sharp glare, an offended sound building up in his chest…

* * * * *

Mac had been a prison guard for almost his entire career and he’d seen plenty of nuts in that time.  Knew the difference between a psychopath and a sociopath – the psychopath got off on slowly carving your guts out while the sociopath just shot you in the head.  He could spot a prison shiv from a cell block away and knew when he had time to go for the gun – and when he had to swing ‘cause the gun just wasn’t gonna come out in time.

But nothing had ever scared him the way Parker had when he’d jumped those two inmates.  The completely wild glow of a predator on the hunt – solid scarlet where there should’ve been hazel.  Even a complete lack of human communication, as if the SRU cop had gone utterly ‘round the bend as soon as the riot kicked off.

Then Parker shuddered, like he’d had a bucket of ice water dumped down his back, and staggered.  Instead of the cop carrying him, he was suddenly supporting the other man.  Confused, Mac went down with Parker and held him up as the stocky officer shook, trembled, heaved, and finally threw up.

It took another minute of trembling and shaking before the half-bald form spread his hands, bracing himself on either side of where he’d been sick.  Inhaled and exhaled in a steady fashion.  After a few moments, he turned his head towards Mac, revealing scarlet dappled hazel.  “I’ve gotten four out already.  How many other guards on patrol?”

“Mebbe four more, but once the riot started, we went on lockdown.  Some of ‘em mighta got out.”

“Copy,” Parker whispered, still breathing in that slow, forcibly calm manner.  “Can you get to safety on your own?”

“Yeah, but…”

Parker smiled, though the flash of lengthened canines was anything but reassuring.  “You’re right, Mac; I’m not exactly sane right now.”  Determination set the scarlet to glowing brighter.  “But that won’t stop me from getting your friends out, my word on it.”

“An’ after that?”

The SRU officer shifted, pushing himself upright again.  “If I survive, you might have to tranq me.”

Then he strode away, oblivious to Mac sputtering behind him.  If I survive…?

* * * * *

Guard number six had good news for him – he was one of two still trapped inside the prison.  Apparently, Mac had been right; some of the guards had managed to get out before the full lockdown took effect.  Parker hustled the man to safety, painfully aware that his gryphon instincts were starting to take over again.

It wasn’t like before, when he’d been imprisoned inside his own mind or when he’d been split into two by Morgause.  No, it was more like the times when he’d hunted or eaten in his gryphon form and let his human side slip away until it was all over.  His human soul, memory, and morals were still there, but they just…weren’t in the driver’s seat.

He had a feeling it was a symptom of the ‘team sense’ being locked down – if he opened it back up – had his friends to anchor him – he wouldn’t lose his self-awareness, giving him that much more of an edge in surviving this fiasco.  But he couldn’t – wouldn’t – risk it.  A riot meant SRU; if Holleran sent Team One in, they couldn’t afford any distractions.

So he kept moving towards the last trapped guard, aware that he was probably walking into a trap.  Hassler wasn’t stupid – he had to have figured out that Greg was rescuing the guards.  Leaving some of them open and easy to rescue was a small sacrifice when it meant Hassler could consolidate his forces at the last guard’s location.  Overwhelm his foe with numbers large enough that not even the gryphon could survive.

Adjusting his stance, Parker focused on remaining noiseless and fought to maintain his human awareness.  The gryphon wasn’t fighting him, an even greater irony.  It was more like his mind was so used to shifting between two states of awareness that he simply couldn’t stop himself.  Just as he came to the realization, he smelled blood.  Fresh blood…

* * * * *

He prowled forward, a soft growl rising when he caught sight of a guard.  Down, bloodied, and trapped behind two humans armed with clubs.  He surveyed the area, but there were no shadows he could use to sneak closer and the humans were facing outwards.  Waiting for him.

He lifted his chin and advanced, stepping into the circular pool of light that defined the meeting of two human pathways.  The bigger of the two humans smirked at him and he sensed movement at his back.

Whirling, he met the attack with a snarl and a closed fist, but staggered as a club struck his side.  Roaring, he sprang upwards, twisting in midair to land on the humans.  Kicking, clawing, biting; his human’s battle tactics flowed through him and he rolled away from a fresh attack, kicks shifting from mere brute force to pinpoint lethal accuracy.

He ducked away from a shiv, jabbing his elbow downwards to part the human from its weapon.  Pushed himself up just enough that he was rolling across another human’s back, leaving his feet free to lash out.  He touched the ground, crouching a breath before he leapt, curling backwards over yet another foe.  Landing behind the human, taller than he was by a hand-span, he reached out, grabbing the human by its neck.  A sharp movement yielded a crack and the human collapsed, breath gone in an instant.

The loss enraged them; he lost count of how many blows he deflected.  How many kicks he landed, how many bones he broke.  He simply fought, aware that defeat meant death, not only for him, but for the helpless guard.

Then a club crashed down, catching him a glancing blow, but it was wrong.  He looked, seeing a sneering face above the uniform.  Why?  The guards were his, he protected.  Then he spied a facedown figure, lying just out of sight in the shadows.  Smelt the blood – the death.

He snarled rage, only to stumble as another club crashed into his ribs.  He turned the club back on its owner and whirled towards the imposter.  He would avenge the fallen guard – the one he should’ve protected.  The human yelled, lashing out in panic, and caught his jaw.  He stumbled again, right into a fist.

He went down on a knee, hurting, but still fighting.  Still enraged.  He fought to push himself up again, to battle his way free, but they were relentless.  Attacking from every side – an involuntary howl ripped free when one kicked his left calf.  He fell heavily, tried to roll, to scramble back up, but now the blows rained down, all on target.

Instinct curled him inwards, ducking his head and protecting his core, and despair licked.  If only he could’ve fought alongside his human, maybe they could’ve won.  But his human protected Pride – that was right, he didn’t regret it – yet without Pride, he wasn’t whole.

He heard bones crack, felt jabbing pain inside, and cried out.  Then a blow struck his head and he knew no more.

[2] Child Protective Services; the American equivalent of Toronto’s Child Services

Chapter Text

Whomp, whomp.

Sergeant Ed Lane shot up from his seat in the briefing room as soon as the alarm went off, eyes darting automatically to his team leader.

“Team Four, hot call.”

Whomp, whomp.

“Gear up, gear up.”

Both men hurried out of the briefing room, the alarm and Kira’s orders providing a sharp counterpoint to tension that had been humming between them all morning.

Whomp, whomp.

The blonde dispatcher glanced up to start briefing the hot call, then faltered, blue eyes widening at the sight of two Team One members joining Team Four’s constables.

“What do we got?” Ed demanded, nerves jangling even louder at the look on Kira’s face.

“Team Four, you’re deploying to Toronto South (3), where we have a riot in progress,” Commander Holleran announced, speaking over the still blaring alarm.

A stern glare silenced Lane’s indignation even as the Sergeant opened his mouth.

“Lieutenant Parker is in no danger; he’s in the maximum security wing, which would’ve gone on full lockdown as soon as the riot started.”  Shifting his attention to Sergeant Vio, he ordered, “Focus on the call and inform Kira if your team needs additional resources.”

Ed felt his fingers curl – he knew Greg was in trouble.  No matter what Commander Holleran said, there was no way Greg would’ve barricaded the ‘team sense’ like he had if he wasn’t in trouble.  But explaining that…

Wordy’s palm landed on his shoulder, tugging him back and out of Team Four’s way.  Their team was down two; they’d be running on the ragged edge if it was a normal hot call, never mind a prison riot.  The lean frame slumped down, because much as Ed loathed admitting it, Team Four was the better team for this hot call.  They wouldn’t spend half their time worrying about Greg, unjustly imprisoned for a crime he hadn’t committed.

Above the two officers, the alarm continued to blare, the sound itself sending their adrenaline levels sky-high.  Normally, Ed loved it – loved the thrill of the alarm, the knowledge that there were people out there in the city who needed help only the SRU could give.  He loved riding the wave of adrenaline, right into the laser-focused sniper mindset that served his team best.

But thinking of Greg, trapped in the middle of a prison riot without backup, weapons, or armor…  It turned all that adrenaline into a sickening, lurching curdle of dread.  Sinking like a lump in his stomach, making his gorge rise as nausea pressed against his spine.

Light blue shifted, meeting Word’s gray and seeing the same unspoken horror.  They knew their lieutenant was in danger and there was nothing, nothing they could do to help him.  All they could do was watch, wait, and hope, as hard as they could, that Team Four could save their second-in-command.

* * * * *

“Mordred, soon as we get on scene, you confirm Parker’s location,” Sergeant Troy Vio rapped out.  “Report back to Kira, keep Team One off our backs.”

“Copy that, Sarge.”

“Remember, everyone, we go less-lethal inside the prison.”

“Less-lethal?” Gwaine yelped.  “It’s a prison riot, Sarge!”

“And the last thing we need is a loaded gun in that mix, Gwaine,” Troy replied, tone grim.  “It’ll blow sky-high.”  He took a breath, then added, “Last team to handle a prison riot was Team One; Parker ordered his guys to go less-lethal, too.  Don’t like it any better than you, but that’s our playbook.”

Leon stepped in, unhappy, but backing his Sarge.  “That means tasers, rubber bullets, and gas, Gwaine.”

“Copy,” the roguish prankster grumbled.

“Percival, Lancelot, Elyan – once Mordred’s got us a layout and we know where all our players are, need you three to take one side of the pincer movement,” the team leader continued.  “Gwaine, Sarge, and I will take the other side – priority is to extract any guards inside and start thinning out the opposition.”

“If we gotta go less-lethal, too bad we can’t get the kid Aurors to come lay ‘em all out with Stunners,” Gwaine opined.

“Hiding behind sorcerers now, Gwaine?” Elyan teased.

“You wanna mess with a bunch of prisoners we helped get arrested?”

“Look on the bright side,” Percival remarked, waiting for his teammates to freeze in shock.  “We haven’t arrested as many of them as Team One has.”

Groans resounded through the comm and Troy shook his head as Percival grinned from the seat next to him.  The Sergeant flicked a glance towards his quiet mountain of a constable and muttered, “Tell me you didn’t do that to get Gwaine to stop whining about going less-lethal.”

Percival didn’t respond, but the way his grin widened even further spoke volumes.

* * * * *

Once the team arrived at the prison, they made their way to the central control area.  Mordred hustled ahead, quickly finding a place to set up his laptop.  The prison warden wrote down every password used by the internal network and handed them off to the constable; in less than five minutes, the computer tech was bringing up live images of the ongoing riot on the huge monitors mounted to the walls.  Fingers danced on the keyboard as he continued to work; a map of the prison appeared on a free screen close to the control room’s exit and color filled in the layout, highlighting all the areas that the inmates had overrun in red.  Green marked totally safe zones and blue appeared in contested spots, where the guards were pushing back against the rioters.

“Good work, Mordred.  Start pulling profiles on anyone we can identify; let’s see if we can get a bead on whoever’s running the show here.”

“Copy,” the constable acknowledged.  He flicked a glance back at their Sergeant, earning a nod in reply.  Mischief danced as the computer tech turned back to his laptop, ever so briefly diverting off the hot call to run a very specific search.

From the opposite side of the room, Gwaine smirked at how much fun his rookie was having, then shifted towards Leon and Percival to start planning out their pincer attack once they had the situation sussed out.

* * * * *

 “Sarge?” Mordred asked, hesitant in a way that put every single one of his teammates on edge.  “Could you come here a moment?”

Gwaine turned his head, free hand clenching an instant before he forced the fingers to relax.  He believed in Mordred – trusted the other man to have his back come hell, high water, or the end of the world.  Unless Morgana or that Druid woman turned up again.  He hated himself for that caveat, but deep inside was a Camelotean knight who’d been crushed by Mordred’s betrayal, Eira’s (4) betrayal, and his own torturous death at Morgana’s hands.

Shaking off the ancient memories, the curly-haired constable flicked his eyes to Leon, arching a brow in question as he tapped his belt where several flash bangs hung.  Leon frowned, considering, but finally shook his head.  Huffing, Gwaine gave a short nod and began to take them off.

“What?” Sarge blurted, pulling the whole of Team Four around.  “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Sarge,” Mordred replied, pointing to his laptop screen.  “Looks like they temporarily reassigned this other guy to the med wing this morning.”

The other constables stiffened as their Sergeant straightened to his full height and slowly turned to face the warden.  Dark eyes blazed with fury so great that Gwaine fleetingly wondered why the prison warden didn’t combust on the spot.

“I’m going to ask once.”  Level, even, with emotion so tightly controlled that the tension in the room shot up based on that alone.  “Where is Lieutenant Parker?”

The bottom dropped out of Gwaine’s stomach.

“He’s not in Solitary?” Elyan demanded, pushing past the warden to look over Mordred’s shoulder himself.  The black man stared at the screen and inhaled, blacksmith muscles bulging beneath his uniform as he whirled to face the prison warden.  “You put a veteran officer in General Population?”

“Are you insane?” Gwaine burst out before Elyan could say just that.

“He hasn’t even had a trial yet,” Lancelot hissed; Gwaine flicked his eyes towards the lean knight-constable, unsurprised to see he was even angrier than their Sergeant at the revelation that the SRU’s second-in-command was anything but safe in the middle of a prison riot.

“Mordred, get Kira on the line,” Sarge ordered.  “Parker is not in Solitary; whereabouts currently unknown.  All hands on deck; pull from the Special Division if you have to.”

“Now wait just a minute,” the warden protested.

“Tell me where my lieutenant is and I’ll rescind the order,” Sarge replied, icy cold in his burning, raging fury.

The warden blinked, caught off guard.  “Your lieutenant?  He’s Team One; everyone knows that.”

“He was Team One,” Leon corrected.  “Now he belongs to all of us.”  The lean team leader stepped forward, Percival a looming, glaring mountain at his back.  “Lieutenant Parker is a man any of us would follow right into the depths of hell, sir.  You have no idea what you’ve done by putting him in jeopardy.”

“And if he dies,” Gwaine added, every word a poisonous hiss, “Team One can have you.”

* * * * *

“Sir?” Kira said, looking up at where her commander stood on the office side of the dispatcher desk.  On the opposite side, close to the workout room and the briefing room, the whole of Team One maintained an anxious vigil, not a single one of them willing to leave until their lieutenant’s status was confirmed.

“Yes, Kira?” Holleran asked, though he frowned at her fearful tone.

The blonde dispatcher pulled in a deep breath, bracing herself.  “Sergeant Vio is requesting immediate backup, sir.  All hands on deck.”  Another breath.  “Lieutenant Parker is not, I repeat, not in Solitary.”

“They put him in General?” Sam blurted.

Kira swallowed hard and nodded.  “Current whereabouts are unknown,” she whispered, but they all heard her.

Most of the officers in the SRU considered their commander to be a mild-mannered man; an officer who’d worked his way up from the streets to command and knew what they faced, yet mild and canny enough to play the city’s game of politics without offending the bigwigs.  There were even a few who wondered what the commander might do if push came to shove, though his staunch defense of Parker during the latter’s undercover assignment had quieted most of those fears.

Any remaining doubts had just been laid to rest as Commander Holleran straightened to his full height, a deadly expression on his face and brown eyes snapping behind wire frames – even his close-cut black and white peppered hair seemed to bristle with outrage.

“Team One, gear up,” he ordered.  “Kira, get Team Three rolling as well.  Special Division on standby, but ready to go if any on-scene Sergeant requests it.”  Brown shifted to Team One as they hovered, wanting to run, but waiting for any further orders.  He gave them.  “Your priority is Lieutenant Parker.  Find him and extract him – he does not leave your custody once you’ve secured him, no matter what the prison says.”

“Copy that,” Ed acknowledged, nodding sharply to his commander.  “Team, let’s move.”  Adrenaline flowed as he followed his teammates, calculating every single step that needed to come before they could launch their hunt for their lieutenant – and bring him home again.

* * * * *

Years as a commander allowed Norm Holleran to bring the worst of his temper to heel while Kira called in Team Three and he evaluated every possible action he could take.

Officially, Teams Two and Three were off, leaving One and Four on-rotation, but with Team One down to five, the remaining teams had been quietly ensuring that there were always two full teams available during Team One’s shifts.  Though Roenick’s cooperation was grudging at best, once he’d agreed, he and his team pulled every ounce of their weight in upholding the unofficial arrangement.

Within thirty minutes of Kira’s call, Team Three converged on the barn, changing rapidly into their uniforms.  As soon as they were fully geared and ready to roll, Commander Holleran gave them a rapid briefing, covering only the high points.  Riot at Toronto South, Teams One and Four onsite.  Team Three was to work with Team Four to rescue the prison guards and contain the riot while Team One went in to extract the SRU’s lieutenant from General Population.  The officers cried out instinctively, appalled by the news that one of their own had been put in General without so much as a trial.

“Gentlemen,” Holleran interceded.  “I have no intention of allowing this travesty to stand, but I need you to stay on point.  The sooner we get this riot under control, the more leverage we have against whoever targeted our lieutenant.”  He nodded as they quieted.  “Any questions?”

“Just one, sir,” Sergeant Cooper replied for his team, giving them a preemptive quelling glare.  “Team Four has the lead?”

“They do; either myself or Commander Locksley will coordinate between your two teams if necessary.”  Holleran gestured to the dispatcher desk.  “As always, Kira will be your link to the barn; don’t hesitate to request additional backup if necessary.”

“Yes, sir,” Cooper said, saluting.  Shifting towards his team, he ordered, “Let’s roll!”

Norm waited for them to leave before pulling out his phone.  Unlocking it with a brief press, he flicked to his contacts and located his target.  Tapping the name, he lifted the device to his ear, impatience vibrating, but he had to do this right.  Had to ensure that nothing was left to chance.

“Commander Locksley speaking.”

“Anne, need you down here at the dispatcher desk,” Holleran rumbled.  “We have an ongoing prison riot and I need you to coordinate between the teams.”

“What about you?” Locksley asked, though he heard her moving in the background.

Brown eyes hardened and narrowed behind his glasses.  “I have an Internal Affairs detective to interrogate concerning his role in placing my officer in General.”

The witch gasped.  “Parker is in there?” she cried, aghast.

Holleran allowed his eyes to close and rubbed his forehead.  “Anne, if I’m right, then it’s no coincidence that this riot happened the day after our local media decided to out Lieutenant Parker as Italian mob boss Carl Elias.”

“Merlin help us,” Locksley whispered.  “I’ll be right there, Norm.”

* * * * *

Most of Team Four had deployed into the prison by the time Team One arrived, but Vlachos was still in the prison control room.  Stepping inside, Ed spied the computer tech working at his laptop and swallowed down a lump.  The hair was darker, longer, and curly – the constable’s build larger and broader than Spike’s, but the posture…  It was the same and it hurt, knowing they were in the field without their bomb tech.  No Spike, no Greg – inside, his stomach heaved as he struggled to keep from imagining just how bad Greg was going to be when they found him.  When, not if, because not finding him was simply not an option.

Lifting his chin, the Sergeant strode forward, pointedly ignoring the prison warden as he focused in on Mordred.  “What do we got?”

“A mess,” Mordred replied, glancing up from his computer.  “You guys catch that news special last night?”

“Who didn’t?” Sam groused, though fresh worry shone as he rubbed a hand through his hair.

Mordred’s expression dropped even farther.  “Apparently, it was quite the hit around here; guards pulled Parker out of General and put him in Solitary overnight.”

“They did?” Jules asked, brows rising.

“Why’d they put him back?” Lou questioned, scowling.

The dark-haired constable sighed, shoulders dropping a hair.  “Parker’s file has a tag on it; somebody red-flagged him.  Guards had enough leeway to pull him out last night and change his cell assignment this morning, but that was as far as they could go.”  The shoulders slumped down further.  “The last note in here is that he requested to stay in his cell and not go to the exercise yard today, but that’s against prison regs unless an inmate’s on punishment.”

Fury boiled within Lane, but he forced himself to nod and step over, leaning over Mordred’s shoulder to examine the screen.  “Why the cell change?”

In response, Mordred brought up two rap sheets on his screen.  The bald Sergeant’s brows rose as he read through them.  Then he nodded and let his chin drop.  Everything in him wanted to be raging furious.  To rip apart the prison warden and the prison guards for not protecting his best friend.  But…  Truth was, this wasn’t the prison’s fault.  Not entirely.  They’d known – how could they not – that what was happening was wrong, but not everyone had the mental fortitude to go against authority, real or perceived.  At least some of the guards had tried, within their limited means, to defend the unjustly imprisoned SRU cop.

Light blue flicked sideways and Wordy tipped his head a hair, accepting the handoff.  “What about the riot?  We know where he was when it started?”

“Exercise yard,” Mordred replied, tapping at his keyboard.  A moment later, one of the live images winked out and was replaced by a grainy image of the exercise yard.

Ed stepped back, head rising and gaze fixing on a familiar figure working his way to the center of the camera’s field of vision.  Greg knew where the camera was – he was deliberately staying in view even as he angled for a clear area.  The middle of the exercise yard left him exposed on all sides, but it also served as the ideal alibi; if he was on camera, then it was evidence that he hadn’t incited the riot.  But this was before the riot…

“He knew it was coming,” Jules announced, frowning at her own conclusion.

“Who’s that?” Sam asked before anyone else could speak, pointing to another part of the screen; Ed swung his head towards the new player, eyes narrowing.

“Dietrich Hassler,” the prison warden replied, though he quailed at the universal hostile glares he received from the SRU officers.

“And that is?” Ed questioned, still glaring, but lifting one eyebrow as he stared his target down.

“Castor Troy’s best lieutenant,” Mordred announced.  “Arrested by Team Two in a joint raid between them and, um…”

“Team One,” Wordy finished, scowling.

A new voice broke in over the comm.  “If you’re done yappin’ like idiots, we got a lead for you.”

Indignation curled and Ed shoved it away, lifting a hand to his comm.  “Go ahead, Macken.”

“Found a couple guards locked in different cells,” the Team Four constable reported.  “They’re all sayin’ it was Parker.”

Percival picked up as Gwaine took a breath.  “Got a couple inmates down, too; most of ‘em are still out, but one admitted Parker took ‘em down.”

Ed nodded.  “Copy that, we’re coming to you.”

“Lane, there’s something else,” Vio cut in, grim.  “Both the guards and the inmates claim Parker’s eyes were red and he wasn’t acting human if you know what I mean.”

The Sergeant’s heart stuttered in his chest.  The gryphon was loose?  But how was that even possible – Greg’s magical core was fixed.  No taint, no demonic twisting – Queenscove had checked him from head to toe after his psyche been ripped in two by Morgause and Morgana, only to pronounce him as whole – and sane – as a person could be.

None of that mattered, though.  Ed swallowed hard and levered words he hated out of his gut.  “Copy that, Troy.  Your team have tranqs on you?”

“Tranqs?  Maybe in our special gear, but…”

“No buts.  Get ‘em out, have ‘em ready.  You find him first, try ‘n’ talk him down, but if he doesn’t respond, you use them.”  Ed turned, including his horrified teammates and Team Three in his next order.  “All SRU on site; Lieutenant Parker is to be considered mentally incapacitated and threat level red.  Keep your tranqs handy; rubber bullets won’t stop ‘im, but he’d never forgive himself if he hurt any of us.

“Troy, hold your position; if Parker’s corralling the guards, he could still be active in your sector.”

“Copy,” the other Sergeant acknowledged.  “We got a trail from the exercise yard to where we are now; figure you can chase the rest of it down the rabbit hole?”

“That’s the plan,” Ed agreed.  “See you in five.”

* * * * *

Sam swallowed back bile as he crouched next to a small pool of blood and two unconscious inmates.  The scent of blood stung his nose, alluring and repulsive, both at the same time.  One inmate still had a shiv clutched in his hand, but there was another shiv laying a meter or so away from the blood.  Gingerly, he reached out, touching the blood; mostly dry.  No help there.  But…the sniper braced himself, then sniffed.  Blue widened; he glanced back and up at Jules.  She moved in next to him, a faint grimace appearing as she sniffed the air herself.  Then she looked down at Sam and nodded.

“Got something?” Wordy asked, keeping his voice low.

“That way,” Sam replied, pointing down the corridor.  “Figure they had a guard down and Sarge hit ‘em from behind.”

“The guard’s bleeding,” Jules put in.  “Not much, but enough to track.”

The team leader nodded, knowing the wolf and jaguar Animagi could track by blood and scent alone if they had to.  There was a faint air of discomfort – his inner stallion instinctively shuddering – but the team was taking every advantage they could get.

Lou took the lead – although his senses weren’t quite as attuned to blood and scent as Sam or Jules, foxes were predators in their own right.  Slim, agile, and excellent at catching small, speedy prey.  Sam hovered to his teammate’s left, sniffing the air every so often to make sure they were still on track; Jules stayed in the middle of the group, right in front of Ed and Wordy.

When they reached the next intersection, Lou frowned, glancing left.  Just as Sam was pointing to the right, the tan-skinned constable held up a hand and pointed.  The blond turned back with a frown, only to blink – there was a puddle of gooey vomit several meters away from them, right of center in the corridor.  The wolf Animagus made a face and hastily tugged at his enhanced senses, pulling them back as much as possible.

Bunching up, the officers made their way forward, weapons up and ready for any stray inmates, but not a soul disturbed them as they reached their latest clue.  Ed waved for Lou to inspect their find for any hints; before the constable could obey, they heard a sound and snapped on full alert.

A man stumbled out of a nearby guard post, unarmed; his uniform was streaked with grim and several stains that looked suspiciously like blood.  “You here for Parker?” he called.

“We are,” Ed confirmed, moving towards the dirty-blond guard; Sam noted the older man’s shoulders were sagging, exhaustion and pain carving unaccustomed lines of stress on his face.

“Better have tranqs on ya,” the guard advised.

Sam stiffened, eyes widening in shock.  “How do you know that?” he blurted.

Deep blue gazed back, weighed down by sorrow.  “ ‘e tol’ me,” the guard replied.  “Nuttier than a nut, but ‘e got me out.  E’en stopped when I tol’ him ta.”

He waved back where the team had come from and Sam sucked in a breath, realizing the two inmates owed their lives to their would-be victim.

“Was’n till we got ‘way that ‘e came outta it; guess mebbe it was me talkin’ to ‘im.”

The constable swallowed down bile, seeing the same horror on his teammates’ faces; if Sarge had killed to survive, to protect the guards, and then come back to himself…

“Where’d he go?” Wordy rasped.

The guard slumped against the wall.  “Asked me ‘ow many guards were left in ‘ere.  Tol’ him there should be four more.  Mebbe less if they go’ out.”  He pointed past them, back towards the corridor that Sam had first identified.  “Went tha’ way.  Can give ya the patrol routes if’n you wan’.”

“Please,” Lou said, emotion trembling.

“Was he okay when you saw him?” the Boss asked as their contact nodded and started digging in his uniform for his smartphone.

“Was’n hurt,” the guard replied.  “Just ain’t all there.”

Deep inside, his inner wolf snarled outrage at the slander against his Alpha, but Sam throttled the emotion, breathing slow and steady to keep himself in check.  If Sarge was slipping back and forth between himself and the gryphon, then the guard was right.  Even if it was the very devil to admit it.

* * * * *

The next guard they found had good news.  More than one piece of it, for a nice change of pace.  According to their latest informant, there was only one other guard left to find.  Even better, he described his rescuer as a stocky, half-bald graying brunet, with hazel eyes and very sane.

The whole team breathed an internal sigh of relief at the last – whatever was going on with Sarge, if he could keep it together just a little longer, they’d be able to reach him and get him out safely.  Then they could figure out what was wrong this time and fix it.

* * * * *

Blood.  It coated the floor and the walls and the limp body that lay out in the open, head twisted at an unnatural angle.  Sweat and fear and desperation stung their sensitive noses – even Wordy could smell it.  Lou, in the lead, scrambled forward to the body, only to heave a sigh of relief – it wasn’t the Sarge.

Jules, in the middle as she’d been for most of their trek, stared around at their surroundings in horror.  Someone had fought here – more than one someone.  Her eyes drifted to the body and shuddered.  Someone had died here.  Internally, she shook herself and yanked her attention back to inspecting the area.  Sarge had been here, she knew it in her bones.  He must’ve gone somewhere after he’d been here, too.

A flash of brown caught her eye and her heart rose into her throat as she moved towards that hint of color.  A second body – no, no, no.  Not him, please not him.  It wasn’t until she reached the dead man that she realized he was much too young.  Clean-shaven, wearing only a pair of briefs – why was he…

Fresh bile rose and Jules’s hand rose to her mouth as she whimpered.  Her teammates whipped towards her and she turned away from the fallen man.  “They took the guard’s uniform.”

“No way Greg knew,” Ed breathed and she nodded.

In their ears, the comm crackled and Mordred’s voice came through.  “Team One, just got a report from the unis on the perimeter.  They found a hole in the fence surrounding the prison; no idea how long it’s been there.”

“We’ve got subjects in the wind?” Lou demanded.

“Looks like it, Lou,” Mordred replied.  “My team and Team Three have got most of the inmates corralled and under control.  Should get the last couple down soon – you find Parker yet?”

“Negative,” their Sergeant rasped.  “We’ve got a dead guard, a dead inmate, and a heck of a lot of blood.”  He turned, glaring at the nearby wall.  “How close are we to that hole in the fence?”

There was silence, as if Mordred was checking on his computer.  Then he came back on the line.  “Got an exit ‘bout two corridors away.  Usually secured, but our rioters managed to get ahold of a couple guard keys.  Hole in the fence is right across from that exit.”  More clicking.  “The spot you’re in doesn’t have a camera, but I got some camera stills from about twenty minutes ago.  Looks like about nine, ten, maybe eleven inmates in that exact area; already workin’ on getting them IDed.”

“Were they carrying anyone?” Wordy asked, an awful hope in his voice.

“No, sorry,” Mordred apologized.  Then there was a startled intake of breath and a sound like the young constable had just sat straight up in his seat.  “What in the name of Arawn (5)?”

“What, what do you got?” Ed cried, despair and desperation weaving together into pure agony.

“Got somebody comin’ in,” Mordred reported.  “Looks like at least four, maybe five, but soon as they got close, they spray-painted the camera.”

More frantic clicking came through the line as the computer tech fought to get them something, anything.  Jules closed her eyes, murmuring a prayer under her breath.

At last, Mordred gave his verdict.  “I got nothing,” he admitted, anguish wrenching his voice.  “They sprayed every camera in their path; I’d bet my whole salary they took Parker, but I cannot confirm.”

Ed dropped his chin, closing his eyes in defeat.  “We got no choice then.  Add Lieutenant Parker to the BOLOs you’re putting together, Mordred.”

“Copy, Sergeant Lane.  Want me to send EMS your way?”

“Negative; all we got here is bodies.”

Jules shuddered at that truth, gazing down at the young guard who’d never had a chance.  The guard whose clothing had been stolen to trick Sarge.  And seeing his sightless eyes, glazed over, but clearly only a shade or two darker than Sarge’s…

Oh, Sarge, where are you?

[3] Toronto South Detention Centre

[4] Eira was an ally of Morgana le Fay who tricked Sir Gwaine into trusting her during the final days of Camelot.  She was captured and executed as a spy, but not before she’d won Gwaine’s heart and passed crucial information on Camelot’s forces to Morgana.

[5] Celtic god of the Underworld, Terror, Revenge, and War

Chapter Text

Soft.  Smooth.  Fingers twitched, spreading out on the sheet beneath.  A jaw tightened, brow furrowing for several moments before a pair of eyes blinked open.  They closed an instant later, the head tilting sideways and into the pillow.  There was a slow, steady inhale, then a cough, a gasp, and a rasp.  The figure jerked, automatically reaching for the ribs that screamed indignation.

He touched bandages, wrapped tightly around his middle and secured with a layer of duck tape.  “Wha…?”

Opening his eyes again, he pushed himself upright on the bed and peered down at his midsection; vision danced, blurred, and resolved into multiples of his torso and the fingers he held up to check.  His whole head throbbed, demanding a pained grimace as he lifted his tripled free hand.  The world around him began to spin, turning lazy circles, right along with his stomach.  Groaning, he shut his eyes again, dropping his hand without ever touching his head – it found the bed beneath him, steadying him enough to keep from toppling right off.

Why was he hurt?  How had he gotten here, wherever here was?  What was the last thing he remembered?

Pain jabbed anew as he fought to think – an operation his brain was having no part of.  Another groan rattled the air as a group of workmen armed with jackhammers went to work inside his head.  In the background, another workman began pouring quick-dry concrete over memory and he curled in on himself, biting back a yell when broken ribs shifted and stabbed into new flesh.

Desperate for relief, he reached for the warmth that swam in his veins.  He couldn’t remember, but he knew the warmth would make it better.  Bring his friends – the ones he could see, but couldn’t name.  They would help him, they would get him to safety and help and oh dear Lord, make it stop!  Make it stop – it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Agony erupted, sending starbursts dancing behind his eyes.  A scream echoed through his inner being, but never surfaced as his mind shattered, broken shards of thought slicing through mental walls he’d taken for granted.  He heard himself cry out, felt his palms touch either side of his head, but the world around him was nothing compared to the yawning black hole in his soul.  It could’ve been a moment, it could’ve been eternity – he didn’t know anything save fire racing through once-pristine corridors of logic and memory.  A carefully crafted psyche collapsing in on itself – his mind let out an unearthly wail as orderly surroundings quaked and heaved, dashing irreplaceable treasures to naught but dust.  Skills and talents, so carefully gathered, prized, and honed over a lifetime, were torn asunder; he collapsed on the bed, screams turning to keens of anguish.

Distantly, he heard voices, speaking words he couldn’t understand, felt hands on his arm.  His side and his head.  Worry and fear, for him, but who were they?  Why wasn’t his Pride here?  Had they…had they finally gone away?  Left because he’d hurt them too many times?

He felt something jab his shoulder and jerked away, keening louder as loneliness joined the anguish.  Gone, his Pride was gone – he wanted them back, but he…he didn’t deserve them…

Something twitched inside him, tugging at his broken psyche.  Pulling him down; he fought, keening with everything he had.  The voices came again, pleading, but he didn’t understand.  They were too distant, the words garble in his ears.

Pain unclenched and as it did, his muscles relaxed.  His eyes, still closed, scrunched an instant, then fluttered; his hands fell away from his head and a sigh escaped.  An arm caught him, turning him on the bed and resting him on the sheets and pillow again.  He blinked, but everything was so heavy…drifting away…

He could close his eyes.  Rest.  Just for a moment…

* * * * *

“What was that?”

He waved the other quiet, watching the man on the bed until he was certain he was under.  Asleep and free from the pain, if only for a little while.  About to push his compatriot outside so they could talk, he froze when his boss’s head fell sideways and light gleamed.  From under his eyelids.

Swallowing hard, he reached out, gently pushing one eyelid up.  Scarlet glowed, intertwined with hazel irises as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  And maybe…maybe it was.  Chilled, he released his hold and stepped back, shoving the other man towards the door.  His mind raced, putting together pieces he hadn’t even known he had.  Fitting them together in a puzzle he could only half see, the rest of it shrouded in darkness and secrecy.

Outside, he held up a hand, keeping his companion quiet.  An idea surfaced – crazy, but maybe, just maybe, exactly what they needed.  But not yet.  If the Boss woke up just as out of it as he’d been this time, then he’d take action.  And hope like mad that he hadn’t waited too long…

* * * * *

Everything hurt.  A thousand bruises, bumps, and broken bones, each demanding attention.  One hand found his midsection, lightly grazing the bandages secured with duck tape – whose idea was that?  Although…  Not bad, in a makeshift sort of way.

He felt…detached.  Disassociated, though he couldn’t put his finger on what he was missing.  His head throbbed, inside and out, and he knew there were multiple lumps on his scalp.  Inwardly, he shuddered – head injuries were far, far more serious than they were often portrayed.  That was really true of any injury, but a blow to the head…  Concussion, brain damage – possibly even death if the hit landed just right.

Cautiously, gingerly and with great care, he sat up on the bed, scanning the room for any hints on where he was and who might’ve wrapped his ribs.  Sunlight filtered in from a nearby window and a breeze stirred the curtains, but aside from the bed, a chair, and a stand right next to the head of the bed, the room was empty.

His stomach let out a grumble and the man swallowed a half-hysterical laugh – badly injured in an unknown location and he was hungry.  Heck of a thing.

Well.  First things first.  Gently, he reached inwards, already anticipating the relief and outrage from his friends.  They were sure to read him the riot act, but it wasn’t his fault this time…

Wait…  He sat straight up, then groaned and clutched his ribs.  Riot.  The riot – how was he still alive after he’d gone down like that?  Even as he hunched over throbbing ribs, he scrabbled for the last thing he could remember and winced again.  The gryphon, fighting with everything he had – that they had.  Gone all out; even if he’d been in control, the man knew he couldn’t have done any better than his wild side had.

Someone must’ve found him.  Rescued him – it wasn’t his team, though.  Otherwise he’d be in a hospital.  A specific hospital.  He knew the name, but when he reached for it, it slipped right through mental fingers.  Not good – concussion at the very least.

Okay.  Help.  He needed help.  Refocusing, he reached inwards again, pulling at the warmth in his veins, the connections he knew were there.  Only to scream and double over as pain exploded behind his eyes.  Starbursts, dazzling across his vision – his mind twisted, writhing in utter agony.  He fell sideways, unable to maintain his balance, and vaguely felt the side of his face hit the pillow; fingers clawed at his forehead, whimpering keens breaking free as everything inside him heaved.

“Boss!”

Loud, too loud; he fought to open his eyes, peer towards the voice.  Words formed in his throat, but never came out.  Just whimpers.

“Come on, Boss, don’t do this to me,” the other begged.

“Anthony?”  Rasping, broken – oh, Lord, it hurt.  He could hardly see for the writhing, twisting pain dominating his body, but he could hear relief in the way Anthony’s breath came out a low whoosh.

To his own everlasting relief, Anthony dropped his voice down low.  “Pain meds?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“You got it, Boss.  I’ll get the good stuff and a bottle of whiskey.”

“No!”  His head throbbed anew at the half-shout, but he had to get this out.  One hand snagged Anthony’s wrist.  “No alcohol.  Promise.”

Anthony jerked back, eyes widening in surprise at his vehemence.  “Boss, that’s the best pain relief we’ve got.”

He shook his head, gritting his teeth against the way his vision was blurring, bouncing in and out.  “No.  Alcohol.”  He closed his eyes to an effort to control the nausea.  “Concussion.  And I’ma alcoholic.”

His criminal second sucked in a breath and he felt a cool palm touch his forehead.  He moaned, leaning into that welcome coolness.

“Okay, Boss.  No alcohol.  My word on it.”

He managed a nod, but even down on the bed with his eyes closed, red and gray was creeping into his vision.  No, he couldn’t sleep – that was bad with a concussion.  But it didn’t seem to matter; already, his mind was shutting down, desperate to escape the pain of the waking world.  Distantly, he prayed he’d wake up again…

* * * * *

Anthony exhaled hard, fresh worry flooding his system as he stared at his boss.  To pass out in the middle of a conversation…  Not good, not good at all.  But at least the Boss had been able to talk this time.  Still doubled over in pain and whimpering like an animal, but instead of staring at him and Bennet like they were speaking in Swahili, he’d actually responded.  Communicated.

A tiny voice in the back of his head suggested they get the Boss to a hospital or at least bring in a doctor, but doing that in the middle of a city-wide manhunt for all the escapees from the Toronto South prison riot would bring those SRU idiots crashing down on their heads.  The Boss would be back in that miserable prison before he could blink – too badly injured to even think about defending himself.

He couldn’t risk it.  He’d just have to get the best pain meds they had on hand, plus a couple good meals from Bennet’s wife Fanny – and hope like mad that it was enough…

* * * * *

Regaining consciousness was an exercise in tolerance.  Pain tolerance.  His head throbbed in time with every beat of his heart and he had a nasty feeling that his currently inaccessible magic was the only reason he was still alive.  He’d known wizards – and some Squibs – were tough, but he’d never quite thought through the implications of that.  Although, in all fairness, getting beaten within an inch of his life wasn’t something he’d ever thought might happen.

He lay still on the bed, keeping his eyes closed, but didn’t try to reach for his magic or the ‘team sense’ – he might not have learned from the first kick of the mule, but he wasn’t so stupid that he’d ignore the second kick.

Anthony.  Anthony had been there the second time he’d woken up.  Maybe the first time, too – his memories were too blurry and disjointed to be sure of anything that had happened the first time.  It had felt like…  He shuddered, brushing against those memories.  …it had felt like his entire mind was coming apart at the seams.  Losing everything, even his capacity for languages.  How he’d been able to recover from that, he didn’t know, but in between every painful, ragged breath, he was thanking Aslan that he was alive and sane.

Hunger clawed, his stomach wailing so loudly that he half-suspected it was crawling up his spine.  If the last time he’d woken up was any indication, Anthony would be in as soon as he started moving – and he’d be more than happy to supply food, pain meds, and anything else he wanted.  Anything, that was, except his freedom; between his injuries and Anthony’s long-standing wish that he’d remained undercover, the mobster was sure to take full advantage.

But staying here…  He appreciated the rescue, really, he did, but if he was in as bad a shape as he thought he was, then he needed a hospital.  Preferably St. Mungo’s.  Trouble was, without the ‘team sense’ or his phone, he was totally at Anthony’s mercy.  The odds of his criminal second agreeing to let any member of Team One near him…  Well, if he thought Anthony would willingly call in his biggest rival, that concussion had knocked a few too many screws loose.

A low, rumbling growl came from his midsection and weary hazel eased open, accepting the inevitable.  He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so he might as well quit playing possum and start figuring out what came after food, water, and pain meds.  Shifting on the bed, Greg Parker pressed his right hand to the duck taped bandages around his ribs and pushed himself upright with his left.

Vision was iffy – he could see, but most objects had a fuzzy edge to them; he wondered if that was the concussion or if he’d just reverted to his ordinary, unassisted human eyesight.  A shudder went up his back at the thought – for all that he’d fought against his gryphon abilities as long and as hard as he could, to lose those abilities now was terrifying.

The curtains over the window stirred in a breeze from outside; Parker fixed his eyes on the sunlight streaming in, wishing the bed was close enough to see outside.  To see his city, maybe even figure out where he was.  His shoulders slumped anew – Anthony was hiding him.  And it made sense – technically speaking, he was an escapee.  A fugitive from justice.  Though there might be some mitigation due to the fact that he hadn’t escaped himself.  Maybe.

“Boss?”

Hazel shifted away from the window to the man who’d just entered the room – and he hadn’t heard him.  Deep inside, Greg shuddered; adjusting to being an ordinary human again…he wasn’t sure if he could.  Not that he had much choice – and it might not matter anyway if he was convicted of murder and organized crime.

Wrapped up in misery, it wasn’t until his nose twitched at the smell of hot food that he realized Anthony hadn’t come empty-handed.  His mouth watered as he took in the bowl of soup – Fanny Bennet’s homemade chicken noodle chowder unless he missed his guess.

“Mistuh Eli!”  Even as his eyes widened in shock, Jane Bennet was hurrying to his bed and scrambling up beside him.  Small arms wrapped around his middle, but didn’t squeeze as the little girl gazed up at him.  “Did the bad men hurt you, Mistuh Eli?”

Greg sighed heavily, but rested a hand on Jane’s back.  Hazel flicked to his criminal second, who was smirking as he brought in a small, collapsible table for the soup.  “Blackmail, Anthony?”

“Absolutely,” Anthony replied immediately.  “ ‘Sides, the girls missed you, Boss.”

“Mistuh Eli, Lizzy turned two last week,” Jane announced proudly, tugging at his shirt.  Then her face fell.  “Mommy said you couldn’t come to her party, Mistuh Eli.  Didn’t you want to?”

Rubbing his forehead with his free hand, Greg debated possible replies, but really, there was only one.  Looking down at the little blonde, he removed his hand from her back and tipped her chin up.  “Well, Jane, I was in jail last week, so even if I’d known about Lizzy’s party, I couldn’t have come.”

Blue eyes widened in childish horror.  “The bad men took you away?”

Dear Lord, how was he supposed to explain to a four-year-old that he was everything she’d been taught to hate and fear from her cradle.  Drawing in as deep a breath as he could – and wincing at the protest from broken ribs – he said, “Jane, I haven’t always been…Mister Eli.”

She frowned up at him.  “Mistuh Eli?”

“Do you remember how your Mommy and Daddy were very scared when you and Lizzy were separated from them?”

Jane nodded solemnly.  “But you were with us, Mistuh Eli!”

“Well, Miss Jane, they were scared because the leader of the bad men liked to go after families, just like yours,” Greg explained.  “A long time ago, the cops arrested him and put him in prison for hurting a little boy just like you and Lizzy.”

The little girl pondered that.  “Then the cops were good that time?” she asked.

He inclined his head.  “Yes, Jane, they were.  But the bad man didn’t give up just because he was in prison.  He waited and planned for a very long time – and he escaped not long before your Daddy came to work for me.”

“They let him get away?” Jane cried before her face twisted up.  “Can’t the cops do anything right, Mistuh Eli?”

Indignation pulsed in his throat and he throttled the urge to snap at the little girl.  She didn’t know any better.  “It wasn’t the cops, Miss Jane,” he chided.  “Once the bad man was in prison, it was their responsibility to keep him locked up.”

“Boss, talk and eat,” Anthony ordered, shoving a spoon at him.

His stomach growled, but he had to do this.  No matter how much it hurt.  “Not yet, Anthony,” he countered, tossing his criminal second a frown – Anthony was the one who’d brought the little girl in.  Turning back to his attentive audience, he continued, “Jane, once the bad man escaped, the cops knew he’d want revenge.”

“Revenge?” Jane questioned, tilting her head.  “What’s that, Mistuh Eli?”

Greg’s mouth curved in a sad smile.  “Well, Miss Jane, have you ever pushed or hit someone because they did it to you first?”

She squirmed, dropping her eyes away from his, and he chuckled.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he teased, grinning wider when her head shot up, blue eyes pinning him with childish outrage.  “We won’t tell if you don’t, will we, Anthony?”

“Not a word,” Anthony agreed, though his gaze was somber.  “Boss, you don’t…”

He lifted his free hand, turning his head to meet Anthony’s gaze.  “Yes, I do.”  Humor fell away as hazel lowered to the blonde again.  “Jane, I was one of the people the bad man was coming after.  That’s why I recruited Anthony and your Daddy – to help me stop the bad man and keep him from hurting my family.”

She drew back, staring up at him.  “The bad man was coming after you, Mistuh Eli?  Why?”

Greg met the little girl’s stare with every bit of calm he could muster.  “Because, Miss Jane, I was the rookie cop who arrested him all those years ago.”

A gasp rang out and she jerked away, staring at him fearfully before fleeing to Anthony’s protective bulk.  It hurt, but it was no less than what he deserved.

Even so, he finished his explanation, twisting on the bed to keeping looking at her.  “Jane, my real name is Greg Parker.”  He let his shoulders sag down.  “I’m sorry for scaring you.”  For lying to you.  “And yes, I am a Toronto police officer and I have been for twenty years.”

Anthony lowered a hand to Jane’s shoulder.  “He’s one of the best, Miss Jane.  Been hauling me outta the fire, even though he’s a cop.”  Despite the generous words, he glared at Greg.  “You didn’t have to tell her.”

Parker winced, but held firm.  “Yes, I did, Anthony.”  He met the other man’s gaze.  “I am a cop – that will never change.  I can’t live in your world, Anthony.”  His jaw quirked.  “Besides, it’s like you always said – once a cop, always a cop.”

The lean, dark-haired man stared back at his boss for several long moments and Greg saw the emotions battling for control on his face.  Then he sighed heavily, rubbed his face, and nodded.  “You ain’t stayin’.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice right now,” Parker replied, dry.  “But no, Anthony, once I’m on my feet enough to walk out of here, I’m going back.”

“To prison,” Anthony countered harshly.  “They didn’t even stick you in Solitary.”

“That wasn’t my guys or Holleran,” Greg snapped.  “It was Internal Affairs.”

“So what – after everything you’ve done, they threw you to the wolves.  You wanna go back to that?”

One brow arched.  “Then I suppose it wasn’t Will who sided with Hassler in there?”

The scarred man winced, acknowledging the hit.  “It was,” he admitted in the silence that rang in the wake of Greg’s statement.  “Guys inside – they think you put ‘em there, Boss.”

“You know I haven’t been passing on that kind of information; anything they got caught up in is their own problem, not mine.”

Anthony nodded without looking up.  “But you been passing on some about us.”

“You knew I’d have to,” Parker countered, crossing his arms.  “You knew that before you told me anything.”

For a second time, Anthony winced.  “Yeah, reckon I did, Boss.”  He scrubbed a hand though his hair.  “Fanny’s gonna have your hide if you don’t eat that, Boss.”

His stomach growled loudly in agreement and Greg huffed a sigh of his own.  “Copy that,” he replied, picking up the spoon and digging in.

In the middle of the room, Anthony crouched down in front of the frightened little blonde.  “Miss Jane, sometimes Mister Eli is a little bit dumb.  He thinks we should just kick him out for lying to us when he had to.”

“Had to?” Jane asked, thumb sneaking towards her mouth.

The mobster nodded.  “The bad man knew Mister Eli and his crew could take him down faster than you can beat your Mommy at checkers.”  Jane giggled.  “So he found a way to cut Mister Eli off from his crew and make him fight by himself.”

“That’s not fair,” Jane burst out.  “He wasn’t fighting all by himself!”

“No, he wasn’t,” Anthony agreed.  “But Mister Eli found a new crew to fight back with.”

“You and Daddy and everyone else?”

“That’s right, Miss Jane.  We were doing a really good job, too, and the bad man didn’t like that.  He tricked Mister Eli’s old crew into hunting him down and attacking him.”

Jane’s eyes widened.  “Parley!” she cried.  “Mistuh Eli made parley work with cops.”

Anthony nodded and flicked Jane’s nose.  “That’s right, he did.”

“They were Mistuh Eli’s?”

“They were,” Anthony confirmed, tone dropping down.  “They are.”  He twisted, glancing up at Parker.  “Not just them anymore, is it, Boss?”

Polishing off another spoonful of soup, Greg shook his head.  “I’m the SRU’s second-in-command now.  Working with all the teams.”  Hazel came up.  “How bad is it, Anthony?”

The mobster grimaced.  “Bad.  Hassler and a bunch of his guys made it out.  Cut a hole right in the fence.”  He stopped, staring down at the ground.  “We got in, found you inside.  Thought you were dead till I saw you chokin’.”

Parker swallowed hard and hazel darted to Jane.  “I, ah, I think I’m done eating, Anthony.”

Catching the hint, Anthony pushed himself up and inspected the bowl of soup.  “Keep eating, Boss – you ain’t had nothing for two days.  I’ll take Jane back to her mother.”

The officer ducked his head, accepting the unspoken rebuke, then perked up when Anthony set down a bottle of extra-strength aspirin.  The mobster tossed him a brief grin, then hefted Jane up on his hip and left.  The little girl buried her head in Anthony’s chest, not looking in Greg’s direction as she was carried away.  It hurt, but he knew very well that he deserved every bit of her scorn.

Picking up the bottle of aspirin, Greg tipped two pills out into his hand and dry-swallowed them, washing the sensation down with soup.  Inwardly, he weighed what he knew and what he could guess.  Hassler was loose, along with an unknown number of other prisoners.  Unless Anthony told him differently, Hassler likely had a hardcore group of Castor Troy gangsters at his command, along with several former members of Carl Elias’s organization.

All ties to the Ra Kacharz would’ve gone up in smoke as soon as that blasted news report aired – none of them would touch his organization with a twenty foot pole, not after finding out the mysterious Carl Elias was an SRU cop.  That meant he wouldn’t be able to get his hands on the BOLOs for the escaped prisoners – though he knew for sure that one of those BOLOs would be his own.

Worse, he could no longer be confident of his organization’s loyalty.  They knew he was a cop now; he could never again pretend to be anything else.  How Anthony had convinced them to protect him was a mystery Greg was too exhausted to tackle.  So long as he was under Anthony’s protection, he was safe, after a fashion, but the negotiator knew well that it was a fragile protection at best.  By protecting the ‘enemy’, Anthony had marked himself as a soft target – the challenges to his leadership would come thick and furious.

And – worst of all – he could not contact the SRU.  Not without putting them all in legal jeopardy.  If they’d been the ones to find and extract him from the prison, that would’ve been one thing – he would’ve still been in custody – but instead he was a fugitive.  A heavily injured fugitive who desperately needed more than a couple aspirin, but a fugitive nonetheless.

Staring down at his soup, Greg wondered if he’d ever see his friends or his kids again.  A tear trickled down his cheek – only his lawyers had been allowed to visit the prison and the only thing he knew was that his son and nephew had gone to the Lanes while Alanna had gone to the Wordsworths.

More tears followed the first, but determination balled within him.  Hassler was one of Troy’s – there was no question about who he would target.  Unless Greg could – somehow – keep him busy, he’d go after the kids.  And that, Greg could not accept.  Not so long as he had breath in his body.

* * * * *

“Why Mistuh Eli tell?”

Scarface glanced down at the little blonde in his arms.  “ ‘Cause he’s a noble idiot.”

Jane pondered a moment.  “What’s that?”

The raven-haired man sighed, but didn’t reply until he and Jane had reached the kitchen where Bennet’s wife Fanny was holding court.  Even then, he jerked his chin, indicating the nearby room where little Lizzy Bennet was having her mid-morning nap.

Fanny followed Scarface into the small room and took back her daughter.  Turning, the mobster focused on Jane, but flicked his eyes to include Fanny in his explanation.  “Don’t know the whole story, but the Boss never shoulda been sent undercover.  Can’t hack it long-term.”

Fanny gasped.  “Then he is a cop?” she whispered, fearful.

“He’s SRU,” Scarface replied.  “One of their best – think he’s a negotiator.”

The matronly woman huffed.  “Don’t they know he can fight?”

“ ‘Course they do, Fanny, but…”  The mobster trailed off, scrubbing at his hair.  “Thinkin’ maybe he learned fightin’ later.”  His jaw tightened.  “Fanny, they sent him undercover ‘cause they knew he couldn’t hack it.”

The blonde gasped again.  “Why?”

“Wasn’t his guys that sent him under,” Scarface explained.  “Was Castor Troy’s sister – she set ‘im up.  Cut ‘im off from his guys, too.”  A sardonic grin.  “ ‘Cept the Boss was better than they gave ‘im credit for – kept it together, never let on even when he was whaling the stuffin’ outta every rookie cop that tried to sneak in.”

“Until Mistuh Eli went away?” Jane asked.

The mobster flinched.  “No,” he admitted.  “I thought so, but…”  He turned away, wrestling with old emotions.  “When…when he came back…  He was in bad shape – didn’t know at first, not till he went down and I got one of his guys.”  Throat tightening, he rasped, “He told me the Boss spent two months jus’ tryin’ to get home.”

A hand touched his elbow and he looked down into Fanny’s gray eyes.  “You trust him?  A cop?”

“With my life,” Scarface affirmed.  “You know what they’re charging him with?”  Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “They’re charging him for taking down Castor Troy.  The worst mob boss in the city’s history.”  A bitter pause.  “For taking down a cop-killer.”

“For goodness sake, why?” Fanny demanded.  “Don’t they want to protect their own?”

“Guess not,” Scarface spat.  “Left ‘im to rot in General Pop, too.”  His free hand clenched into a fist.  “Fanny, I ain’t givin’ him back.  Far as I’m concerned, they had their chance – he’s ours now.  Cop and all.”

Fanny wavered for several long moments, but little Jane perked up, delighted.  She didn’t really understand the adult fear of law enforcement, not yet.  Scarface smiled back at her, grateful for her childish enthusiasm for the adults she loved – he was counting on that love to help him keep the Boss where he belonged.  With them.

Chapter Text

Commander Norm Holleran found his target working in his office.  Storming in, he didn’t even wait for the man to look up from his computer before slamming his hands on the desk, leaning over and into the other’s space.  “Tell me, Detective, is it customary for Internal Affairs to punish an officer who hasn’t even been proven guilty of any crime?”

Terence Niebaum instinctively recoiled from the nose only centimeters from his own.  Pale gray widened for an instant before he regained control.  “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Commander.”

Holleran resisted the urge to snarl just like his subordinate’s gryphon form would.  “Lieutenant Parker,” he grated out.  “You had him placed in General Population and I want to know why.”

“General?” Niebaum blurted, horror darting across his face.  “Crimey, he’s in the T-South riot?”

“Yes,” Holleran snapped.  “Now start talking.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Niebaum retorted.  “You think I did that?”

Commander Holleran straightened to his full height, crossing his arms as he glared.  “Your antagonism for Lieutenant Parker has been obvious from the start, Detective Niebaum.  If you have another suspect for my consideration,” one hand swept out, “by all means, do tell.”

“Sure I don’t like the guy,” Niebaum blustered.  “He’s a criminal.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Holleran countered, icy calm.

“Yeah, whatever.  He’s dead-bang guilty – you know it, I know it.”

“Don’t presume to tell me what I know,” the commander hissed.  “Get to the point, Niebaum.”

“Fine,” the big man grumbled.  “I ain’t got the authority, Commander.  Even if I wanted to put your guy in General Pop, that’s against procedure.  I can’t override that, nobody here can.”

The black man frowned.  “No one here…that implies someone can, Inspector.  Who?”

From behind his desk, Niebaum merely shrugged, but there was a gleam in his eyes.  “That’s the million dollar question, Commander.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Holleran mused, watching his target go rigid.  “And you’re going to help me answer it.”

* * * * *

To say that the SRU was unhappy when their commander returned to the barn with one Detective Terence Niebaum in tow was to vastly understate the case.  The officers stared at the IA detective, mingled disgust and loathing on every face – he squirmed under the universal hostility, but remained defiant.

“Briefing room,” Holleran rumbled, overriding any protests from his Sergeants by hauling Niebaum past and into the room.  The three teams involved in the riot streamed in, all of them managing to find places to stand, though the fit was rather tight.

Holleran waited for all movement to halt before turning towards Sergeant Vio.  “Status?”

“We fully contained the riot, sir, and the prison is back under our control.  Nine inmates and one guard killed during the riot – they’re still sorting out all the injuries; warden promised to get us a full report by tomorrow morning.”

“And Lieutenant Parker?”

Vio’s expression darkened.  “Missing.  Team One tracked him through the whole prison – he rescued most of the guards trapped inside when the lockdown happened, but the rioters lured him into a secluded location.”

“There was one heck of a fight,” Sergeant Lane reported.  “Blood everywhere, plus an inmate we’re pretty sure Lieutenant Parker took down.”

“That’s also where we found the one guard fatality,” Constable Callaghan said, tone subdued.  “They took his clothing.”

“Figure they lured Parker in with one of theirs disguised as the guard, then hit him from behind,” Constable Vlachos added.  “No cameras in that location, so we don’t have the full picture, sir, but the rioters managed to cut a hole in the fence and escape.”

“How many got away?”

“Thirteen,” Sergeant Vio replied.  “Fourteen if we include Lieutenant Parker.”  His shoulders slumped a hair.  “One of our escapees used to be a lieutenant in Castor Troy’s gang, sir.  He was arrested by Team Two based on intel we got from Intelligence Services.”

Holleran grimaced.  “Then he has a double grudge against Lieutenant Parker.”

“For arresting his boss and getting him arrested,” Sergeant Lane agreed.

“Maybe even for taking his boss down for good,” Constable Braddock mused.

“Do we know who took Parker?” the commander asked.

Constable Vlachos shook his head sorrowfully.  “We know it was probably an outside group who took advantage of the hole in the fence, sir, but they spray-painted every single camera between their entrance and Parker’s last known location.”

Commander Holleran considered the information, nodding slowly.  “BOLOs out for all the escapees?”

“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Vio confirmed.  “Parker, too.”

Niebaum sneered.  “Parker, too,” he mocked.  “Parker’s the worst of the lot!”

“Does he need to be here?” Sergeant Lane demanded, a deadly glare boring into the IA detective.

“For now,” Holleran said, though he cast a warning look at Niebaum.  “He has information on how Lieutenant Parker ended up in General Population.”

“I ain’t never said I knew how that happened!”

“That’s a double negative,” Constable Macken cut in, glee ringing loud.  “So you do know.”

“I didn’t know anything till your commander showed up and got in my face!”

Holleran turned his captive loose, shifting to face him head on.  “You informed me that no one in Internal Affairs would have the authority to override standard procedure when it comes to prison protocol for an individual on trial.”  Brown eyes narrowed.  “That implies someone has that authority and I want to know who.”

“Whoever it is, they red-flagged Lieutenant Parker’s file,” Constable Vlachos put in.  “Guards couldn’t protect him even when they knew he was in danger.”

Niebaum squirmed under the focused fury of the room.  “Look, you people don’t know who you’re messing with here.  Parker made a lotta guys nervous with how he tore through all those dirty cops when he was under.”

“When he was under,” Sergeant Lane snarled, advancing on the IA detective.  “You knew he was an undercover and you arrested him anyway?  You charged him with organized crime anyway?”

“He ain’t no saint,” Niebaum shot back.  One finger pointed at Constable Macken.  “And you shaddup about double negatives.  Parker’s as dirty as they come!”

“I believe that is for a jury to decide,” Commander Holleran put in, gesturing for his officers to stand down.  “But unless you’d like me to contact Lieutenant Parker’s defense attorneys about your uncoerced confession regarding your knowledge of my officer’s undercover role, I suggest you start talking.”

The IA detective paled, swallowing hard at the threat.  After a long moment of consideration, he nodded.  “Okay, okay.  Not just anyone has the kinda pull you’d need for something like this.  Warden would know – he’ll be the one who tagged Parker’s file – but he sure ain’t gonna talk.”

“Bribery?” Team One’s Constable Young asked, tilting his head.

“Nah, too obvious,” Niebaum countered, waving a dismissive hand.  “Too easy to track.”  Large shoulders shrugged.  “Favor for a favor is more like it.  Could even be lots of favors for one big one.”

“Politics in the underworld,” Sergeant Lane concluded, disgust heavy.

“Would this be a big favor?” Constable Hopper wondered.

“Sure would.  Veteran officer, member of the SRU – you betcha that’s a big favor to red-tag him,” Niebaum confirmed.  “Lots of fallout if it gets out, too.”

“Who are we looking at?” Sergeant Cooper barked, tired of the run around.

“I don’t know, Sergeant.  Had to guess, it’d be the mayor or the police commissioner.  They’re the only ones high enough to have the pull for some of what gets traded for stuff like this.”

Holleran shook his head.  “Not the mayor.  He’s too new to city politics.”

“Didn’t he run on an anti-corruption platform?” Constable Coulby asked, a frown twisting his broad, dark-skinned face.

“Sure did,” Niebaum agreed in a sour tone.  “And he’s no insider – you don’t get these favors outta thin air.”

“You build them up over time,” Constable Sabine interjected, her expression solemn.  “That’s the way we did it working undercover in Drug Squad.”

“That leaves Commissioner Loeb,” her Sergeant rumbled, fists clenching.

“Maybe not,” Sergeant Lane cut in, staring at the IA detective.  “How come you’re suddenly handing us this intel, Niebaum?  We don’t have Lieutenant Parker, so why admit you knew he was undercover?”  A step forward.  “Why go after a good cop when you know he was just trying to survive?”  Another step, looming over the reddening Niebaum.  “You’d only go after a good cop if you aren’t, if you’re just trying to save your own skin.”  Lane stared at his opponent, hawk blue boring into him.  “Greg’s not the dirty cop; you are!”

“I ain’t stupid, Lane,” the detective blustered.  “You lot can’t prove anything, but that won’ matter if your commander decides to take a lil stroll.”

“SRU, stand down,” Commander Holleran ordered, gesturing for his furious subordinates to back away from the IA detective.  He waited for Lane and Cooper to comply, then fixed Niebaum with a disapproving stare.  “You’ve been dirty so long you don’t even remember what it is to be a good cop.  My people are angry, rightfully so, but they won’t lay a finger on you so long as you aren’t foolish enough to pull your weapon inside this station.”  He shook his head slowly.  “I have only one more question, Detective Niebaum.  Why should we believe your claim that Commissioner Loeb is dirty?”

“ ‘Cause there isn’t anyone else in this city who’s got the pull to do that to Parker,” Niebaum hissed.  “Nobody else has got enough dirt on everyone in power to override standard procedure.”

“And what would be Commissioner Loeb’s motive?”

Niebaum snorted.  “Parker took down every single cop on Castor Troy’s payroll and you’re asking why a dirty cop wants him gone?”

“He didn’t take down all of them,” Sergeant Lane growled, insinuation thick as he stared at Niebaum.

“They couldn’t prove nothin’,” Niebaum snapped.  “An’ neither can you.”

“Enough,” Commander Holleran announced, stepping between the antagonists.  “I can’t say I’m convinced, but I can tell when we’ve reached an impasse.”  He leaned forward, looming over the slightly shorter man.  “Get out of my station.”

“Gladly,” Niebaum spat, pushing through the officers to reach the door.

The commander raised his hands, quelling every single objection from his men, and waited for the sound of the angry IA detective’s footsteps to die away.  Without lowering his hands, he said, “Settle down, men.  Commander Locksley has already dispatched Constable DeValle to shadow our friendly IA detective until we can locate Lieutenant Parker.  Any move he makes, we’ll know about it.”

There were several grumbles, as Holleran had known there would be, but around the briefing room, the SRU officers subsided, accepting that their commander knew what he was doing.

Turning, Holleran pinned his three Sergeants with a Look.  “Officially,” he began, “the manhunt is out of our hands since Lieutenant Parker is considered at large and dangerous.  However…”  He examined each of his Sergeants in turn, layering the silence with expectation.  “…as of now, Team One is being removed from the duty roster, pending Lieutenant Parker’s capture.  Given Mayor Russo’s anti-corruption initiative, our unit must handle this situation entirely by the letter.”  The commander let that hang in the air, then nodded.  “Gentlemen.  I leave this in your capable hands.”

With that, he departed, reaching out to hit the controls to close the briefing room door behind him.  Officially, his hands were tied; he could do nothing to protect his officer from the wolves prowling the city.  Unofficially – he knew his people would stop at nothing to bring their leader home safely.

* * * * *

For several long minutes, silence reigned in the briefing room after Commander Holleran’s departure.  His expectations and unspoken orders were clear, but if they were caught, their commander wouldn’t be able to protect them.

At last, Gwaine looked over at Mordred.  “Did he just invoke ghost protocol?”

“Shut up, Gwaine; the SRU hasn’t been shut down,” Troy replied wearily.  “And nobody’s been shot that we know of, either.”

Jason Cooper grunted, crossing his arms as he turned to regard Ed and the rest of Team One.  “This might be a one-way trip for you guys.  Won’t be easy to prove the commissioner’s involved.”

“Not with his reputation,” Ed agreed.  “How many mayors has he served under, anyway?”

“If you have to ask…” Donna opined, shrugging.  “Even with Russo’s anti-corruption gig, he probably won’t get rid of Loeb.”

“Too much a part of the Old Guard,” Wordy put in.  “Sarge taking down Frost shook the whole force – we lose Loeb, too, and a lotta guys are gonna wonder if they’re next.”

The rest of the officers had to agree.  Although the old commander of Toronto’s Police Academy had been arrested on corruption charges, many still refused to believe he’d been crooked.  The SRU was one of the few units who’d solidly backed that arrest, especially after they’d discovered who had uncovered Frost’s shady dealings.

With Toronto’s police force already uneasy and wary, the new mayor’s many speeches regarding rampant corruption within the city’s political structure had been seen as a direct attack.  If Commissioner Loeb lost his position – regardless of the reason – the tenuous ties between City Hall and the Police Department might well snap, leaving the city wide open to external threats.

“We’ll need solid evidence,” Troy observed in the brief silence.

“How’re we gonna get that?” Jason demanded.  “If Loeb’s dirty, then he’s had a lifetime to cover his tracks.”

“And he’d be even more careful to cover his tracks with Lieutenant Parker,” Donna observed.  “Like that jerk said, Parker took out just about every single cop on Castor Troy’s payroll – even if Loeb wasn’t in on that, he has to know he’s playing with fire by going after Parker.”

“Except…”  All heads turned towards Mordred; he flushed under the attention, but forged ahead.  “Except he didn’t cover his tracks with Lieutenant Parker.  Soon as we got to the prison, I found the red-tag on Parker’s file.”

“And we didn’t find his body,” Elyan hissed, slamming a fist into his palm.  “If he was dead, they wouldn’t have taken him.  That means he’s still alive somewhere out there.”

Percival frowned.  “Why does that make a difference to Loeb?  We would’ve found out about Parker being in General whether he survived the riot or not.”

“It makes a difference because a live victim is much more convincing to a jury than a dead hero,” Leon replied.  “Whoever we’re dealing with, whether it’s Commissioner Loeb or someone else, they were banking on Parker’s death.  So long as he’s unaccounted for, he’s a loose end they have to tie up.”

“He can link them to the riot, even if he doesn’t know who they are,” Donna agreed.  “They can’t let him survive, not now that they’ve made their move.”

“If it is Loeb, he’ll have buried all the evidence in our files,” Sam mused.  “He’s got the trust, he’s got the access – nobody would even blink if he wants to look in on a couple cases here and there.”

“Either him or his guys,” Gwaine muttered.  At the looks, he shrugged.  “What?  Parker’s good, but you can’t tell me he found all our bad apples.  No way.”

“If he had, IA would be outta a job,” Lou remarked, eyes sparkling for the first time in days.

“So…if we don’t have the evidence, who does?” Lancelot inquired, frowning hard.

Silence fell once more, all of the officers pondering that excellent question.  After a minute or two, Leon chuckled, drawing instant attention.  “Somethin’ funny, mate?” Gwaine asked.

Blue glittered beneath the former knight’s curly brown hair and above his neatly groomed beard and mustache.  “If memory serves, at this point, Arthur would declare his intention to personally investigate, after which Gaius would somehow discover the precise location we needed to journey to…”

“…and telling us all about the magic beasties and traps we gotta watch out for.  And if the princess got it in his head to leave Merlin behind, we’d get the Eyebrow or Merlin’d just turn up in the morning our first day out, grinning at the princess yelling at him,” Gwaine interjected, his own grin wider than a Cheshire Cat’s.

Ed shook his head even as Team Three gawked – Team Four’s Big Secret was common knowledge around the SRU now, but the knight-constables were still finding new ways to startle their modern-day colleagues.  Greg and Holleran had drawn the line at them bringing in axes and maces, though.

“You think we need to go right to the source?” Sam ventured.  “But what would that even be?”

About to open his mouth, Ed went still.  The day Greg had gotten arrested, he’d gone into his lieutenant’s office, searching for answers.  After wincing at the mountain of paperwork towering in Greg’s inbox, he’d found a small stack of finished paperwork, the bottommost of which had been a report on his friend’s latest brush with Anthony Marconi – still Elias’s second even though Greg had no intention of ever going undercover again.

And that…  That was their in – as Elias, Greg had naturally been focused on building up his organization into a position of strength in order to successfully combat Castor Troy’s gang, but he’d also put a great deal of work into gathering intelligence on all the players in the city, including law enforcement.  That was how he’d been able to hunt down all of Castor’s moles within the department, but Ed was sure there was more than just intel about Castor Troy in Elias’s stash.  Maybe even intel on their illustrious Commissioner Loeb.

“You know,” the Sergeant mused, rubbing his chin and waiting until his fellow officers had turned.  “It’s really too bad for Loeb that Parker’s former team is just as dirty as he is.”

For an instant, the room froze, then Gwaine barked a laugh.  “Good luck, mates; you’re gonna need it.”

Chapter Text

Fanny, Scarface decided, had missed her calling in life as a nurse.  Without her, he had no idea how they would’ve coped with a Boss who was so badly injured he could hardly get out of bed.  Every time he needed the bathroom, he and Bennet had to carry him there, and their return always included Fanny and her ever-present plastic tub for the nausea the Boss suffered whenever his head was jostled.

Worry twisted the mobster’s stomach as Fanny gently helped Elias lay back down on his pillows and used a moist rag to clean the sweat off his forehead.  He wasn’t getting better – they’d used three layers of duck tape on the last set of bandages around his waist, doing their best to hold the broken ribs in place, but he was sweating badly, throwing up blood, and he’d lost all sense of reality within a day of waking up.  The eerie scarlet was back in his hazel irises, though not as bright as it had been that first night, and, every so often, Elias would keen, cloudy gaze searching for something – or someone who wasn’t there.

They’d run out of time – Elias needed a hospital – but Scarface was loathe to admit defeat and let those SRU goons have his boss.  Maybe…maybe the kid doc Elias had taken him to?  Sure, the kid doc had said he was just a general practitioner, but once they had him, maybe they could get his sister to come willingly.

Nodding to himself, Anthony headed out of the sickroom and called Bennet.  The other man was startled by the request, but agreed at once.  If there was any chance they could keep the Boss, they’d take it.  The cops, they’d had their chance – the Boss was theirs now.  Now and forever.

* * * * *

Doctor Jesse Travis had known the day would come when he’d regret helping Lieutenant Parker with his pet mobster.  He’d known that he’d end up on that mobster’s radar and disappear when the man needed medical treatment again.  But, as he sat in the passenger seat of an old, beat up sedan, glaring at the man who’d pulled a gun on him and dragged him out of his family practice, Jesse mused that he’d never expected it to happen so soon.

“You do know it’s rude to point guns at people.”

Dour amusement flashed in the brunet’s blue eyes, but he didn’t reply.

“I didn’t even say no – I just wanted to get through my patient list today.”

A grunt.  “Boss doesn’t have time to wait, Doc.”

“Then he should go to a hospital.”

Another grunt and a shake of the head.

The young doctor huffed.  “Well, what am I looking at here?  Can you tell me that, at least?”

“Concussion – pretty sure ‘bout that.  Broken ribs.”  Worry glowed on the craggy face.  “We’ve been trying to keep his ribs strapped, but he won’t stop throwing up and can’t even get outta bed.”

Jesse sputtered.  “Can’t even…  For crying out loud, hos-pi-tal.  He needs a hospital, not a general practitioner who spends most of his time diagnosing arthritis and sore throats!”

Deep blue eyes turned towards him.  “Boss wants you, kid.  And what he wants, he gets.”

Travis swallowed hard.  He had a bad feeling about this…

* * * * *

Even as he was being shoved into the room, Jesse’s jaw fell open at the sight of the man on the bed.  “Parker?”

Cloudy hazel worked open, gazing towards him without comprehension.  Aware enough to recognize his own name, but not enough to grasp the reality around him.  Travis swallowed and hurried towards the bed, no longer resisting his captors – he understood now.  Parker needed a hospital – they knew it as well as he did – but that wasn’t possible with the citywide manhunt for the Toronto South prison riot escapees.  Although…Jesse had a sneaking suspicion Parker’s ‘escape’ hadn’t exactly been…voluntary…

Rapidly, the young doctor checked his patient over, worry growing with each new item he ticked off his mental checklist.  Broken ribs, confirmed – probable internal injuries if he’d been moved around as much as Jesse suspected.  Uneven pupils and largely unresponsive to stimuli – untreated concussion.

The scarlet in Parker’s eyes gave him a nasty shock – a magical attack of some kind? – but then Jesse remembered his sister telling him about how Wild Mages’ magic tended to acquire colors.  Curious, he’d asked Wordsworth once and the constable had explained that all magicals had their own…aura colors, but they typically couldn’t be seen, even by other wizards.  The difference for Wild Mages, Wordsworth told him, was that Wild Mages’ auras imprinted themselves right onto the magical core and manifested with any use of their magic.

Nibbling his lip, Jesse decided that Parker was – somehow – using his magic even while delirious.  Either that or his magic was acting on its own – which would explain why they called it Wild Magic.

Turning to the mobsters, he gave his verdict.  “Parker needs a hospital.  I can’t treat internal injuries, a concussion, or the infection he’s probably got going now.”

“Not an option,” Parker’s mobster growled, jaw and fists tightening.  “We take him in and he’ll be back inside ‘fore he can even blink.”

“I know,” Jesse whispered, swallowing hard.  “Look, let me call my sister.  She might be able to help.”

The other mobster, the slightly graying craggy brunet who’d grabbed him, looked up at his boss – Parker’s mobster.  Anthony scowled without replying.

Glaring right back, Jesse snapped, “My sister saved your life.  She can save Parker, too, and you know it.”

For almost a minute, the other man didn’t respond; the only sounds in the room came from Parker as he moaned to himself and tossed restlessly on the bed.

At last, Anthony grumbled something to himself and rubbed a hand through his hair.  “Fine.  Bennet, get the kid doc’s phone and let him call his sister.  She ain’t no pushover, so set up a place for a meet.”  A pause.  “Once the kid doc calls her, take away his phone again and come talk to me.”

“You got it, Scarface,” Bennet acknowledged, digging in his jacket for the cell phone he’d confiscated from Jesse.

For his part, Jesse tried his best to keep his expression open and guileless even as he plotted out exactly who he was going to call.

* * * * *

Three days and they still didn’t have any clues.  Although the entire team agreed that Scarface and Elias’s organization had to have been the ones to take the Boss, there was absolutely no sign of them.  No Guns ‘n’ Gangs rumors – Roy yelled at his brother for never telling him Parker had been Carl Elias – and all the buildings they’d been to during their brief undercover stint were abandoned.  Roy’s petulance notwithstanding, KITT volunteered to scan the city’s CCTV footage for any sign of Greg, Scarface, or Bennet, but hadn’t had any luck yet.

Sam suggested using the Lost Soul Potion, but that meant going to the Auror Division and getting them involved in something that was technically illegal – aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice.  Jules followed up with the idea of calling Merlin; the ancient warlock had flouted Camelot’s laws often enough that they all knew he wouldn’t care about the fugitive problem, but Ed was tired of calling Merlin’s number, leaving an anxious message, and never getting a call.  For crying out loud, he still didn’t know about Team Four and Gaius because he wouldn’t call Greg back!

As they wearily reassembled in the Team One magic-side safe house, Ed rubbed at his head, wishing Greg wasn’t so stubborn about the ‘team sense’.  If it were on, they wouldn’t have had any problems locating him.  And yet, despite the fact that it had been three days, his friend still hadn’t turned it back on and nothing he’d tried could bring it back to life.  The link was there, a silent reassurance that Greg wasn’t dead or dying, but it was so locked down, it was useless.

Locking it down in the middle of a riot had been the right choice, no doubt about it.  Ed had a sneaking suspicion that if it hadn’t been locked down, the team would’ve gone down right along with Greg – not a good thing during a hot call.  But why hadn’t Greg turned it back on?  That was worrying in itself – did Greg think they’d turn him in?  Was he too injured to turn it back on?  They wouldn’t know until they found him, but as the minutes ticked by, the odds of finding their friend and boss were dropping steadily.

Without lifting his head, Ed asked, “Status?”

“No joy,” Sam reported unhappily.  “Lisa was willing to talk to me, but she hasn’t seen any of Elias’s people in a couple of weeks.  One of her waitresses said a bunch of them got busted for those downtown smash ‘n’ grab robberies Roy and Giles were ranting about.”

“And after that, they went underground,” Lou concluded.

Braddock nodded, flicking a glance at his teammate.  “She asked me to ask you to call her.”

Lou stiffened, but Wordy cut in before he could speak.  “She asked, Sam told you, and you can figure out if you’re gonna call her later.”

The constable bristled a moment, but nodded acceptance of Wordy’s unspoken Move on order.

“Okay, anyone got any new ideas?” Ed inquired, doing his best to hide the weariness in his soul.  The longing for Greg – though it didn’t cut as deeply as it had when he and Marina had been kidnapped.  Absently, he wondered why that was, why his inner hawk wasn’t shrieking up a storm like it had the last time.

“Maybe…maybe we could try and work together to get the ‘team sense’ back on?” Jules suggested.  “I know Sarge has it locked down, but he’s just one person.”  She shifted, but added, “We’ve been able to force it back on before.”

Ed was reluctant to do it – they might hurt Greg unintentionally – but after three days of dead ends, they needed a lead.  Even if it meant pushing boundaries they typically left alone.  So he turned towards the rest of his team, one brow arching in question.

None of them were happy, but, one by one, they all nodded agreement with Jules’ proposal.  Her expression flickered, yet determination shone.  “We can apologize when we find him,” she murmured.

“We sure can,” Wordy agreed.  “Now?”

“No point in waiting,” Sam observed.

“Get it done, get it over with, find Greg,” Ed concurred.  “Okay, let’s hope we’re enough, but if we’re not, we can head over to Spike’s place and see if he can help us get that last extra push.”

“Copy,” the four constables chorused.

Reaching inwards, Ed grasped the link, feeling it vibrate in his mental grasp.  Summoning up his magic, he locked eyes with his teammates, watching as their magic came to life, obscuring their native iris colors with pink, silver, bronze, and deep blue.  His own eyes burned and he knew they were glowing yellow.

“Ready?”

Four nods.

“Now!”

Magic surged in his chest and he thrust every last scrap of it at the link to his boss, screaming for that link to open, to show him the way and guide him to his best friend’s side.  It was like slamming into a stone wall, almost cracking his head open as his ears ‘rang’ from the impact.  Gritting his teeth, he fought to lever that stone wall out of the way, but it just.  Wasn’t.  Moving.

For over a minute he kept fighting.  Kept pushing and digging and pouring on the magic.  But at last, he was forced to step back – coming back to himself in the real world, Ed felt his muscles trembling.  Sweat poured down his head and he was panting as if he’d run a marathon.  His legs quivered and he went down on one knee, too spent to maintain a solid stance.  Glancing around, he saw his teammates were all in the same state

Sam dropped down next to him, gasping for air.  After a few bracing gulps, he said, “He…really…locked it down…didn’t he?”

“Looks…like…it,” Ed agreed, heart sinking.  He stopped long enough to regain his breath.  “And we can’t pool our strength – everyone’s on a different link.”

“Divided and conquered,” Wordy put in, both hands on the ground as his lungs heaved, pulling in fresh oxygen.

The sniper nodded grimly.  If they had links with each other, they could, in theory, send all their magic to one person, thus increasing the pressure they could bring to bear on one stone in Greg’s lockdown wall.  But they still didn’t understand just how Greg’s magic had created the ‘team sense’ in the first place, much less how to create brand-new links within that framework.

“Pull in Spike?” Lou suggested, but Sam was already shaking his head.

“Won’t make a difference if we’re all coming from different directions,” he pointed out.  “Wordy’s right – we were divided right outta the gate.”

The tan-skinned constable sagged, shoulders slumping down.  “Back to square one.”

“Looks like it,” Ed rasped, still too quivery to try standing yet.  “Anyone got any other ideas?”

“Talk Amy into brewing us a Lost Soul Potion on the sly?” Wordy suggested, only half-joking.

The Sergeant hesitated – they’d already decided against asking their wizarding colleagues for help, but…  That had been when they’d still had options.  Three days ago when they’d been brimming with ideas and plans of action.  None of their tech-side leads had panned out and their best magic-side lead had just crashed and burned against the fortress of Greg Parker Obstinacy.  Maybe it was about time they changed tactics and called in their backup.

Dropping his chin, Ed nodded.  “Okay, Wordy, let’s see how fast Amy can get down here with her cauldron.”

Wordy blinked, but returned the nod.  “Copy that, Boss.”

“I’ll call her,” Lou volunteered.  “She knows me ‘n’ Spike best.”  Without waiting for a reply, the less-lethal specialist pulled out his phone and headed for the safe house kitchen to call the Junior Auror.

* * * * *

Though Amy lamented the team’s stubbornness in not calling her in on Day One, she readily set up her cauldron in the safe house basement and began the long, tedious six-hour process of brewing the Lost Soul Potion.  Lou and Sam joined her, cutting up and preparing each potion ingredient before she needed it, though both men were acutely aware that Spike would’ve loved to help with the potion.

In the meantime, Wordy had a sudden thought – Spyro.  The young dragon had links with every single member of the team – including Sarge – so maybe he could locate the missing lieutenant.  Brushing past a surprised Ed, he dug out his phone and called Shelley – the hatchling was staying at his home for the week as part of the team’s rotation of living arrangements for their draconic charge.

“Hey, Shel, it’s me.”

“Kevin, any luck?”

“Nothing so far, but I had an idea.  Could you ask Spyro if he’s able to track Sarge?”

“Spyro?” Shelley questioned.  “Kevin?”

“He’s got his own kind of magic, Shel,” Wordy explained.  “I know it’s a long shot, but…”

“Worth an ask,” Shelley agreed.  “I’ll be right back, Kevin.”

“Thanks, Shel.”

As Wordy waited, Ed slipped in next to him, smirking.  “Gonna be embarrassing if he says yes.”

“Find Sarge now, get embarrassed later,” Wordy retorted without hesitation.  “ ‘Sides, he’s still a baby; Sarge’ll understand why we didn’t think of him first.”

The taller man slouched a hair, but hummed agreement.

“Kevin?”

Focusing back on his phone, Wordy asked, “Shel?”

“I’m sorry, Kevin; he says Greg’s magic is blocking him out, whatever that means.”

The big man exhaled, discouragement slipping across his face.  “Okay, Shel; thanks for asking.”

“You’ll find him, Kevin,” Shelley reassured her husband.  “Your team doesn’t know how to quit.”

He laughed at that.  “Copy that.”  Lowering the phone, he turned it off and shook his head.

“It was a good idea, Word,” Ed remarked.  “Maybe he’s running into the same brick wall we are.”

Without responding, Wordy glanced at his watch, biting his lip.  Only a half-hour into the six-hour brewing time for the Lost Soul Potion.  This was going to be a very long five-and-a-half hours.

Chapter Text

Jules sat cross-legged on the floor, playing Tetris on her phone.  The game had been mildly entertaining at first, but now she was bored stiff and only playing because it was better than staring at the wall like Wordy or sneaking down to the basement every five minutes like Ed.  She wished she’d been fast enough to help with the potion like Lou and Sam, but it was already crowded with three people huddled around the same cauldron.  No way she’d risk screwing up that potion, not when they were – she swiped down to check the time – two hours and forty-seven minutes into the brewing time.

Before she could flick her finger up and dismiss the notifications, the phone vibrated.  Hummed.  And came to life with a chiming, determined ringtone – her eyes went wide at the contact name flashing on her screen.  Jesse Travis.

She swiped sideways and snapped the phone to her ear.  “Jules here.”

“Heya, sis,” Dr. Travis caroled, a forced note of cheer in his voice.  “You know how you came over and helped me with that special patient one time?”

Both brows shot up, but the constable played along, adopting an annoyed ‘why-is-the-little-brother-bothering-me’ tone.  “Jesse, what is it?  I’ve got six patients waiting on me; I don’t have time for one of your special patients.”

Her teammates looked over at the oddball declaration, their own brows rising as she waved for them to be quiet.

The cheer dropped out of Travis’s voice.  “Sis, I know you’re busy – I’m busy – but that guy called me today.  Asked me to come take a look and whadda know?  It’s your favorite patient.”  His volume fell lower, more urgent.  “Unless you’ve got someone dying on you, tell ‘em to go see another doc today, okay?”

Jules froze in utter horror.  She wasn’t sure who this special patient was supposed to be, but favorite patient had to be Sarge.  And dying – if Sarge had gone three days without treatment after the riot…  Or even if he’d been treated; Dr. Travis was a general practitioner.  Very good with day to day health concerns, but he didn’t have the tools to handle a desperately injured patient.

“Where?”

She heard another voice in the background and strained to catch the words, but the other person was too far away from Travis’s phone.  After a minute or two, he came back on.  “I’ll text you an address, sis.  They gotta be careful right now, so couldja make sure Simon gets fed before you come?”

“I’ll take care of it, little brother,” Jules replied, grinning at the sputter from the other end.  She hadn’t been sure, but now she was.  “See you as soon as I can.”

Lowering her phone, she took the time to end the call, regulating her breathing and praying until it chimed with a new text message.  She read the address, committing it to memory, then looked up at her hovering teammates.  “That was Jesse Travis.  He’s with Sarge.”

“You sure?” Wordy demanded, eyes wide with hope, but needing to be sure.

The brunette nodded and recounted the entire call, watching Ed more than Wordy.  When she was done, he blew out his breath.  “It’s Greg,” he agreed.

“Ed?” Wordy pressed, frowning.

“Found paperwork on Greg’s desk after they arrested him.  Friday before, Scarface got in a jam and called him.  He got him out, then took him to Travis with a gunshot wound.”

Jules whistled low.  “Jesse called Susan in,” she concluded, earning a sharp nod from her Sergeant.  “That’s our ‘special patient’.”

“Any idea who Simon is?” Wordy asked.

The negotiator shook her head at the same time as their Sergeant.  “Susan will know,” Jules replied.  “I hope it’s not code for ‘they already shot me.’ ”

Ed snorted.  “They won’t shoot him.  He’s cooperating; Scarface is a lotta things, but he’s not stupid.  If Greg and Travis had to call Susan for a gunshot, then he knows Travis can’t handle a beating.”

“He snatched Jesse to get Susan,” Jules concurred.  “I’ll call her right now, but be careful when you go downstairs, guys.”

Lane bristled, but Wordy smacked his shoulder.  “Copy that, Jules.  No point screwing up Amy’s Lost Soul Potion.”

The constable smiled at the dual points they all knew.  Even with a lead, they might still need that Lost Soul Potion.  And none of them wanted the potioneer spitfire angry at them – not when she was doing them a favor.

* * * * *

Much to the team’s relief, ‘Simon’ turned out to be Jesse’s pet cockatiel.  They met Susan at her brother’s home and brought in the mail while she approached the black and white mottled bird in his large cage.  Atop a yellow head with the signature patches of peach feathers, the cockatiel’s crest flared at the sight of strangers, one of whom smelled like cat and another of whom felt like hawk.  He crouched on his perch, puffing up his feathers and snapping his beak as mottled wings spread, revealing pure white leading edges.

Susan shushed the bird and opened the cage.  Reaching in, she brushed her hand against his chest; he hopped up on her finger and leaned into the Healer as she pulled Simon out and petted his bristling feathers down with her other hand.  Bringing him away from his home cage, she murmured reassuringly to him, nodding thanks as Team One went to work.  Lou refilled the cockatiel’s water feeder and Sam found an open bag of bird feed; Jules pulled out the old newspaper from both home and traveling cages, smiling as Wordy moved in with fresh from Jesse’s stack of old newspapers.

Before he could get there, Ed stepped in, holding up the bucket of cage cleaning supplies he’d found under the sink.  Wordy made a face, but nodded and set the newspaper down to help his Sergeant clean out the home cage – the traveling cage was already clean and ready, though Lou replaced the full water feeder with the one he’d just refilled.  Dumping out the old water, the less-lethal specialist cleaned the feeder, but didn’t refill it.  No telling when Simon would be coming home once Susan dropped him off at their family medical practice.

Once both cages were ready, the team retreated – if Simon could sense their Animagus forms, there was no way he’d ever be comfortable around them.  Besides, the longer it took to get the bird squared away, the longer their injured lieutenant would go without treatment.  That was far more important than a missed opportunity to pet a cockatiel.

* * * * *

The meet-up point was a good half-mile from their headquarters, but that didn’t matter much when the kid doc’s sister showed up with the Boss’s old crew in tow.  Bennet suppressed a sigh, mouth drooping down in a frown, but it was a near thing.  He shoulda known the kid doc would find some way to tip his sis off – and that was assuming he hadn’t just called the cops from the get-go.  He should’ve made the kid doc tell him the phone number instead of lettin’ him have his phone back and pick the contact number himself.

Tugging the kid doc back, he stepped into sight, landing his best glare on the lead cop – the tall, bald one who’d replaced Scarface as the Boss’s second.  Crossing his arms, he demanded, “Who’s Simon?”

“My brother’s pet cockatiel,” the woman with long blonde hair replied, glaring back with light brown eyes.  “Where is he?”

The mobster blinked – who worried about a pet cockatiel in the middle of being kidnapped? – but grudgingly shifted to the side, revealing the kid doc.

The blonde exhaled relief.  “Jesse?”

“I’m fine, sis,” the dark-blond kid doc replied.  Blue shifted to the cops.  “Parker’s in bad shape, but he’s still alive.”

“Where?” the blonde snapped; one of the cops pulled her back before she could step forward and out of their protective circle.

“Not here,” Bennet growled.  “And they ain’t comin’.”

The woman held up a hand before any of the cops could bristle.  Cold light brown skewered him.  “Either they come or I take my brother back now.”  She smiled and Bennet felt a shiver down his back.  “Pull that gun and I’ll do it.  Then we’ll just ask Jesse where Parker is.”  And take him, too.

“But we’d rather have your help,” one of the cops put in.  “Keep the Boss from ending up back inside.”

Bennet wasn’t happy.  Not in the slightest.  But he had a nasty feeling the kid doc’s sis wasn’t kidding about just taking her brother.  If she couldn’t do it, the cops could; these weren’t just any cops, after all – these were the Boss’s cops.  Not to be underestimated, lest he end up with a broken collarbone and a boot digging into his back.

Grumbling, he surrendered to the inevitable and shoved the kid doc towards his sister before turning and leading the way towards where his car was parked.  Sure enough, one of the cops caught up with him while the rest withdrew to their own vehicles.

The blue-eyed blond smirked at his sour expression, but the expression was half-hearted.  “How bad is he?”

His icy demeanor thawed a hair.  “We didn’t pull the kid doc in ‘cause he was gettin’ better, cop.”

“I know, but there weren’t any cameras where he went down,” the cop countered.  “How bad is he?”

Another grumble made it out.  “You’ll see soon ‘nough, cop.”

* * * * *

“Oh, gawd, Sarge,” Jules cried, scrambling to her lieutenant’s bedside as soon as she was clear of the doorframe.  One hand automatically reached out to feel his forehead and he whimpered, pulling away from the heat of her hand.  Cloudy hazel opened, but failed to focus on her – her horror redoubled at the sight of heavily uneven pupils and the scarlet swirled with his irises.

Susan and Jesse joined her before her teammates did, but only because they were the best hope for the delirious, terribly injured man on the bed.  Susan uttered several choice oaths and reached for her left forearm before stilling.  In a low voice, she ordered, “Get them out.”

To leave Sarge alone while he was so sick was anathema – Jules lifted her head, protest on her lips, but experience kicked in, stilling all objections.  Instead she turned towards her Sergeant, terrible resignation shining in her eyes.  Light blue met her brown – she saw the same battle play itself out before he nodded grimly.

The Sergeant’s stance adjusted and his shoulders straightened – taking on their lieutenant’s authority with Elias’s men.  “Okay, everyone ‘cept Jesse and Susan out.”

“Not a chance, cop,” Bennet snarled.

Wordy slammed the slightly shorter man into the nearest wall, gray wild with suppressed anguish beneath stallion obstinacy.  “You want him to die?” the constable demanded, waiting for Bennet to shake his head.  “Then out!” the team leader roared, hauling the other man towards the door.

Jules forced herself to leave Sarge’s side, moving towards an aghast gray-eyed blonde.  “Hi there, I’m Jules,” she introduced herself, gently ushering the matronly woman after her – husband?  “We need to go.  Right now.”

The woman resisted, throwing her an infuriated glare.  “Who do you think you are?” she demanded.  “This is our headquarters, cop.”

“I know that,” Jules replied, “But Susan can’t help him until we leave.”

“What, she’s gotta dance around him five times under a full moon?” a new voice sneered.  Jules looked up in time to see Anthony Marconi – Scarface – stalk into the room, his dark eyes boring into her.  By the door, Wordy had frozen in the middle of dragging Bennet outside.

The Healer turned away from her patient, hands propped on her hips as she faced down her lean, but muscular opponent.  She surveyed him a moment, then snapped, “If you ever kidnap my brother again, you’ll find out I don’t need the full moon to make you disappear.”

“Not like I had your phone number,” Scarface retorted.

“No, but you have theirs,” Susan countered, pointing to Team One.  “Don’t tell me Lieutenant Parker didn’t make sure you at least had Sergeant Lane’s number, just in case anything ever happened to him.”

The raven mobster bristled, but didn’t contest her claim.  Instead, he pointed at the man on the bed.  “Look, girlie, I’ve seen the Boss’s eyes.  So’ve Fanny and Bennet – you ain’t gonna convince us that’s normal.”

Travis stilled, then moved to Sarge’s head to see for herself.  His head had rolled away from his company, but he didn’t fight as she pulled his chin back and gently pried one lid up.  At her gasp, Wordy slumped and released Bennet.

Her wand flashed as it dropped into her hand and she waved it over Sarge in the movements of a diagnostic.  For a split second, she regarded the results, then paled.  “Dear Merlin,” she swore.  Whirling she hissed, “Out!  Get out!”

This time, none of them argued; Wordy grabbed Bennet again and hauled him out as Jules escorted Fanny and Ed snagged Scarface by his collar.  As soon as they were out of the room, the door glowed brightly for an instant before banging shut and audibly locking.

“What was that?” Sam asked, rubbing the back of his head.

Jules swallowed hard.  “His eyes are half-scarlet, Sam,” she explained.

“Like that one time?” her boyfriend probed, stiffening when she shook her head.

“Worse,” Jules replied.

“How long have they been like that?” Ed asked Scarface, pinning him with a ‘don’t-you-dare­-lie-to-me’ glare.

The mobster shifted unhappily.  “Since the first night,” he admitted.  “First time he woke up, he was goin’ nuts.”

“Nuts how?” Lou demanded.

Both Scarface and Bennet flinched and it was the latter who responded.  “When we got there, he was clutching his head and screaming.  We tried talking to him and he just stared at us like he didn’t know what we were saying.”  The was a beat of horrid silence.  “Finally had to put him under.”

The negotiator resisted the urge to ask where on Earth they’d gotten their hands on an injectable sedative and focused on the practical.  “What about the second time?”

“Still screamin’ up a storm,” Scarface relayed.  “He knew who I was, though, so that was better.”  He hesitated, battling with himself, but finally added, “Third time was the best.  Knew who I was, got somethin’ down, and e’en talked to Jane.”

“Then the infection took over,” Wordy finished; the three criminals were rather sour, but nodded to confirm the officer’s observation.

Jules looked up at her Sergeant – with Sarge down, he was the only one of them who had the authority to override the Statute of Secrecy.  But there was a reason Sarge hadn’t been willing to reveal magic to his criminal second.  To override that, even if the mobsters had already figured most of it out – it felt like a betrayal.

* * * * *

Ed grimaced, feeling his team’s eyes on him.  No need to guess how they felt – he felt the same.  But they needed Scarface’s help and he wouldn’t help if they tried to deny the obvious.  Obliviations weren’t an option, either, not when that would alienate Elias’s people even more.

Considering, he surveyed the trio of mobsters, longing for his friend’s deft touch with human interactions.  That instinctive gift of navigating even the worst of social minefields.  At last, he sighed, let his shoulders sag, and asked, “What do you want to know?”

“How come you threw ‘im to the wolves?”

The sniper reared back, caught off guard.  A scowl emerged – around him, his team bristled – and only a swift upraised hand kept them quiet.  “Internal Affairs arrested him Monday morning after he pulled you out of the fire Friday.”  Scarface opened his mouth and the upraised hand slashed across.  “Let me finish!”  Sullen, the mobster nodded.  “None of us were even at the station when they did that.”

He let that hang, then leaned forward.  “Someone pulled some serious strings – it’s illegal to put someone who hasn’t been convicted in General Population, cop or not.  He should’ve been in Solitary, at least until the trial was over.  We didn’t know he was in General till the riot.”

“Didn’t even visit him, eh?”

“Weren’t allowed,” Sam countered, crossing his arms with a sullen expression.  “We couldn’t even take Sarge’s kids to see him.”

The matronly blonde gasped, reaching out to clutch Bennet’s hands.

“That ain’t right,” Scarface replied, scowling.

“Of course it’s not,” Wordy burst out.

“Shaddup.  That shoulda been your first clue sommat wasn’t right.”

“And it was,” Ed broke in before Scarface could build up a head of steam.  “But if we’d tried to fight it, Greg would’ve been behind bars longer.  We knew it wasn’t right, but the priority was getting him out.  Then we could rake them over the coals for violating procedure.”  Blue darkened.  “We didn’t realize it was a lot worse than just denying Greg visitors.  Not till it was too late.”

The SRU Sergeant surveyed the mobsters grimly, inwardly satisfied by their grudging acceptance of his argument.  “Now.  If that’s everything…”

“Not so fast, cop,” Scarface cut in.  “You can’t hide behind classified this time; I wanna know!”

Though extremely tempted to drag things out and get in a few taunts, Ed knew that would backfire on them.  The situation was precarious enough without alienating their criminal allies.  Even so…

“Lou.”

“On it, Boss,” Lou replied, pulling out his phone to set up the mobile secrecy ward.

The Sergeant waited until the phone let out a triple chime before he nodded and looked his rival in the eye.  “Okay.  You want the truth?  Here it is.  Magic is real and Greg’s had it all his life.”

* * * * *

A silvering brunet in sweats left his apartment, duffle bag over one shoulder.  The big man locked his door behind him, then sauntered down the hallway, pale gray casually scanning for any observers.  He jogged down the stairs, spying a neighbor coming in.  Pausing, he reached out and opened the second-floor door for her, smiling when she thanked him and pressed past, arms sagging with the weight of all the grocery bags she was carrying.

Concerned, the man peeked into the hallway and asked, “Need a hand?”

The woman maneuvered her key into her apartment door, unlocked it, and turned to face him, using her arm to push down the handle.  “I’ve got everything,” she replied, though she tossed him a grateful smile.  “Have a good day!”

“You too, ma’am,” he said, withdrawing back into the stairwell.

Shaking his head at the stubbornness of single women who tried to carry in everything they’d bought on the first trip, the man continued down the stairs, muttering under his breath as he pushed against the inside of the apartment building door.  If the darn thing had broken again, he didn’t blame the woman any more.  Who needed that kind of hassle on more than one trip?  Especially when there was always some chump who kicked the rock keeping the door from locking.

Finally winning the battle, Niebaum headed outside his building, squinting automatically in the sunlight.  Lifting one hand, he shaded his eyes and scanned the parking lot for his car.  Without assigned parking, the competition for spots near the doors could be fierce and it was always a tossup as to how close he could park to his own apartment.

Oh, yeah, he’d had to park a distance away the night before.  Grumbling, he turned and headed for the part of the lot he used whenever he couldn’t find a closer spot.  The sensation of being watched tickled at his spine and he halted, glancing around.  The air was still; aside from a few late-running office worker bees heading for their cars, the parking lot was quiet.  Nothing out of the ordinary – except for the hairs tingling on the back of his neck.

Putting his head down, Niebaum headed for his car, shifting his duffle bag to his left hand while his right crept down to his waist.  At a noise, he whirled back towards his building, resting a hand on his hidden weapon.  He scanned the bushes with fierce intensity for several moments before whipping back around and jogging for his vehicle.

From his spot in between two bushes, Constable Revan DeValle whistled under his breath.  Thank Merlin for Disillusionment Charms and techies who didn’t have a clue about magic.  Slipping upright, the wizard didn’t bother brushing off his jacket or pants as he followed his target.  Too on-edge for a close tail, but that was fine; a tracking charm would do the job just as well and hopefully his target would cool off during the drive.

Careful to avoid making any noise, Revan tugged his wand out of its holster, waiting for Niebaum to reach his car and put his duffle bag in the trunk before making his move.  Angling the wand at the old battered vehicle, he readied his spell, waiting an instant longer for Niebaum to open his driver’s door.

Crack.  Revan jumped, but Niebaum went down, already reaching for his chest.  More cracks sounded; the IA detective jerked with each one, collapsing forward on his palms and finally to the ground.  By the time Revan reached him, he was choking on his own blood.

Chapter Text

“So how come his eyes turn red?”

Ed glanced up from where Lou had set up Spike’s laptop to bring up all the evidence they had thus far on their lieutenant’s case – including everything Team Four had gotten from the prison the day of the riot.  With any luck, Elias’s people might be able to fill in the blanks on Greg’s first cell mate; General Population was bad enough without sticking a veteran cop in with a known gangster with a long history of drugs, violence, and attempted murder, but the Sergeant had a feeling his best friend’s cell mate had been chosen very carefully indeed.

The sniper hiked a shoulder.  “That’s his magic.”

“Yeah,” Scarface countered.  “But why red?”

He blinked, trading a glance with Wordy, who shrugged back.  Shifting back to the mobster, Ed drawled, “You figure that out, let us know.”

For a moment, Marconi bristled, glaring at them as if they were deliberately holding back.  After a few seconds, Bennet poked his boss, shaking his head when Scarface turned to him.  Incredulous, he swung back.  “You really don’t know?”

A flippant response tingled and Ed bit down on it, eyeballing his rival until the other man squirmed.  “Since the day we found out, it’s been red,” the Sergeant replied, tone flat.  “That’s his color.”  Very deliberately, he shrugged one shoulder again.  “Believe me, the color hasn’t been nearly as much a thorn in Greg’s side as the magic.”

The mobster bristled anew at the reminder that the team had refused, point-blank, to discuss the details of their lieutenant’s magical background and history.  They’d had to explain the wizarding world and even give a general overview of Parker’s many, many issues with his power, but details?  Not.  A.  Chance.

* * * * *

Lou swallowed down a sigh, turning away from his Sergeant and team leader – the rivalry between Ed and Scarface had gotten old fast the first time they’d gone undercover and never mind Wordy’s sudden acquisition of his own criminal rival.  Edging himself and Spike’s laptop closer to Fanny Bennet, he waited for her suspicious glare to land on him before tilting his chin invitingly at the laptop.

The blonde glared harder, but when Lou turned the laptop just a hair more towards her, she glanced between the cop and the glowing screen – a screen that both of them knew had information about their leader.  Much as the less-lethal specialist didn’t want to admit it, so long as Elias’s people considered him their boss, Parker would return that loyalty within the bounds of the law and his position as the SRU’s lieutenant.

At last, the blonde stepped towards the laptop, though she crossed her arms, continuing to glare at the cop – fully expecting to be judged in turn.  Instead, Lou tapped at the keyboard, bringing up the mug shot of Sarge’s first cell mate.

“Who’s that?”

The tan-skinned officer tapped again, bringing up the man’s name under his picture.  “Ever heard of him?”

Fanny leaned in, reading the screen, glare fading as she shook her head.  “Thomas…Thomas keeps me away from the business.”

The woman’s faint shudder, coupled with her suddenly timid voice, spoke volumes to the experienced SRU constable.  He glanced up at Fanny, keeping his own voice even and steady.  “Sarge cracked down on all the domestic abuse, didn’t he?”

“Thomas has never hurt me,” the blonde hissed.

“Didn’t say he had,” Lou countered, meeting her angry glare head-on.  “But what about the other chiefs?”  He nodded when she averted her gaze, a second, stronger shudder moving through her body.  “Domestic abuse ticks Sarge off – I remember once, he found out a constable on another team had a lil too much to drink one night at home and smacked the family dog.  Not even his wife or his kids, just the dog.  Sarge wrote ‘im up, made sure he got an official warning in his file.  Said anyone who hits an animal is just one small step away from hitting a human instead.”

“Elias would have thrashed him,” Fanny retorted.

Lou arched a brow.  “You do know we’re talking about the same guy, right?”

“You think Elias is stronger, don’t you?”  Sam shook his head as his teammate and Fanny shifted towards him.  “Of course Elias thrashed anyone who didn’t do what he told ‘em to – physical force is how you maintain authority and discipline around here.”

“Most cops would’ve ignored what happened,” Jules agreed, slipping up next to Lou.  “Played it off as a one-time thing or maybe given that guy a ‘don’t-do-it-again’ warning.  Nothing official.”  She shook her head.  “Not Sarge; when that guy’s Sergeant tried to appeal to Commander Holleran to get the written warning revoked, Sarge threatened to go to IA.”

The less-lethal specialist nodded – none of them except Ed would’ve known about the incident, but the then-team leader wanted to know why their Sergeant wouldn’t let it go, even to the point of becoming a ‘snitch’.  Sarge’s explanation was so tightly controlled that he’d nearly been speaking in a monotone as he laid out the potential escalation path for someone who mixed alcohol abuse with animal abuse.  When he’d taken Team One off primary for the next week, none of them had breathed a word of protest; they’d seen their leader’s hands trembling for over an hour after that explanation and all of them knew Ed had checked Sarge’s locker for alcohol every morning for over three weeks afterwards.  At Sarge’s request.

Shaking off the memories, Lou focused back on Fanny.  “Sarge didn’t need to thrash that guy to make him stop.  All he needed was his pen and his reputation.”  The constable studied the blonde for a long moment.  “How many times did Elias actually beat someone up?”

“Thrashed every cop we caught tryin’ to sneak in.”

He stiffened automatically – saw Jules and Sam tense up as well – but the less-lethal specialist wasn’t as easy to rile as his green-with-envy Sergeant and team leader.  Lou met Bennet’s smug expression with a lifted brow and settled back in his chair, deliberately nonchalant.  “Was that before or after he put Scarface in his place?”

He hadn’t been sure, but Bennet’s smug expression fell away in a bristle every bit as automatic as if Wordy had been defending Ed.

“Look.  We get it – you don’t like cops; we don’t like criminals.”  One hand slashed across before Bennet could interrupt.  “Doesn’t matter.  Doesn’t matter if you call him Elias or Sarge, doesn’t matter if you’re a cop or a criminal – he looks after his own and we look after him.”  Dark eyes locked with Bennet’s brown.  “You weren’t surprised, were you?  To find out he was a cop?”

Reluctantly, Bennet shook his head.

The constable nodded, sad, but sure of his conclusions.  “He was always different, wasn’t he?  Not like any boss you’ve ever had before.  Betcha there was a part of you that always knew, but you didn’t want to admit it.  Not even to yourself, ‘cause that meant admitting that your world was wrong.”

Lou leaned forward, snagging his opponent’s gaze.  But before he could continue, keen hearing caught the pitter-patter of small feet.  His head swung to the side, towards the noise, just in time to see a little blonde girl with light blue eyes.  She scrambled into the room, darting to her mother with hands lifting in silent expectation.

Fanny stooped down, sweeping the girl up; Bennet turned towards his wife and daughter, an instinctive smile spreading across his face.  The child smiled back at her father before her lip jutted out in a pout.  “Mommy, Mistuh Eli’s door won’t open.  I knocked and tugged and a mean lady yelled at me to go away.”

“I’m sorry, my little Jane,” Fanny said, “The doctors are in with Mister Eli right now – they need some time to help Mister Eli get better.”

Jane pondered that, pout falling away for several seconds before it returned as her lip jutted out even farther than the first time.  “But I wanna talk to Mistuh Eli!”

Lou choked down his laugh and saw Sam cover his mouth to keep in his own laughter.  Jules maintained a calm expression, but her eyes twinkled.

The matronly blonde stroked her daughter’s back with her free hand.  “Mister Eli is very sick right now, Jane.  We have to let the doctors take care of him.”

Light blue eyes moved from Fanny to Bennet, growing wide as a tear trickled out of one.  “Daddy?”

Bennet reared back from the little girl’s pleading expression, rubbing the back of his head as he looked everywhere but at his daughter’s tearful gaze.  “You heard your mother, Jane.”

Lou could see a losing proposition when he saw one and if Bennet thought his daughter was going to let him get away with hiding behind her mother, he had another thing coming.  But at the same time, there was no way Susan was going to let anyone inside that room until she’d gotten Sarge stabilized.

So the constable propped one elbow on the table, careful to avoid Spike’s laptop, balanced his chin on his hand, and drawled, “You know, nobody knows if Susan’s bark is worse than her bite.”  He waited for Bennet to swing towards him, scowling, then added the punch line.  “That’s ‘cause nobody survives the bark long enough to get the bite.”

Bennet opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by a girlish squeal.  “Mistuh Lou!”

“Heya, sweetheart,” Lou called back, ignoring Sam’s soft snicker.

Jane squirmed free from her mother, tumbling down to the ground, and immediately bounced over to the tan-skinned constable.  A fresh pout appeared on her little face.  “You and Mistuh Spike went away.”

The lean man eased off his chair, crouching down to Jane’s level.  “Yeah, we did,” he admitted.  “Kinda had to go back to our day jobs.”

Glancing around, the blonde demanded, “Where Mistuh Spike?”

He flinched, gaze automatically shifting back and up to the laptop.  Spike’s laptop.  The laptop that, more and more, was becoming his.  They were still waiting, still hoping, but the longer it went, the less likely it became that Spike would recover.  That he would get his sight back and return to active duty.

A small hand touched his wrist, pulling him back to little Jane.  “Did…” she asked, stopping for a moment before whispering, “Did the bad men take Mistuh Spike away?”

“No.”  Immediate, instinctive, but there was a tremor he couldn’t quite suppress.  An ache in his soul, right where his brother by heart should’ve been.

Jules saved him.  She knelt on the other side of the little girl, gently tugging her away from Lou.  “Spike isn’t here because he got hurt a few months ago,” she explained.

“Hurt like Mistuh Eli?”

Both constables hesitated, trading uncertain looks.  Then Lou sighed and eased himself down to a cross-legged seated position, gesturing for Jane to come back to him.  Once she did, he leaned forward, just enough so their faces were on the same level.  “Jane, Spike and I…”  He hesitated one last time, then forged ahead, “We’re cops, Jane.”

Jane gasped, fleeing back to her father; he swept her up, a somber expression on his face.

Lou stayed where he was, fighting back an irrational wave of self-hatred at the fear his job had inspired in the little girl.  He felt a hand touch his shoulder – Sam – and Jules inched closer from the other side, reaching out to rest her palm on his arm.

Then, from the safety of her father’s arms, Jane turned back towards the three officers, light blue eyes narrow with wary suspicion.  “Are you Mistuh Eli’s cops?”

“We are.”

Lou jumped, craning around to see Ed and Wordy had finally abandoned their argument with Scarface to join the discussion.  The brunet team leader arched one brow, casting their Sergeant a bemused ‘we-are?’ look.

Ed ignored the quizzical expressions on his constables’ faces, focusing on the Bennets.  “Both your girls are here?”

Bennet’s deep blue eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, Fanny laid her hand on his arm.  “Why?” she asked.

The Sergeant stiffened a hair, then sighed and rubbed his forehead.  “Once Susan gets Greg stabilized, she’ll open the door again, but he’s not gonna be up to much.”  He nodded to Jane.  “If she gets in there, he’ll put on a brave face for her, but he’ll pay for it afterwards.”

Again, Bennet started to bristle, only for his wife to gently tug on his arm, giving him a chiding look.  “What do you propose?” she inquired.

Lane grimaced, but kept going.  “Spike’s been sidelined since he got hurt.”  He nodded to Jane.  “If she’s willing to be his eyes, he can look after her and your other daughter – Lizzy.”

“What’s that mean?” Jane piped up.  “Did Mistuh Spike lose his eyes?”

“No, he didn’t,” Wordy cut in.  “But, um, the reason he can’t come back to work is…”  He trailed off, sucked in a breath, then blurted, “He’s blind.”

Fanny gasped, hands rising to her mouth, Bennet took a reflexive step back, and even Scarface flinched at the idea of going blind.  Still on the floor, Lou closed his eyes, grief tightening in his chest – he felt Jules and Sam’s hands, warming his skin, but unable to touch the empty place at his side.  The place where Spike should’ve been.

“He’s gotten pretty good at getting around, figuring out what’s going on, even though he can’t see,” Ed said, pulling attention back to himself.  “Maybe he can’t help with the heavy lifting on this one, but he can help keep Jane, Lizzy, and any other kids you’ve got here outta trouble.”

What?  Ed wanted Spike here?  He wanted Spike in the middle of Carl Elias’s gang while he was blind?  Lou shifted on the floor, giving his Sergeant a ‘what-are-you-doing?’ glare, but Ed’s hands moved in a swift series of signals.  Stand down.  Eyes in.  Follow my lead.

Wordy’s eyes widened a hair before he tilted his head in acceptance; Lou felt Sam’s hand tighten on his shoulder.  He swallowed hard, then pushed himself up, already reaching for his phone.  “You want me to make the call, Boss?”

“No,” the Sergeant replied.  “Need you on the laptop; we need all the intel we can get on our escapees and Greg’s first cellmate.”  Blue flicked sideways.  “Sam, Jules; call Spike and see if he’s up for coming off the bench.”

“Ed!” Jules protested.

“Jules.”  Calm, unwavering.  “Call him in; it’s about time we pulled our team back together; he might be blind, but he’s still one of us.”

The petite negotiator considered, staring at her Sergeant for close to a minute.  At last, she nodded acceptance.  “Copy that, Ed.  I’ll go pick him up.”  She paused, reaching out to touch her boyfriend’s arm; they traded a glance that was as warm as a hug, then Sam briefly covered Jules’ hand and squeezed before stepping back towards their teammates.

Sergeant Lane welcomed his fellow sniper with a quick nod.  “Okay,” he said, shifting his weight to turn towards the laptop sitting open on the table.  “Let’s start with Greg’s cellmate.”

* * * * *

Jules nodded to herself as she hung up her phone – Gwen had answered Spike’s phone, but as soon as she found out why Jules was calling, she promised to get Spike ready to go along with a small bag for some clothing and his daily potion regime.  Apparently, the home health care aid agreed with Ed that getting Spike back in the action was just what the Healer ordered.

She still wasn’t so sure – if Elias’s people turned on them for being cops, Spike wouldn’t be able to defend himself.  But…  Her mind replayed what she’d seen in those brief moments inside Sarge’s room and she shuddered.  Sarge wasn’t able to defend himself either, which meant they were entirely dependent on Scarface’s good will and control over Carl Elias’s organization.

“Jane and I will come with you.”

The brunette negotiator turned at the sound of Fanny Bennet’s voice.  Little Jane Bennet was bouncing in her mother’s arms, though she gave Jules a highly suspicious glare.  Hurt needled at her, but she kept her expression still – calm and open.  “Would you like to come in my truck or do we need to take your car?”

Fanny considered, glancing down at her daughter.  “I can move the car seats from my car,” she offered.  “My car is…rather small.”

Jules smiled back at the other woman, grateful for the compromise.  Spike was a lot better than he’d been in the very beginning, but keeping him in familiar surroundings was still their best strategy for handling his blindness.

* * * * *

It took about fifteen minutes to move the car seats from Fanny Bennet’s small sedan to Jules’ black SRU truck.  Jane huffed, but crawled up into her car seat with a boost from Jules while Fanny strapped her younger daughter Lizzy in the other.  Then the two women took the front seats and Jules guided the truck out of the small underground parking lot and onto the main road.  She scanned the nearby street signs, nodding to herself as she decided on the best route to Spike’s apartment building.

“Miss Jules?” Jane asked from the backseat, shyly cautious, but with a daring note to her voice.

“Yes?”

“How did Mistuh Spike get hurt?”

Jules grimaced, but knew she’d have to explain, though she’d stick with the cover story.  Yeah, they’d had to explain magic to Scarface, Bennet, and Fanny, but that did not mean they had to explain everything.

“Well, Miss Jane, my team, we try our best to bring everyone home alive, even the people we’re arresting,” she explained.  “One of the things we use to do that is called a flash-bang – it makes a really bright flash and sounds really loud, so we can catch people by surprise, even if they know we’re coming.”  She took a breath, giving Jane and Fanny time to absorb what she was saying.  “We always carry our flash-bangs on our belts, so we can grab them and throw them when we need to, and there was a subject…  There was a guy we were trying to arrest and he tackled Spike.  Before we could jump in and help Spike, the guy managed to grab one of Spike’s flash-bangs and he set it off in both their faces.  We got them to the hospital, but Spike…  His sight still hasn’t come back.”

“Did Mistuh Eli whup ‘im good?”

“Jane Molly Bennet!  Where did you hear that sort of language?” Fanny demanded.

Jules covered her laughter with a hasty cough, though her expression turned sorrowful.  If only Sarge could’ve done that to the Welsh Green who’d really attacked Spike.  But…  She tapped her lower lip, thinking.  The White Dragon had certainly delivered a beating that Welsh Green wasn’t likely to ever forget.  So, in a way, Jane was right – there had been revenge on Spike’s behalf.  Just not from their team.

Too bad Aithusa couldn’t give Spike his sight back, too.

* * * * *

Sam joined his teammates around Lou’s laptop, subtly edging between his Sergeant and Scarface.  On the screen, he saw the name and mugshot of Sarge’s first cellmate.  Lou settled in the chair, fingers idly tapping against the laptop’s plastic casing.

“You know this guy?” Sam asked, gesturing to the screen.

Scarface and Bennet eyed the mugshot, expressions still rather sour.  After a moment, Bennet grunted and nodded.  “Used to be a friend of mine, back in the ‘hood.  Offered to put in a good word with Troy for me and Fanny.”

“You were having trouble with the Boss?” Wordy asked, surprised.

“No, it was before,” Bennet replied, shifting uneasily.  “This was always Elias’s gang, but none of us met him for a year, at least.”

Scarface nodded agreement with his second.  “ ‘Fore the Boss showed up, the chiefs all did their own thing.  If Boss hadn’t shown up when he did, organization wouldn’t’ve lasted much longer.”

The constables traded confused glances, but their Sergeant frowned at the laptop, eyes going distant.  Blue narrowed, Ed’s jaw clenching, and Wordy stepped on his foot right as he opened his mouth.  Mentally, Sam exhaled relief; they didn’t need Elias’s guys hearing Ed swear in Ancient Egyptian or, worse, Sumerian.  Even if it would be funny to see the looks on their faces.

Ed jabbed Wordy’s side with his elbow in retaliation for the foot stomp, but there wasn’t any heat behind the obligatory glare.  “Holleran told us they’d been tryin’ to get Greg undercover for awhile before they went over his head and forced it.”

“You knew?” Scarface demanded.

All four officers shook their heads.  “Not till after the factory fire,” Sam informed the two criminals.  A scowl emerged.  “Brenda and Pollux Troy managed to put a gag order on the Boss and Holleran – they couldn’t tell us.”

Wordy cleared his throat before they could get completely derailed.  “Boss, you think they set up the Elias cover and the whole organization before they tried to put Sarge under?”

“It fits,” Lou put in.  “Ed, any idea when they first started tryin’ to recruit Sarge?”

A single headshake.  “Greg might know, but I only know what Holleran told all of us.”  The Sergeant shifted back towards Bennet, arching a brow.  “Once Greg was actually undercover and took over, things got better?”

The craggy-faced man nodded.  “I was getting really close to leaving,” he admitted.  “One of the chiefs kept coming after Fanny, even after she’d told him ‘no’ and I’d knocked out a couple teeth.  The last time, he scared the girls.”

“Sarge caught him?” Wordy ventured.

Scarface growled.  “Bennet.  Was that one of the chiefs the Boss thrashed?”  He rumbled approval when his second glanced at him, surprised.  “No wonder you wanted ta talk to him alone after.”

To the cops’ surprise, Bennet flushed, just a little, and ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck.  “He, uh, he gave me two phone numbers to call if Fanny ever had trouble again and he wasn’t around.”

Sam straightened.  “You still have them?”

The slightly graying brunet blinked, then dug in his jacket, pulling out a small, battered notepad.  Flipping it open, he browsed through the pages a moment, then perked up and held out the notepad.  Sam took it, feeling his breath catch as soon as he saw the neatly printed phone numbers, right below a very familiar phrase.

“Ed.  It’s your phone number.  And Word’s.”

His Sergeant and team leader froze, staring at him – that had been right in the middle of Sarge’s ‘bender’, when he’d been pushing them away as hard as he could.  And they’d let him, all of them except Ed – and even Ed had finally given up on their boss in the very end.  The team never talked about it, but they all lived with the shame of it – the shame of letting Sarge down right when he needed their backup the most.

“And he’s got his OMAC code here, too,” Sam added, running a finger under words he knew by heart.  He looked up at Bennet.  “You were supposed to call one of the numbers and use this phrase?”

Bennet nodded hesitantly, then his jaw furrowed in thought.  “Think he knew I’d say Elias gave me the number, but…”  He stared at the notepad.  “What’s an OMAC code?”

“It’s a verification,” Lou offered.  “If you’d called, Ed and Wordy – they wouldn’t have had a clue how some mob boss got their personal numbers, but as soon as you said the OMAC code, they’d’ve known it was Sarge.”

Both mobsters stared at them.  “Just from four words?” Scarface spluttered.

“Yep,” Sam confirmed.  Looking down at the notepad, he whispered, “He never lost faith in us.”  Guilt twisted inside, sharper than a dagger.

Ed reached out, taking the notepad so he could look himself.  A low whistle came from the Sergeant and he looked Bennet right in the eye, light blue to dark blue.  “He was willing to blow his cover for you.”

At the bewildered expression on the other man’s face, the lean sniper shook his head and held up the notepad.  “Soon as you gave one of us the OMAC code, we’d’ve known that Carl Elias and Greg Parker were the same person.  And we would’ve pulled him out – we didn’t know about Castor Troy, that Castor Troy had a major grudge against the Boss for arresting him twenty years ago.”

“If you’re his friends, how come you didn’t know?” Bennet demanded, indignant and plaintive, all at the same time.

The sniper grimaced.  “I didn’t meet him till a couple years after the Castor Troy trial,” he replied.  “By then, he was keeping it quiet and all the rumors had died down, too.”  He shook his head, though not at the mobsters.  “None of us knew.  Not until after the factory fire when Holleran told us everything.”

For close to a minute, silence hung between the two groups, though Ed gave the notepad back to Bennet.  He stared down at the numbers in the book and traced his finger under the OMAC code, still bewildered by the idea that an undercover cop had been willing to blow his cover to protect a criminal’s wife.

At last, Sam cleared his throat and gestured to Lou’s laptop screen again.  “So your friend here, he went to work for Troy?”

Bennet shook his head, then refocused on the screen himself.  “Yeah.”  Deep blue darkened.  “Used to be a good guy, till I finally told him Fanny and I were stayin’ with Elias.”

Sympathy shone in Sam’s own blue.  “Then you were the enemy.”

It took a moment, but Bennet nodded confirmation of Sam’s observation, a haunted look in his eyes that reminded Sam of the look in Wordy’s eyes when Claire had been kidnapped.  And somehow, he knew there had been multiple attempts to get at Bennet’s two little girls in retaliation for his decision to stand with Carl Elias.

“Okay,” Ed broke in, leaning over their computer tech’s shoulder.  “Lou, did this guy get away?”

The tan-skinned constable frowned and his hands flew across the keyboard and touchpad for several moments before he replied.  “Team Three caught him, Boss.  He’s still in custody.”  Another few taps brought up all the pictures belonging to the BOLOs issued after the riot.  Then Lou winced and took down their lieutenant’s mugshot – a final few clicks of the keyboard brought up names under the other mugshots.

Scarface leaned in from the other side, the scar on his cheek pulling tight in a scowl.  He pointed to one photo, waiting for Lou to nod before moving to another.  He picked out three more before saying, “They were ours.”

“But not anymore?” Wordy ventured, rubbing his chin.

“No.”  The word was even, level, but there was an undercurrent of hate and fury.  “They attacked the Boss – they ain’t ours after that.”

Sam frowned.  “Would they know about this location?”

The twin grimaces from the mobsters answered the question; Scarface tapped one of the photos again.  “I’d just promoted him to chief when his crew got themselves in trouble.”

“The downtown robberies,” Sam filled in, earning a nod.  “Was his crew in charge of protecting Last Chance Diner?”

“Yeah,” Bennet rumbled.  “My crew’s gonna do that now, but we had a gig going on, so I cut a deal with the motorcycle gang that likes the place.”

“So this location is compromised,” Ed concluded, blue narrow in calculation.  He indicated another photo.  “Dietrich Hassler; he was one of Castor Troy’s lieutenants.  Our team and Team Two took him down in a joint op.”

Lou looked up.  “We had intel from Intelligence Services, too.  Figure that was Sarge?”

“Safe bet,” Wordy agreed.  “The video from the exercise yard didn’t have any audio, but he’s definitely one of the guys who confronted Sarge right before the riot started.”

Bennet grunted.  “Give us those pictures and we’ll get ‘em out to the frontline guys.  Sweep ‘em up and hand ‘em off to the Ra Kacharz.”

Scarface shook his head before any of the cops could ask.  “Ra Kacharz aren’t an option, Bennet.  They scattered soon as the news hit the airwaves.”

The Sergeant frowned to himself.  “Those were your inside guys in the department?”

“Like Reese?” Wordy added when the mobsters hesitated.  Reluctantly, Scarface nodded.

“Ed, we could pull in our Guns ‘n’ Gangs contacts,” Sam suggested.  “Get them off our backs about Sarge being Elias.”

The frown deepened, but, after a few seconds, Ed tilted his head and turned towards his rival.  “We might have a contact for you, but only for this situation, understand?”  He took a step forward.  “No calling him once this is over, no kidnapping him to get to us.”

Sam grinned, a feral grin reminiscent of his wolf form.  “His partner’d prolly kill you before we could.”

“He would,” Ed agreed.  “They’ve both lost a partner – makes ‘em real protective.”

The raven-haired mobster grumbled something foul under his breath, then said, “Fine, fine.  Onetime deal only.  Gimme.”

Their Sergeant stepped to Scarface’s side, pulling out his phone to bring up Roy’s number.  Naturally, none of them mentioned that Roy and Giles had another partner – one who could probably foil any – and all – kidnapping attempts, all by himself.  If Elias’s people ran afoul of KITT, that was their problem.

Chapter Text

Jules took the lead up the stairs into Spike’s apartment building, acutely aware of the little blonde right on her heels, eagerly looking around at where a cop might live.  Behind them, Fanny was carrying the youngest member of the Bennet family – Elizabeth, Fanny had told her during the drive, though Jane insisted that her sister preferred Lizzy.  Jules suspected the little girl was right, if only because her younger sister would grow up hearing ‘Lizzy’ from her father and older sister.  Either that or she’d totally rebel against Lizzy in favor of her full name or some other nickname.

In the meantime, the constable hit the top of the stairs and turned left, reaching out to grab little Jane’s hand to keep her close.  Spike’s apartment building was in a safe area of the city, but every cop knew even the safest areas could still be dangerous.  The preschooler squeaked in surprise, but didn’t fight Jules’ grip on her hand as the brunette navigated the hallway to reach her teammate’s apartment.

A quick knock at the door drew a look of wonder from Jane; Jules smiled down at the little girl even as keen jaguar hearing picked up the sound of footsteps from the other side of the door.  They padded right up to the door and Jules transferred her smile to the peephole.  There was a beat of silence, then the locks disengaged with soft clicks and the door swung open, revealing a black woman with chocolate eyes and dark brown curly hair that hung freely down to her shoulders.  Her cheeks were rounded, chin slightly pointed, and her nose slimmed down to a point above a tentative smile.

“Hi…Jules, right?”

“That’s right,” Jules confirmed, reaching with her free hand to shake Gwen Coulby’s hand.  “How’s he doing today?”

The tentative smile turned a touch rueful.  “It’s been…an interesting few days…”  Jules’ brows shot up.  “But I think we’re past the worst of it.”  Turning her attention to the little blonde now hiding behind Jules’ leg, Gwen crouched down, her soft brown leggings flexing and setting off her lilac blouse.  “Hi there, sweetheart.  What’s your name?”

A tiny blonde lock found its way to the little girl’s mouth and she chewed on it a moment before answering, “Jane.”  She studied Gwen a moment.  “Are you Mistuh Spike’s girlfriend?”

Gwen laughed, a bright, cheery laugh that made Jane smile.  “No,” she replied.  “I’m a home health care nurse.  That means I come and help people in their homes when they’re sick or need some help adjusting to a disability.”

Leaving them to it, Jules slipped inside the apartment.  The faint scent of dog hit her sensitive nose and she grimaced, realizing just what Gwen had been dealing with.  She followed the scent right to Spike’s bedroom and found him inside, muttering to himself as he tried to shove a set of clothes into a duffle bag already piled high with toiletries.

“Spike, stop,” Jules ordered, swooping in to help.  “You’re going to break something.”

His head snapped around and she fought not to wince as light brown eyes darted towards her voice, struggling to focus on where her face should be.  “Jules.”  Greeting and limp relief, all in one.

Stepping to the bed, Jules pulled the clothing away and set it on the other end of the bed, then turned back to the duffle bag and unpacked everything already in it.  “Do you need anything besides what you’ve got here?”

He considered, reaching out to touch a few items as he muttered to himself, too soft for even her hearing.  “Um, how many clothes have I got?”

The brunette sniper took the pile apart, then sighed.  “Not enough.  Is there anything you can share with Lou or Sam?”

“Second duffle bag?” Spike pleaded.

“If you’ve got one, sure.”

“Closet, I think,” the raven constable replied.  “Can light up somethin’ I’m near or touching, but farther than that…”

“No dice,” Jules finished for him, earning a nod.  As she moved to the closet and rummaged through for another duffle bag, she asked, “You shifted into your Animagus form?”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Spike wince, eyes dropping to the floor and his head tilting to the side.  She was a jaguar – a solitary species not prone to groups – but they’d all learned the general body language of packs from Sarge.  Sighing, the negotiator snagged the duffle bag she’d just found and hefted it out of the closet onto the bed before moving to her teammate’s side.

“Spike.  You didn’t break the Statute, right?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“Then there’s no problem.  We all registered, remember?”

He flushed, turning his head away.  “Yeah, but…”

“But…?” she prompted gently.

He hugged himself, head tilting farther to the side.  “Didn’t mean to shift, it just happened.”

Oh.  Jules reached out, grasping her friend’s shoulder.  “Spike, stop it.  We’ve got Wild Magic – it’s going to do things we don’t expect.”  She waited for a tiny smile to quirk the other constable’s jaw.  “Did it help?”

He blinked once.  Twice.  Then his head swung towards hers again, sightless light brown eyes somehow meeting her own light brown.  “Yeah.”  There was an undercurrent of wonder, as if he hadn’t realized that until Jules asked.

Moving back to the bed, Jules mentally ordered her strategy, then started with the duffle bag for Spike’s clothes.  “You couldn’t shift back?”

Her teammate shook his head, looking down again.  “Not till this morning,” he replied, shoulders hunching.  “Gwen was ‘bout to call for backup.”

Light brown widened, but Jules forced herself to stay perfectly calm.  Cool and collected.  “Do you know what triggered it?”

The raven fidgeted, hugged himself, scrubbed a hand through his hair, and finally admitted, “Ed called me after the T-South riot.”

She stilled, head turning towards her teammate.  “Spike,” she asked, in the gentlest tone she could, “Have you been blaming yourself for not being able to come back to work?”

He tried to smile at her in a ‘no, why would you think that?’ fashion, but it only lasted a split second before he crumpled and she abandoned the packing to hurry to him, pulling him close in a fierce hug.  Tears dripped down onto her shirt and she understood.  He was still close enough to his canine mindset that he couldn’t hold a mask over his emotions like they usually did.  Not that Spike had ever been as good at that as her or Sarge.  Or Ed, come to think of it – the sniper Sergeant might not be a negotiator, but he tended to be the team’s stoic.  Well…most of the time, anyway.

Rumbling a subvocal purr, Jules rocked on her feet, letting her teammate cry himself out – he needed this.  Even before Sarge’s arrest, he’d been tying himself in knots over his disability.  The therapy had helped – if not for that, Jules wasn’t sure Spike would’ve survived long enough to start adapting to his blindness – but the magic that tied all of them together tended to react…badly…when they couldn’t be on-duty.  Sick days or vacation weren’t a problem, though Jules always felt an impatient eagerness right before she was about to come back.  As if the magic inside her needed the others to be complete.

She wasn’t sure how long it was before Spike finally gave one last shudder and sniffled hard, pulling himself back together.  He stepped back, automatically scrubbing at the tear tracks he couldn’t even see, his rumpled hair reminding Jules of a college kid – perpetually on the move with hardly any thought for how he looked.

“You found him?”

A rueful smile peeked through.  “No, we didn’t,” Jules confessed.  “Scarface grabbed Jesse Travis and he called me instead of Susan.”

Spike grinned.  “Knew that guy was fast on his feet.”  The grin fell away.  “How bad?”

She caught her lip, nibbling down on it for a few seconds.  “Bad enough that once Susan got there, she kicked us all out.”

Her teammate paled, but there was a confusion there, too.  He wanted to help, but without his sight…  Jules shook that away and returned to the duffle bags, efficiently organizing the clutter on the bed and collecting a few more sets of clothes from the dresser drawers before she packed the bags – one for clothes and the other for everything else.

As she worked, a thought occurred, though she kept it to herself.  If Spike’s magical core had recovered enough for him to use his Animagus form again, then why hadn’t his vision come back yet?

“Jules?”

Turning, one brow arched at the perplexed expression on her friend’s face.  “Yes?”

“Who’d you come with?”  The raven head tilted to the side in curiosity.  “I hear more than just Gwen out there.”

A smile crept across Jules’ face.  “Well,” she began, eyes sparkling, “It turns out you and Lou have quite the fan in Elias’s gang.”

“Huh?”

“But Ed and Wordy are definitely gonna give you grief over telling her your real names while we were undercover.”

“We didn’t!”

One hand rose to cover her laugh and Jules pushed her teammate at the door.  “Go on; I’ve almost got you packed.”

The suspicious glare was almost enough to make her giggle, then Spike trudged out into his living room area.  Mentally, Jules counted down – three, two, one…

“Mistuh Spike!” Jane squealed.

* * * * *

Something eased in Ed’s shoulders when he saw Spike coming in, right behind Jules.  The light brown hue of the bomb tech’s irises was painful – how long was it going to take for Spike to get his sight back? – but to have all his teammates in one place…  It felt right, in ways he couldn’t explain, even to himself.

A smile tugged and he waited for their bomb tech to make it all the way across the room before he hardened his expression, crossed his arms, and drawled, “Guess we know why you’re not cut out for undercover work, Scarlatti.  First time a pretty girl bats her eyes at you, you fold.”

The bomb tech turned pink, but came right back.  “I tried telling her my name was Tony, Ed, but she said she already had a ‘Mistuh Tony’, so I couldn’t be Tony, too.”

Lou snickered.

“Besides, Lou’s the one who told her his real name,” Spike added, a wicked grin appearing.  “I just used my nickname.”

“Point,” Wordy agreed, grinning just as wickedly as he leaned on Lou’s chair and ignored the gawking from their criminal counterparts.  Glancing back at his Sergeant, he said, “I vote they both get failing grades on the undercover final, Boss.”

Ed nodded agreement at his team leader, leaning back on his heels before remarking, “Same goes for you, Word.”

The brunet snapped upright, gray widening.  “What?”

Jules giggled as she guided Spike over to the table, right by Lou.  “I asked Jane if she could name all of us – and she did, everyone but Sarge.”

Spike barked a laugh and Lou snickered again.  “Guess Sarge really is the best of us at undercover work,” he chortled.

Sighing, Ed glared at Jules, but there was no heat in it.  As Wordy reached out, slinging an arm around Spike’s shoulders to haul him around to Lou’s other side, the glare fell away into a subtle grin.  His team, back together and raring to go.

“Okay!  We’ve got the intel on our escapees and Elias’s guys are gonna be keepin’ an eye out.”

“How’s the Boss?” Spike asked.

“Door’s still closed,” Wordy reported.  “I’m not buggin’ ‘em till they’re out.”

The bomb tech nodded.  “What else we need?”

The Sergeant leaned forward.  “Lou, bring up our friendly IA detective.”

“Copy,” the less-lethal specialist replied, clicking away at the laptop until Niebaum’s picture was front and center.

“Terence Niebaum,” Ed said, for Spike’s benefit.  “The only guy to slip Sarge’s net when he was under.”

“Sarge didn’t catch him?”

“No, he did,” Wordy put in.  “Prolly had more than enough evidence to tie Niebaum to Castor Troy, but somehow, he slithered outta the charges.”

Spike made a face.  “And now he’s after Sarge.”

“Prove he’s the good cop,” Lou murmured quietly.

Light blue narrowed.  “Once was enough,” Ed growled.

“More than enough,” Wordy agreed, catching his Sergeant’s train of thought.  “At least Collins wasn’t corrupt.”

Jules cleared her throat, regaining attention before the conversation could derail any further – Ed had a feeling Sam had been about to argue the former cop had been corrupt, seeing as he’d engineered a robbery/hot call in his own workplace.

“Niebaum claimed he doesn’t have the authority to override standard prison protocols for people awaiting trial.”

The bomb tech’s expression darkened and he drummed his fingers against his forearms.  “Then who does?”

“He was pointing the finger at Loeb,” Sam replied.  “Said the only two people in the city with the political pull would be the mayor or Loeb, but the new mayor hasn’t been in office long enough for that.”

“Commissioner Loeb?” Spike blurted, sightless eyes going wide.

Lane nodded grimly.  “Heck of a target if Niebaum’s right, but we already know Sarge never found anything to tie him to Castor Troy.  If he had, he’d’ve him taken down, just like Frost.”

“Except…”  All heads turned towards Jules as she frowned.  “Except Loeb signed off on Sarge’s transfer and the undercover assignment.”  She looked up, meeting her Sergeant’s gaze.  “Maybe even the gag order, too.”

Ed’s fingers curled at the reminder of the three pieces of paper that had torn apart their world.  The papers that had forced his best friend undercover, with no backup, right when he needed it most.  Paperwork that had been authorized by the mayor and counter-signed by the police commissioner.

“What else have we got?” Spike asked, scowling.

“The paperwork’s not enough,” Lou agreed.

“Suspicious, but circumstantial,” Sam finished.

He hated it, but his constables were right.  Light blue came up, turning towards Scarface as one brow cocked.

The mobster glared at him.  “You think we’d tell you, cop?”

“It’s for Sarge,” Wordy burst out, indignant.

It was – and that was the problem.  Intel about Loeb would benefit Greg Parker, SRU lieutenant, but that wasn’t who Scarface was loyal to.  He was loyal to Carl Elias, Italian mob boss.  More, Ed knew just how much his rival resented the fact that Greg had chosen them.  Chosen the SRU and being a cop over the undercover assignment he’d been forced into – the life he’d been good at, but couldn’t survive.  Not for long.

As far as Scarface was concerned, the best possible outcome was for Greg Parker’s reputation to be permanently marred – for him to be on the run for the rest of his life because that was the only way he’d consent to staying in Toronto’s underworld, with Elias’s organization.

So the Sergeant gestured, ordering his teammates to stand down.  Spike couldn’t see, but Lou reached up, touching his friend’s arm in silent warning before the bomb tech could add his own volley to Wordy’s.  Then Ed signaled for Lou to close the laptop, waiting until his constable obeyed.

Looking his rival in the eye, he said, “Fine.  Not like I really trusted Niebaum anyway – he’s throwing all the dirt he can, trying to save his own skin.”

“You backin’ out of the deal, cop?”

One brow arched.  “I wasn’t aware we had a deal, Scarface.”  One shoulder shrugged.  “Sure, we could use your intel – or whatever intel Greg dug up while he was under.  But we don’t need you to figure this out.”

“You need me to keep him alive,” Scarface hissed.

The other brow went up.  “Only because your people kidnapped him right out of the prison.  If we’d gotten to the Boss, he’d already be back on his feet and it’d be a cold day in hell before Toronto South got their claws on him again.”  The amusement dropped off his face and he stepped forward, right into the other man’s space, as his own anger mixed with a hawk’s lethal glare.  “And if he’d died, they never would’ve found your body,” he hissed, too low for anyone besides Scarface to hear him.  “So you can help us – or you can get the hell out of our way.”

Turning away without waiting for a response, Ed focused on his team.  “Okay.  Jules is right; Loeb was part of putting Sarge under.  But unless we got more, he’s a red herring.”

Sam frowned.  “Who else has got the authority, though?”

“Boss?”  All attention shifted to Spike; he stiffened under the attention, a trace of emerald glimmering in the depths of his light brown eyes.  “Was this IA guy talking about authority or political influence?”

Ed blinked, trading a glance with his team leader.  “Both.”

Wordy tilted his head, thinking hard before he nodded slowly.  “Started off talking about authority…”

“…then he switched to talking about favors and influence,” Jules finished.  “Spike?”

Their teammate considered, rubbing one hand against the opposite arm in an idle motion.  “Which one had more details?”

“Influence,” Sam replied instantly.  “He even said who the prison inside guy would be.”

“He’s IA,” Wordy pointed out.  “He’s worked with the prison before.”

“He’d know the top guys at the prison…” Lou murmured.

“And their procedure for suspected dirty cops,” Sam hissed.

“Then where did Loeb come in?” Spike asked.  “He’s too high profile to just point the finger at.”

The rest of the team considered Scarlatti’s observation, all of them frowning at they worked through the question and its implications.

Finally, Ed spoke.  “Three reasons,” he rumbled.  “He had to get SRU off his back – give us a plausible suspect and a good theory for why Loeb and not him.”  The Sergeant waited for the nods.  “His whole authority argument wasn’t gonna work unless he pointed at one of our top guys – doesn’t get higher than Loeb and he’s more old school than a lot of the guys right below ‘im.”

“He needed the suspect to be high profile,” Jules realized.  “Adds weight to his theory, maybe even shuts us down – who’d go after Commissioner Loeb?”

Sam’s eyes widened in alarm.  “But while we’re figurin’ that out, he’s got time to run,” the sniper blurted.

Their bomb tech jerked, sightless light brown widening in equal alarm, but their team leader snickered.  “Focus on the evidence, guys,” Wordy ordered.  “Get the proof and we get front row seats to Revan dragging Niebaum back in.”

“Bonus points if Sarge’s there when he does,” Lou added gleefully.

“Popcorn?” Spike asked hopefully.

The team paused, envisioning the scene.  Lou bit back a snigger at the mental image of himself and his teammates, all with bags of perfectly golden-butter popcorn.  Sarge – front and center with an extra-large bag – calmly eating the kernels along with the rest of them while Revan dragged in the cuffed and Silenced Niebaum.  The IA officer ranting at Revan, ranting at Parker, ranting at all of them, never seeming to realize that, for all his ranting, there wasn’t a scrap of sound coming out of his mouth.  A true sight to behold – if they could get that in real life, Lou knew that would top every single prank he and Spike had ever pulled.

Then his mental image shifted, adding three more participants to the scene.  Instead of eating the popcorn himself, Sarge had lowered the extra-large bag enough that even the shortest of the new arrivals could reach it easily.  Alanna popped a kernel in her mouth, smirking at Niebaum while Dean ignored the popcorn altogether in favor of glaring daggers at the man who’d tried to put his father in prison.  Lance leaned against his uncle’s shoulder, just enough to reach over Sarge to snag a couple of the kernels his cousin was missing out on, a smug glimmer in his eyes that boded ill for Niebaum’s own stay in the prison – the young Head of House wasn’t shy about pulling in the goblins of Gringotts when he was sufficiently ticked off.

And – just like that – Lou knew how to get at least one of Elias’s mobsters on their side.

* * * * *

Ed felt a buzz, coming from his pocket, and frowned.  He’d made sure Soph knew he and his team were going undercover to get Greg back – Holleran shouldn’t be calling unless something else had gone wrong, and he didn’t think there was anyone else in the SRU who had his number.

Reaching down, he tugged his phone out, frown deepening at the sight of the name on his caller ID.  Cooper – Team Three’s Sergeant.  What the heck?  The phone buzzed again, about to go to voicemail, and he snapped his thumb across the screen, accepting the call as he brought the device up to his ear.

“Lane here.”

“You find him?”  Anxious, worried, with an edge that the veteran Sergeant couldn’t identify.  Yet.

Blue narrowed.  “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me you got eyes on Parker,” Cooper begged.

Ed considered, then lowered his phone and flipped to his text messages.  It only took a moment to type it out and send it.

COOPER
EYES IN
OMAC?

He brought the phone back up in time to hear Cooper’s heavy exhale of relief; keen hawk hearing even caught the sound of the other man sagging against something.  A desk, a chair – maybe the wall?

Heart rate picking up at the confirmation that something was definitely wrong, Ed waited until Cooper’s phone was by his ear again.  Keeping his own tone level, with no hint of anything besides calm, he asked, “Status?”

“No OMAC codes, Lane,” Cooper grumbled.  “I can’t remember mine.”

One brow went up.  “What about the barn’s?” Ed suggested, growing more uneasy by the second.

“My team went Star Wars, not Marvel,” the other man retorted.

The opposite side of his jaw quirked.  “Your team didn’t get dragged to the Mayor’s Halloween party two years running.”  A pause.  “Anyone go for a Darth Vader impersonation?”

Caught off-guard, Cooper laughed.  “No, but I had two of my guys fighting over who got to use the Obi-Wan Kenobi quotes.”

The hand not holding his phone waved.  “That’s easy – one guy gets Kenobi, the other guy gets his clone commander.”  A pause.  “Before Order 66.”

Cooper laughed again, then sobered.  “Niebaum’s dead.”

“Wait, what?” Ed blurted, uncaring that his whole team, Scarface, and Bennet were now turning towards him.  A breath, two, then he barked, “Status report.”

The other Sergeant audibly jumped.  “DeValle called Dispatch, officer down.  Since it’s Niebaum, we had to stay away, but Winnie got the scoop – Dispatch sent EMS, then called for a coroner and Homicide.”

The sniper breathed a low, vicious curse.

“They ain’t had time to get started, but Parker’s gonna be their prime suspect, Lane.  And your guys are gonna be next in line.”

“Parker’s a no-go,” Ed replied, closing his eyes.  “He’s flat on his back – Travis kicked us out so she could treat him, but he’s at least got broken ribs and an infection going.”  He turned his head, pulling the phone away from his ear.  “Scarface, how bad was he when you found him?”

The mobster grimaced, but, seeing the worry in his rival’s eyes, simply said, “Bad.  They beat him so bad, I wasn’t sure he’d live through the night.”

His team gawked even as Ed’s throat closed up.  Dear Aslan – Greg was only alive because of his magic.  Unless Scarface had snatched Jesse that night – unlikely – then his best friend had been denied treatment until Elias’s guys finally realized they were in over their heads.

Lifting the phone up again, he asked, “You hear that?”

“Yeah,” Cooper acknowledged, voice almost as hoarse as Ed’s.  “Ain’t no way Parker could’ve taken out Niebaum.”

No way – but unless they brought the gravely injured lieutenant in, Homicide had no way to know their prime suspect was physically incapable of committing murder.  And if they did bring Greg in, they risked losing him to T-South.  Oh, sure, the prison would put him in their hospital ward, but Ed had a nasty feeling that if Greg went back inside, he wouldn’t be coming out in anything save a body bag.

“We know how he died?”

His fellow Sergeant grumbled.  “Nothin’ concrete, but Donna called her contacts in Drug Squad; they work with IA sometimes on smuggling cases.  Rumor she got is that it was a sniper.  Dunno how many rounds, but they shot him center-mass.”

An automatic frown emerged – SRU snipers avoided center-mass shots.  More reliable for a kill, yes, but unless you hit a subject in the heart or lungs, they’d live long enough to get off a few shots of their own, maybe even take their hostage with them.  That said, if the shots had come from a distance, the shooter would almost have to be a sniper.  Maybe a hunter?  Definitely trained or self-taught.  The average shooter was restricted to close-range shots with maybe a few lucky long-range shots thrown in, which did narrow down the suspect list to snipers.  Most of whom were in the SRU…which Homicide already knew had a motive.  Even with Greg off the suspect list by default, that left the rest of the SRU – all of whom had a grudge against Niebaum for arresting their lieutenant.

Shifting back on his heels, Ed asked, “DeValle back yet?”

“Nope.  Won’t be back for awhile, I bet.”

The Sergeant nodded agreement.  Revan was no sniper, but as the first person on the scene, he was a key witness and an automatic suspect.  He wouldn’t be released until Homicide was satisfied they had his initial statement and he’d been preliminarily cleared.

“When he turns up, have him call Lou,” Ed requested.

“You got it, Lane.  Anythin’ else?”

“Yeah.  The prison ever tell us why they had a blind spot?”

Cooper grunted, unimpressed with what he had to say.  “Camera’s there, Lane, but it’s been broken for a couple months.  Warden was babbling about budget constraints and prisoner rights – shut up real fast when Donna pointed out that keepin’ the cameras runnin’ is part of the job.”  There was a pause.  “You guys comin’ in?”

Ed shook his head.  “Can’t risk it,” he replied.  “Not with Parker’s injuries.”

“Then you’re under till it’s over,” Cooper warned.

“Copy that,” Lane whispered.  “But he’ll live.”  His eyes slid to Scarface, taking in the startled expression on his rival’s face.  “If you can, pass whatever you get onto Lou.  He’ll get it to the rest of us.”

There was a long pause, then, “Good luck, Lane.”

He couldn’t help it – he smirked.  “Cooper, we don’t need luck; we’ve got Spike.”

Chapter Text

“Well?”

A soft curse.  “Scarface got him out.”

The overhead light gleamed off the shaven head and small silver earrings as the man turned around, landing one of his newest recruits with a demanding stare.

His target – a young brunet – fidgeted under his new boss’s regard.  “Shoulda known, really.  Scarface wouldn’t take over even after Elias…  The cop disappeared after that fire.”

Hassler’s expression shifted towards a frown.  “The one where Castor died?”  His tone was inquiring, yet there was a hard, angry edge to the words.

Will Scarlet nodded.  “Yeah.  Two months and Scarface kept sayin’ the Boss was comin’ back.  Couple of the chiefs finally got fed up and jumped ‘im – just in time for the Boss and his first crew to catch ‘em in the act.”  He spat on the floor.  “Cops, the lot of ‘em!  Your guy’s brother – he tried to tell us and we just laughed at ‘im!”  He dropped his chin and shook his head, muttering, “Stupid,” under his breath.

Dietrich stretched out a hand, grasping Will’s shoulder as he turned sympathetic.  “You thought you knew him.  You trusted him – you didn’t know.”  The hand released, spreading out.  “I will never betray you or your crew like he did.”

The young man looked up, faith and loyalty shining bright.  “Yes, sir.”

The mobster smiled, a feral, vicious curve of his lips.  “You said there’s a safe house?  One they’re still using?”

Sharp, vigorous nodding.

The smile spread.  “Take your crew.  Scout it out.  If he’s there, report back immediately.”

* * * * *

“Who died?” Scarface demanded as soon as Ed hung up his cell phone.

The sniper Sergeant grimaced, but it really wasn’t much of a secret.  Plus it was actually good news for Scarface – clearing Greg had just gotten a whole lot harder for them.  Glancing towards his team leader, Ed replied, “Niebaum’s dead.  Gossip so far says it was a sniper – rounds hit center mass.”

“Is Revan okay?” Lou asked from the side.

Ed nodded.  “He’s fine.  Called for EMS – figure it took Niebaum a minute or two to bleed out; Revan wouldn’t’ve known the shots were fatal.”  A breath.  “Once he gives his statement and gets back to the SRU, he should call you.”

The less-lethal specialist nodded, following the train of thought.  “I’m less of a target.”  At the odd looks from their criminal counterparts, he added, “No sniper training on my record.”

“Not beyond the basics,” Wordy agreed.

As SRU, all of them needed to know how to handle a rifle in case their usual snipers weren’t available; while that meant every member of the SRU was a suspect, being certified as a sniper required additional training and quarterly quals.  Neither Lou nor Spike had been expected to certify – as the team’s bomb and computer experts, they had their own area of specialization.

“Center mass,” Sam mused.  “Sounds like our subject’s not the best shot.”

Jules shook her head.  “We’ll need a weather report from the location before we can say that, Sam.  If the winds were just right, center mass might’ve been our subject’s best target.”

“Plus Niebaum wasn’t holding anyone hostage,” Ed put in.  “If the only priority’s the kill, then center shot is as good as a head shot.”

“More reliable,” the blond agreed.  “Need that weather report.”  Glancing at Lou, he added, “Find out if Revan saw the shooter.”

“Copy,” the less lethal specialist acknowledged.  Reaching forward to his laptop, he brought up a new screen.  Fingers tapped for a minute, then, “Anything else?”

The three snipers on the team locked gazes, Jules tipping points off on her fingers.  “Weather report, Revan’s statement…”

“Shooting angle?” Sam offered.

“Sniper’s gotta to be from above if Niebaum’s on ground level,” Ed mused.

“But where?” Wordy put in.  “Even if Niebaum got shot in a park, there’s at least three different rooftops a sniper could use.”

“Does it matter?”  All eyes swung to Spike – he fidgeted, but lifted sightless light brown eyes towards his Sergeant.  “How are we helpin’ Sarge by investigating who shot Niebaum?  Not like anything we dig up on our own is admissible.”

Reflexively, Ed grimaced and saw his constables do the same.  They were cops – it was their nature to investigate.  To get to the bottom of what happened and why.  To pick up all the clues they could – any detail might be the one thread that untangled an entire hot call.  But Spike was right; their goal was to clear Greg.  Not go chasing after whoever had shot a dirty IA detective.

“What if Niebaum was taken out to make it easier to frame Sarge?” Jules countered.  “He’s going to be their prime suspect.”

“And we’re next on the list,” Lane replied.  He considered, nodding to himself.  “Lou, keep track of whatever Revan can get to you, but Spike’s right.  Priority is that IA investigation Niebaum had going.”

“Ed, if we can track down the other escapees, that might help too,” Wordy suggested.  “Maybe that buys Sarge some brownie points.”

Scarface grunted, unhappy with anything that might benefit the SRU officers, but reluctantly added, “They’re Castor Troy’s.”

“All of them?” Spike pressed.

“All of them,” Sam put in before their mobster allies could do anything more than bristle.  “Sarge being a cop ticked off the guys inside.”

Sightless brown widened and a soft ‘Oh’ escaped the bomb tech.  He frowned.  “So, we take ‘em down, we take down a bunch of guys who’ve got a grudge against Sarge?”

“Right on the money,” Lou agreed even as a brow arched in Wordy’s direction.  “Thought we were gonna let Elias’s people handle our friendly escapees.”

The brunet shrugged.  “That was before Spike came in and shot down Niebaum’s Commissioner Loeb theory.”  A hand reached out and clapped the startled raven on the back.  “Good work knocking us back on track, Scarlatti.”

Sam crossed his arms, surveying his teammates.  “So if we’re not investigating Niebaum’s shooting or taking down our escapees, where’s that leave us?”  The blond head tilted.  “Not like they’re gonna let us take a look at Niebaum’s IA files.”

“No, they won’t,” Ed conceded, eyes already shifting towards Scarface and Bennet.  “But how ‘bout Greg’s files from when he was under?”

Scarface sneered.  “Oh, now you wanna deal?”

Lou stood up before his Sergeant could answer, hand sweeping low in a ‘I got this’ gesture.  Dark eyes focused on the mobsters, resting more on Bennet than Scarface.  “Look,” he said.  “We get it.  You don’t want to lose him, same as us.  He goes back to being a cop and you lose him again.”  He let that hang a moment.  “You think if he’s got an arrest warrant out, then he doesn’t have a choice; he’s gotta stay under.  With you.”  The less-lethal specialist took a single step forward.  “You know what he wants, but you don’t care.  Just as long as you can keep him.”

Scarface bristled, but Bennet fidgeted uneasily.  Before either could speak, Lou slashed his hand across, cutting them off.

“But what about his kids?”

Bennet froze.  “Boss has got kids?”

Blue widened as Lou nodded and Ed figured out what his less-lethal specialist was doing.  And it was so obvious and yet so brilliant – why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Three,” Lou replied, dismissing the fuming Scarface to hone in on Bennet.  “His son is the oldest, by a couple months.  The other two, they’re his niece and nephew – moved here five years ago after their parents were murdered.”  A breath.  “In a fire.”

Reaching down, he dug out his phone and thumbed it on.  Fingers danced for several seconds before he turned the device, holding it out to show the mobsters.  Although Ed couldn’t see which picture his constable had picked out, his mind’s eye shone with an image of his best friend’s favorite desk photo – Greg and Dean on one side of the frame with his nipotes crowding in from the other side, all four of them grinning like loons at the camera.  Or maybe Lou had picked the team’s favorite – Greg in the middle with his hands on ‘Lanna’s shoulders and the boys bracketing him on either side, arms crossed in a ‘police pose’ as they leaned back against their guardian, half-glaring, half-grinning at the camera.

Regardless of which photo it was, it did the trick – Bennet took the phone, eyes widening at the evidence that mob boss Carl Elias’s alter ego had three kids.  “Scarface…did you know?”

“They can stay with us,” Scarface countered.  “With the Boss – no one’ll touch ‘em.”

“Maybe none of you will touch them,” Lou cut in.  “But what about all the other gangs?”  He shifted, facing more towards Scarface.  “You and your people, you don’t touch families – believe me, we respect that – but not every gang out there is willing to leave family out of the business.”  He drew in a deep breath.  “And if you think you’re going to drag Sarge’s kids undercover along with him, I’d think again.  He lied to all of us and went undercover for them.  To protect them from Castor Troy.  You drag his kids into this and he goes from friend to enemy – you don’t touch his kids.  Not if you wanna live.”

“You put ‘em there first.”

“No, I just let your buddy here know what you’re trying to take away from him,” Lou hissed.  “You have any idea how long he spent hoping and praying he’d get a second chance with his son?”

“Ten years,” Wordy tacked on, stepping up to join his teammate.  “Even after Sarge’s niece and nephew came here – he got better, but he wasn’t whole till his son came back.”  His shoulders bunched.  “You have no right to take Sarge’s family away from him.”

“We’re not,” Scarface blurted.

“But you are,” Sam countered.  “By keeping Sarge undercover and refusing to help us clear him, you’re robbing him of the life he chose.  The family who needs him.”  He crossed his arms, glaring hard.  “With friends like you two, who needs enemies?”

There was a long, harsh silence.  Then Bennet nodded to himself and handed Lou’s phone back.  “I know where the Boss kept his files.  I’ll show ‘em to you.”

Ed joined his constables, ignoring Scarface’s furious expression and the way his rival’s shoulders were quivering – right on the edge of desperation.  “Okay, sounds good.”  He flicked a glance at Sam.  “Stay with Spike.”

“Copy, Boss.”  The blond moved to Spike’s side, pausing to reach out and tap the screen lock on Lou’s laptop.

* * * * *

Wordy let out a low whistle at the lopsided stacks of cardboard boxes, all of them labeled with a black Sharpie.  SRU, Homicide, Internal Affairs, Academy…  Boxes for every single department he’d ever heard of and one or two that rang a bell, but not enough to immediately peg.  There were four boxes just for the Unis and two last boxes marked ‘Retired’; Sarge definitely hadn’t settled for half measures in the Castor Troy investigation.

“This is just for dirty cops?” he asked, turning towards Bennet.

The mobster fidgeted and shook his head.  “Once the Boss started lookin’ at you cops, he had us grabbing all the intel we could.”  He waved at the boxes.  “Ra Kacharz got us a lotta that and Boss had another source, too.  Not sure who.”

“Holleran,” Ed put in, already working to uncover the SRU box.  “Once they set up that dead drop, it went both ways.”

“Right,” Wordy mused.  “Holleran could get stuff Sarge couldn’t.  Not when he was supposed to be in rehab.”  He eyed the SRU box a moment, then shifted towards the Internal Affairs cardboard box.  “Boss?  Don’t we want that one?”

“You guys start with that one,” the Sergeant replied.  “Get that down to Sam and Spike, see if you can find what the Boss dug up on Niebaum.”  He glanced up.  “And call my brother; his contacts might be able to find out how Niebaum managed to skate on those charges.”

“Copy,” the team leader acknowledged, though he frowned.  “You trying to ID our sniper?”

“Mostly,” Ed admitted.  “But if we got another rat, I’d like a heads-up.”

The SRU constables stiffened, all of them well aware that their Sergeant wasn’t referring to an IA snitch, but to the Team Four bomb tech who’d helped Moffet frame them for two prison breakouts and their Auror liaison’s attempted murder.

“Ed, should Sam and I help you?” Jules asked.

The lean sniper shook his head.  “Priority is Niebaum and clearing the Boss.”  He lifted the lid off the SRU box.  “Have Lou come up once Revan calls in.  I’ll focus on our fishing expedition.”

* * * * *

Twin soft beeps drew an automatic glance, frown, and wince.  Ed Lane lifted his opposite hand, rubbing at his bald dome as he took in the time on his watch.  7 PM – part of him was surprised his teammates hadn’t turned up to roust him out of his investigation for something to eat.  His stomach rumbled and a hawk cocked its head to the side in the back of his mind, giving a soft creel for food.  Rubbing at his eyes, Ed surveyed the table he’d commandeered, gaze settling on the four files laid out on it – one for each team in the SRU.

A hot flare of indignation shot through his veins when his eyes rested on the first folder – Team One.  After everything they’d gone through, how dare Greg investigate them?  Their team – they would never betray him or his kids.  Then the sniper closed his eyes, jaw clenching at the memory of the Imperius.  The blank bliss that had engulfed his world, turning him against everything he believed in.  Turning him into a mindless automaton, a scut who fired on a bomb less than a meter from two of his own constables.

Sorrowful blue opened again, regarding the folder.  No half-measures; Greg hadn’t been able to risk it.  He’d had to explore any possible angle, every potential threat to himself, his family, and his team.  Even if that meant investigating the people closest to him.  Those he loved – and trusted – best.

Ed knew that if he’d been in Greg’s place, he would’ve done the same.  He would’ve hated himself for it and he would’ve been absurdly grateful when nothing turned up, but he still would’ve done it.  Heck, if it had been him, he might’ve even investigated Sophie, despite knowing, with every ounce of his soul, that she would never do that.  Not to him, Clark, Izzy – their family.

He sighed, gaze drifting to the other three folders.  They were all thicker than the Team One folder – evidence that his best friend had looked much harder at the other teams than his own.  Faint consolation that although Greg hadn’t been able to take the chance of not investigating their team, he’d moved on as soon as he could.

There hadn’t been much, though.  Notes on the specialties of each team member, a rough history of their careers before joining the SRU.  A universal, blanket statement in each folder that they’d joined the force after Castor Troy’s original trial.  Not a surprise – Greg and Holleran were probably the only members of the SRU who even remembered Castor Troy’s reign of terror.  And Greg had been a rookie, hardly a month out of the Academy.

Most of Greg’s intel had focused on potential links between the SRU teams and Castor Troy.  Confirmation of Lane’s private suspicion that looking for dirty cops in general hadn’t been his boss’s priority.  Not that Greg didn’t care – just that if he’d started a campaign against every single dirty cop in the Toronto Police Department, he’d still be undercover.  And he probably wouldn’t have been welcome to come back to any other department if he had.  Most cops, Ed included, tended to be suspicious of IA snitches.  Going after Castor Troy’s thugs – that was different.  Troy was a cop killer – a psychopath who slaughtered entire families; any cop helping him deserved exactly what they got.

Unfortunately, since Greg’s intel was limited to possible Castor Troy connections, it wasn’t giving Ed as many leads as he’d hoped for.  Rubbing at his chin – and ignoring the evening stubble – the sniper inspected his notes.  Revan had come through with that weather report and details on the shooting.  Wind had been fairly calm at the subject location, shots had come from above.  Too far above for the subject to be spotted, although Revan’s attention had been focused solely on the victim.  The center mass shots had been deliberate cruelty, forcing Niebaum to choke on his own blood and slowly gasp himself to death.

According to Winnie, Teams Two and Four had been on-duty.  Both out on patrol, both had reported in within seconds when she’d demanded a rolling update, right after the shooting.  That left Team Three, but they’d known Revan was tailing Niebaum.  Going after the IA detective would’ve been pure stupidity on their part.  If he’d had to pick the mostly likely team to go after Niebaum, he would’ve picked his own team.  And then Team Two – Roenick didn’t like Greg and made no secret of the fact that he was jealous of the lieutenant, but that was an intra-SRU issue.  Faced with a threat from outside their unit, Roenick’s team had closed ranks with their fellow SRU officers.  Plus, Team Two was the only team that hadn’t known about Niebaum’s ex-Unspeakable shadow.

“Ed?”

The Sergeant turned his head, unsurprised to see Wordy hovering in the doorway to Greg’s private intel stash.  “Dinner?”

“Yeah and Susan’s finally letting us in to see Sarge.”

Ed straightened, pinning his team leader with a demanding stare, hope glinting in the depths of hawk blue.

Wordy mustered a wan grin.  “He’s awake.  Still kinda shaky, but he knows where he is and who everyone is.”

He slumped down, relief weakening the stoic façade.  “Thank gawd.”

“You said it, Boss.”

* * * * *

Kinda shaky was generous.  Greg’s skin had an unhealthy flush, he was shivering like a leaf even as sweat rolled down his forehead, and hazel irises were still mixed with scarlet.  Worse, although he recognized all of them, he was too sick to sit up or speak more than a few words; only the strength of his grip reassured his anxious teammates that his mind was intact.

Ed didn’t mention any of the complications that they were facing – his friend needed to focus on getting better, not fret over Niebaum’s murder, the prison escape, or the trial still hanging over his head.  Particularly since Susan hadn’t been able to fully heal the infection in one go; the Sergeant dreaded the full rundown on Parker’s physical state, but knew he’d have to get it.  Holleran would need all the ammunition they could provide before Homicide came sniffing around, even if the commander would have to tread carefully with that information.

The sound of little footsteps drew all of them around, but Jane was through the door and up on Greg’s bed before anyone could intercept her.  The little girl pressed herself against Parker, clinging to him with all the strength her small arms could muster.  Weary scarlet-tinged hazel lowered and the lieutenant hugged back gently, eyes bright with the fever still raging through his blood.

Fanny Bennet approached, reaching for her daughter, but the stocky man shook his head.  “Let her,” he croaked.  A wan, weary smile.  “Ribs are better.”

“Maybe they are, but you need rest,” Ed chided.  He flicked his eyes at Bennet and Fanny.  “Jane can come back and visit tomorrow.”

The small blonde’s parents nodded agreement and Fanny scooped up Jane, quietly hushing her protests as she carried the child out of the room.  Greg didn’t protest, though a shade of fear flashed through his eyes.  Not, Ed suspected, fear of being hurt or fear that Jane would be hurt, but…

He stepped closer, resting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder.  “Spike is gonna stay with you, Boss.”

The bomb tech nodded fiercely, grinning as if they’d planned it all out beforehand.  “Lou’ll grab me and you some dinner, Sarge; won’t be too crowded in here with just three of us.”

Parker sank down a bit on the bed.  “Just you, Spike.  Not hungry.”

Spike bit his lip, but didn’t argue.  Best to let their injured, hurting boss set the pace.  Ed caught his friend’s eyes, slowly tilting his head in acceptance – Greg’s instant relax and thankful return smile clinched the deal.  He was just too drained to be interested in anything besides sleep.

A quick series of hand signals got nods from everyone save Spike and their two remaining mobsters.  Then Ed glanced towards Susan and hiked a brow.  She frowned, but nodded acquiescence.

Lou moved Spike over to Parker’s bed and tugged a chair over; the blind man sat down and grabbed the hand closest to him.  Greg let his head down on the pillow, squeezing Spike’s hand back as gratitude shone in scarlet-hazel.  Before leaving the pair, Lou pulled the bed covers up a bit higher and briefly rested a hand on their Sarge’s shoulder.

* * * * *

“How is he?” Ed asked as soon as the group was safely out of the room with the door closed behind them.

The blonde’s eyes darted to Scarface and Bennet before flicking onto Wordy, then Sam, Jules, and finally back to Ed.  The broad-shouldered brunet hid a smirk – by glancing towards several different members of the team, Susan had obfuscated who Sarge’s medical proxy was.  Oh, Scarface could probably guess it was Ed – something that undoubtedly stuck in the mobster’s craw – but Wordy had reached the point where he really didn’t care what Elias’s guys thought of Sarge’s real family.

“Stable,” Susan replied.  Reaching down in the bag she’d brought from St. Mungo’s, the Healer pulled out two scrolls of parchment.  “I’ve documented everything I found in my diagnostics when I arrived, Sergeant Lane.”

“Copy that,” Ed replied.  “Lou can pass it onto Holleran.”  The less-lethal specialist nodded, accepting the parchment rolls from the Healer.

“High points?” Jules asked.

The Healer-doctor siblings traded grim looks before Jesse took the question.  “Multiple broken ribs – couple of them were so bad they shattered – fractured pelvis and his right collarbone was crushed.  Got some deep bruising on his arms and legs, but no broken bones.”

“According to my diagnostic, he already had internal injuries from the beating, but the broken ribs sure didn’t help, either,” Susan added, a touch of her usual acerbic temper creeping in.  The blonde cast a glare at the two mobsters in the room.  “Neither did hiding him here until he had one hell of an infection going!”

“Is that why his eyes are scarlet?” Lou asked.

The whole room stiffened when the Travises hesitated, Jesse looking up at his sister in unspoken plea.  Her nose scrunched, followed by her jaw.  After a few seconds she sighed, shook her head, and looked down, free hand trailing up and down the wood of her wand in its forearm holster.

“His torso took the worst of the beating,” she explained.  “Arms and legs took some damage, too, but for the most part, he was able to protect his head, even after he went down.”  The blonde Healer inhaled slowly.  “I did find evidence of at least two kicks to the skull.  Maybe three.”

Wordy felt a chill run down his back.  “But he’s talking, he recognizes us and everything!”

“Yes,” Susan agreed.  “Lieutenant Parker was very lucky, Constable Wordsworth.  Assuming there were three kicks, two of them were glancing blows.  They rattled him, but it was surface level.  In an ordinary course of events, he might’ve had a bad headache for a day or so.”

“And the third?” Jules ventured, tone uncertain.

The Healer grimaced.  “That one did damage,” she reported flatly.  “And given the fact that he is lucid, responding to stimuli, and aware of both past and current events, the kick did not damage any parts of the brain responsible for our everyday life.  However…”  For a long moment, Susan trailed off, gathering herself.  “Lieutenant Parker informed me that he’s been unable to consciously control his magic since the riot.  It’s clear his magic is active, but what it’s doing…”  She shrugged.  “It’s not hurting him, so I’m not inclined to tamper with it until we get him to St. Mungo’s.”

The officers stiffened, trading a rapid series of glances as the pieces came together.  All the time they’d been searching, worrying and wondering why Sarge would hide from them – and he’d been too badly injured to turn the ‘team sense’ back on.  Anything more would have to wait for Healer Queenscove’s diagnosis, but the lingering doubts that had been swimming in the back of their minds faded away.

“What about the infection?” Lou asked, pushing past the fresh worry that their lieutenant had lost control of his magic – again.

Susan’s shoulders slumped as she sighed, exhaustion peeking through.  “Under control for now.  With so many broken bones and internal injuries…”  She grimaced.

“You hit the limit,” Wordy filled in.  “How long does it take for that to, um…”

“Taper off?” Travis finished.  “St. Mungo’s typically has us hold off on any additional healing for at least two days if a patient hits the limit.”  She shook her head, blonde locks flying.  “If his fever stays down, I can wait, but if it climbs back into the danger zone, I’ll have to heal him and hope for the best.”

“What about techie meds?” Jules probed.  “There’s a ton of over-the-counter stuff for fever.”  Her eyes flicked towards Jesse.  “Or antibiotics – that could help, right?”

The general practitioner grimaced.  “It’s been ages since my residency, Constable, and we’re working blind, without any blood tests or even Parker’s medical records.”  He glanced towards his sister, then back at the officers.  “We’re not even sure if the infection is due to the internal injuries or the blow to the head.”  A helpless shrug.  “We could try something over-the-counter, but I can’t guarantee it won’t make things worse.”

The discouragement on his face was painful to see – a man who’d felt capable and confident in his profession.  Right up until his magical sister had completely shown him up without ever intending to.  Cut adrift and floundering in the wake of the miracles that magic could pull off, Jesse Travis was doubting every bit of his hard-won expertise.

“You need your medical records?” Sam asked.

“They can’t be removed from my office,” Jesse replied, cutting off the sniper’s line of thought.  “We could try a general antibiotic course, but it usually takes antibiotics a couple days to start really making a difference.”

Wordy sighed.  “And by that point, we’re past the timeframe Susan has to worry about,” he concluded, earning a glum nod from the doctor.  “What about home remedies?”

Susan scowled.  “Home remedies is how we got here, Constable Wordsworth.”

He met her glare without flinching.  “We don’t need them to be the solution.  We just need ‘em to get us through till we’re out of the danger zone.”  His eyes cut to Jesse.  “Family medical practice – I bet there’s lots of stuff you learned from your father that you never got taught in school.”

The dark-blond’s blue eyes brightened a hair and he nodded, glancing over at his sister.  “Maybe some of Grandma’s remedies?”

The elder Travis’s scowl dropped down to a mere frown.  “Have you ever used any of Grandma’s old cures on a patient?”

“Not often and it’s been awhile,” Jesse admitted.  “But you were telling me if we go past the limit, Parker’s body could forget how to heal itself.  Grandma’s stuff is old-fashioned, but it won’t do that.”

Susan inspected her brother’s hopeful expression, then flicked a glance towards Ed.  “Just so you know, Sergeant Lane, Grandma used to swear by ice baths for treating fevers.”

“Geez, sis, way to go for the throat,” Jesse yelped.  “Dad didn’t do that and neither do I.”

Wordy snickered at the sibling rivalry playing out right in front of them; behind a bland expression, he saw the amused glint in his Sergeant’s eyes.

“And we’re trusting the Boss with you two?” Scarface demanded.

“Yes we are,” Ed broke in, staring down his rival.  “Jesse’s been our tech-side doc ever since we found out about magic and Susan’s one of the go-to Healers for magical law enforcement.”  Turning back towards the siblings, he added, “Whatever you gotta do, do it.  But I want at least one of us with the Boss at all times.”

Susan bristled, but Jesse nodded immediately.  When she turned her glare on him, he shook his head at her.  Confusion peeked through the hostility, but she nodded back at her brother, trusting his judgment.

Scarface, however, did not.  “What, you afraid we’re gonna hurt him?”

“He just went through a riot,” Jules reminded the mobster.  “And he’s been inside since the Monday after he helped you out.”  Shifting back to her Sergeant, she arched a brow.  “Are we still going to have Spike keep an eye on Jane?”

“Yes, we are,” the sniper Sergeant replied.  “Figure out who stays with Greg if Spike has to take Jane somewhere else.”  He paused, thinking through their options.  “If he asks, tell him we’re handling Niebaum.  Nothing else.”

“Copy,” Wordy acknowledged.  “You gonna call Holleran?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that right now.”  The Sergeant checked his watch, grimacing at the time.  “Pack it in, team.  Start fresh tomorrow.  We got a long way to go if we’re gonna prove Niebaum was dirty.”

Chapter Text

Commander Norm Holleran entered his office with a snap to his stride and his uniform perfectly crisp.  A military veteran, he’d never fallen out of the habit of keeping his attire up to the standards of the strictest boot camp drill sergeant.  It served him well, distinguishing him from the soft politicians who had no idea what true honor meant.  True dedication and sacrifice.

Reaching out, he laid a notepad on his desk and turned away, as if ignoring it could take away knowledge of the information within.  Sergeant Lane’s preliminary report on his lieutenant’s status and the measures that had been necessary to keep him alive.  Along with a detailed list of all injuries that a Healer – likely Susan Travis – had been able to identify.  The other half of the report was more practical in nature.  Team One was now in possession of Carl Elias’s files and they were working through it to find evidence against Terence Niebaum.  If they could prove the murdered IA detective had been in Castor Troy’s pocket, then doubt would be cast on his entire case against Lieutenant Parker.

In the meantime, Holleran fully expected to be visited by Homicide and questioned on the whereabouts of his top team.  Armed with a copy of the transcript from the SRU’s response to the T-South riot, he planned to turn the tables back on Homicide.  Most of the cops on the street, they had orders to bring the prison escapees in with whatever force was necessary.  His team had orders to focus on their lieutenant, to protect him from ending up back in T-South’s General Population.

The intercom on his desk buzzed and Holleran shifted back, returning to the desk with swift strides.  “Yes, Winnie?”

“Sir, there’s a Sergeant Staples here to see you.”

“Homicide?”

“No, sir, Internal Affairs.”

A frown appeared for a moment before the commander nodded to himself.  “Thank you, Winnie; send him in.”

Settling back on his heels, Norm picked up the notepad and slid it into a desk drawer.  Until Internal Affairs proved themselves to be more interested in the truth than settling Niebaum’s old score against his second-in-command, the commander had no intention of being…forthright.  Hardening his expression, he turned towards his office door, awaiting his guest.

The man who entered was stocky and somewhat overweight, but he carried himself proudly, wearing a business suit and tie that were almost as sharply crisp as Holleran’s uniform.  Silvering hair was cropped close, reminiscent of a military haircut even as it was grown out on the sides enough to flow smoothly down the IA officer’s head.  He was clean-shaven with a sharp nose and thick eyebrows that still carried the brunet hue that had long since fled his hair.  Keen brown eyes surveyed the office from within well padded flesh; the man’s cheeks and chin sagged a bit, evidence that he was more accustomed to office work than the streets.

Sergeant Staples’ shoes clicked against the tile floor; Holleran flicked a glance down to see that they matched well with the business suit, but weren’t anything he’d be caught dead in unless he had a presentation at City Hall.  Shiny black leather, curling around the foot and excellent for business meetings, but not suitable for the action that street-level officers often saw.

Halting in front of the desk, Staples’ eyes fixed on Holleran, contempt shining in their depths.  The commander returned the favor, hostility radiating from both men as they faced off.  At last, the IA officer broke the silence.  “Where is Lieutenant Gregory Parker?”

Commander Holleran arched a brow in response.  Did Staples think he was that naïve?  That inexperienced, that stupid, that he’d bluster a denial even as he looked towards where he’d hidden his notepad full of intel from Team One?

He let the silence hang for several long seconds, then shook his head and snorted.  “I’ll tell you where he should’ve been, Sergeant Staples.  He should’ve been in Solitary, far away from any danger.  That’s procedure for anyone awaiting trial, much less a twenty-year veteran of the force.”

The silver-haired man jerked back, frowning.  “He was in Solitary, Commander Holleran.”

Reaching to his desk, Commander Holleran picked up the transcript from the Toronto South riot.  “This is the Strategic Response Unit, Sergeant Staples.  We responded to T-South as soon as the riot began.  Team Four deployed first, to assess the situation and begin containment measures.”  As he spoke, the commander removed the transcript binder from its carrier.  Laying aside the plastic box, he set the binder down with a thunk on his desk.  Flipping the transcript open, he scanned through the first pages, controlling the paper with his thumb.

Abruptly, he halted, letting both sides of the transcript thump down.  Lifting his gaze, he snagged Staples and rested his finger on the page, right under words that had – and would – haunt him for days to come.  “Marlowe, 10:52 AM,” he ground out, not even checking the transcript as he recounted his dispatcher’s words.  “ ‘Sergeant Vio is requesting immediate backup, sir.  All hands on deck.  Lieutenant Parker is not, I repeat, not in Solitary.’ ”

Fury trembled anew as the commander forced himself to back away from the transcript, though he continued to hold his opponent’s gaze.  “After receiving that report, I ordered Teams One and Three to deploy to the prison.  Teams Three and Four would contain the riot while Team One located and extracted Lieutenant Parker.”  A sharp gesture kept the IA Sergeant quiet.  “The riot occurred less than twenty-four hours after a news broadcast exposed Lieutenant Parker’s undercover persona of Carl Elias.”

“Undercover?” Staples repeated.  “You’re claiming he was an undercover?”

Holleran paused, surveying the IA investigator.  “You weren’t aware of that?  As Lieutenant Parker’s commanding officer, I was the one who Intelligence Services came to repeatedly, over a period of several months, demanding that I transfer one of my best men to their unit even though he had no training or experience as an undercover.”  The black man’s jaw tightened with old fury.  “After Castor Troy escaped, they finally went over my head and forced the transfer.”

“You can’t transfer a veteran officer without his permission!” Staples blurted, unfeigned horror in his voice.

Sorrowful dark eyes shifted back as Holleran shook off the memories.  “Apparently, yes, you can, as long as the mayor and the police commissioner both sign off on it.”

Silence fell as the Internal Affairs Sergeant stared between the SRU commander and the open transcript, breathing hard and eyes still wide after the earth-shattering revelations.  It took several moments for him to recover enough to step forward, towards the desk.  Brown lifted towards the commander in silent request.

Holleran nodded and stepped back, allowing Staples to turn the transcript around and read through the text himself.  The IA Sergeant frowned, reading upwards and through Team Four’s discovery that their lieutenant wasn’t tucked away and safe in the maximum security ward of the prison.  He flipped back a page and kept reading, a frown emerging.

“Is Team Four on-duty today, Commander Holleran?”

“They are and I requested that they not leave the station,” Holleran replied.  “I anticipated that you would need to interview them regarding Detective Niebaum’s murder.”

Staples nodded.  “Yes.  If you have it, I’d also like to see what evidence your team uncovered regarding Lieutenant Parker’s detention in T-South.”

“Of course,” Holleran agreed.  “If you’d like, I can have Constable Vlachos bring his laptop to your interview with him; in addition to the transcript and audio, we also keep a full record of all data collected by the SRU during hot calls.”

Brown eyes sharpened, regaining a keen edge as Staples inspected the lean, pepper-haired SRU commander.  “I’ll also need Lieutenant Parker’s records in this unit.”

“Very well; I’ll have them collected while you interview Team Four.  Team Three is out on patrol at the moment, but we can bring them in once you’re done with Team Four.”

There was a thoughtful gleam, as if he was being weighed and measured, but, after a minute of thinking, Sergeant Staples allowed a tiny smile.  “It sounds like you have everything in hand, Commander Holleran.”  He nodded once.  “Once I’ve finished the interviews, I will speak with you again.”

“I look forward to it, Sergeant Staples.”

* * * * *

Sergeant Clive Staples of Internal Affairs was not unfamiliar with hostility.  It came with the job – even with evidence, few cops wanted to believe that their trusted colleagues were dirty.  Preferable by far to blame Internal Affairs, judging them as rats and snitches who got in the way of real policing.

In light of that, Commander Holleran’s steadfast belief in Lieutenant Parker was not a surprise.  Neither was the fact that the SRU’s top team was conveniently missing, right after a prison riot with their former Sergeant and the murder of Detective Niebaum.  Staples hadn’t known Niebaum all that well, one of the reasons he’d been tapped to lead the murder investigation, but it wasn’t a stretch to theorize that Niebaum had run afoul of the SRU.  Not after the SRU commander had personally confronted Niebaum and dragged him out of his office in Internal Affairs on the day of the riot.

However, the duty roster had already cleared the SRU’s commander – he’d been on-duty and in his office at the time of the shooting.  Timestamps on paperwork submitted from his laptop provided additional confirmation; it was difficult to imagine how Commander Holleran could’ve been the shooter when he’d been printing out a number of completed forms in the minutes surrounding the murder.

The on-duty dispatcher was also cleared by default, though he did request written statements from the other two SRU dispatchers.  The dark-haired dispatcher cast him a high-caliber glare.  “You honestly think we’d kill a fellow cop?”

The Sergeant never turned a hair.  “Constable Camden, my job is to investigate Detective Niebaum’s murder.  Part of that is investigating all possible suspects.”  Brown narrowed a touch.  “Your unit has a very good motive for wanting Detective Niebaum dead.”

Deep brown spat fire at him from across the countertop separating them.  “Maybe on the surface,” Camden replied.  “But none of us would disgrace Lieutenant Parker, sir.  We’d never put his case in jeopardy like that.”

One brunet brow rose and silvered hair tilted to the side, inviting elaboration.

Camden smiled, sharp and just a bit vicious.  “None of us thought Niebaum would get Lieutenant Parker into court, not with all the evidence that he was undercover.”  One shoulder lifted.  “And the murder charges Niebaum was trying to throw at him?  Utterly ridiculous – the only reason Lieutenant Parker had to take Castor Troy down solo is because he’d been cut off from backup as soon as Commander Holleran was shot.”

Staples’ eyes widened.  He hadn’t yet had time to review Detective Niebaum’s case files beyond a cursory inspection, but…  “You’re claiming that Castor Troy shot your commander prior to his death?”

“Yes,” the dispatcher confirmed, before looking down.  Considering.  When she lifted her head, there was a pained glimmer in her eyes.  “We all thought he was in rehab, Sergeant.  Commander Holleran was the only one who knew he’d been transferred and forced undercover.”

Disturbing – if she was right.  To transfer a veteran officer without his consent was bad enough, but if that corruption had gone even further…  Uneasy, Staples added a detailed review of Lieutenant Parker’s IA case to his agenda.  Once he could settle it in his own mind that Parker was guilty he would be better equipped to answer the accusations of the man’s angry coworkers.

In the meantime…  “I understand that Team Four is available for me to interview them?”

“Yes, sir,” Constable Camden replied.  “I’ll have my statement ready for you before you leave and I’ll let Constable Stone know you need his statement as well.”

Staples dipped his head in reply.  “Thank you, Constable.”

* * * * *

To a man, SRU Team Four was rigidly polite during their interviews, answering each question with as few words and syllables as possible.  Any probing questions regarding Lieutenant Parker or SRU Team One were deflected in such a way that Sergeant Staples was reminded of the fact that to be SRU meant to be a negotiator.  Skilled with words and redirecting conversations, even if most of these constables would never be required to actually negotiate in the field.  Even the rookie constables of the unit could talk circles around him – and would, because he was an outsider and a threat to their leader.

Surveying his last interviewee – SRU Team Four’s rookie constable and bomb tech – Sergeant Staples opted to change tactics.  “I understand you discovered Lieutenant Parker was not being held in Solitary, Constable Vlachos.”

Gray studied him for several moments, searching for the trap hidden in the words.  At last, the constable replied, “I did, yes, sir.”

“I’ve read the transcript from the riot, Constable, but is there anything you would like to add in your report?”

At first, the constable did not reply.  Gray narrowed in on him, almost piercing through him with a sense of being weighed and measured.  Against what standard, he did not know, nor what he could do if he fell short in the constable’s estimation.

“Did you know his kids couldn’t even go see him?”

The IA Sergeant blinked.  “Beg pardon?”

“They’d let his lawyers in, but nobody else.  Even though he hasn’t been convicted of anything yet.”  Vlachos traced an invisible line on the table.  “They took away his kids and he still protected them.  There’s at least three, four guards that owe their lives to him, now.”

Staples swallowed at that news.  True, he was getting the SRU’s version of events – undoubtedly skewed in favor of their leader – but if even half of what he was hearing was right…  To put a veteran officer in General Population, conviction or not…  It simply wasn’t done; there were too many criminals who’d love to get their hands on a cop.  But to put a man who hadn’t even been convicted of a crime in General Population and deny him visits with his own family…  The latter could be done, if Child Services deemed an inmate to be a threat to his children, even from behind bars, but absent such a ruling, it was against policy.  Against protocol and all common decency.

He considered, returning Vlachos’s assessing glare.  “Do you know if the prison ever gave a reason for restricting Lieutenant Parker’s visitors?”

“Someone red-flagged him.”  Vlachos grimaced.  “The guards knew he was in danger after that news report outed him as Carl Elias, but ‘cause he was red-flagged, they couldn’t put him in Solitary for more than just that night.”  Gray dropped to the table, flicking back and forth.  Then, before Staples could press for any more details, the rookie constable’s head came up, sharp gaze pinning him in place.  “The rioters, they realized he was saving guards.  So they found a guard, killed him, and lured him in.  We couldn’t find him, but right by the dead guard, there was blood everywhere.”

Along with a deceased rioter, Staples knew, but there was not a prayer of convicting Parker for that.  In the middle of a riot, survival was the paramount goal.  Kill or be killed.  Oh, certainly, there would be some Monday-morning-quarterbacks who would insist that any killing, no matter the reason, was wrong and must be prosecuted, but the IA Sergeant had never been that naïve – or foolish.

Regarding the constable, Staples came to a decision.  “Thank you for your time, Constable Vlachos.  I believe I have enough to go on for now.”

* * * * *

“Has Lieutenant Parker ever received sniper training, Commander Holleran?”

“No, he has not,” Commander Holleran replied, looking up from his paperwork to regard the IA Sergeant who’d left his office with Parker’s SRU records not twenty minutes ago.  He resisted the impulse to point out that if his second had gotten sniper training, it would’ve been in his file, just like everything else was.

Staples dropped a sheet on his desk and Holleran reached out, picking it up.  Ahhh…Parker’s most recent range scores.  That explained the arched brow and unimpressed look he was getting.  The commander nodded and set the range scores down again.  “Lieutenant Parker’s strengths are profiling and negotiation, Sergeant Staples.  If you were to look at his range scores from a couple years ago, they wouldn’t be nearly as good as the ones you have now; he’s always been up to standards for firearms and hand-to-hand, but those aren’t his specialty.”

“He didn’t want sniper training?”

A nod.  “By the time he was finally transferred back to the SRU for good, he’d been undercover for two months and missing for another two.  His priority was learning his new role as my second-in-command and regaining his skills with negotiation.”

“Why?” the other man asked.  “Is he still on the streets?”

Holleran nodded, watching incredulity play over Staple’s slightly pudgy face.  “Any of our teams can request Lieutenant Parker’s backup on a hot call and he regularly patrols with them as well.”  A faint smile.  “He does better when he’s allowed to be on the front lines, Sergeant.”

There was a thoughtful flicker in the other man’s eyes, then he shook his head and moved on.  “I see pictures of the ambush location that Team One located during the riot in the file, but no video?”

The commander grimaced.  “There isn’t video,” he replied.  “My men located a camera pointed towards where the fight was, but it was inoperable.  The warden reported that it had been broken several months prior to the riot.”  He paused, gathering his thoughts.  “Constable Vlachos did identify several men coming into the prison during the riot; all the cameras between their entrance and Lieutenant Parker’s last known location were spray-painted.”

Staples frowned.  “You believe he was removed from the prison?”

“I do,” Commander Holleran replied, leaning back and folding his fingers together.  “Lieutenant Parker knows SRU protocol with regards to riots; his team was the lead during another T-South prison riot a few years ago.  Despite the prison’s…poor…behavior, leaving the prison puts him in a very vulnerable position.”

“Guilty until proven innocent,” Staples grunted, earning a grim nod.

“Given his knowledge and experience, I do not believe Lieutenant Parker would have chosen to leave the prison of his own volition,” Holleran declared.  “Not unless he had reason to believe that his family was in danger and we have no evidence that any threats have been made against his family, much less that he knew of them.”

The IA Sergeant’s frown deepened, but in thought rather than anger.  “Say you’re wrong.  Parker leaves of his own volition and goes after Niebaum.”

“He would have killed Niebaum with a pistol, not a sniper rifle,” Holleran countered, leaning forward again, gaze intent.  “Parker’s last known location was covered in blood – my officer is not that sloppy, Sergeant Staples.  He may have been a late bloomer when it comes to hand-to-hand, but every officer in this unit is skilled with takedowns.  Even in an all-out brawl, Parker would have fought with precision and pinpoint strikes, just as he’s been trained.”

“Unless he went down,” Staples filled in.

“Given the numbers he was likely up against, yes, we believe he went down at some point during the fight,” Commander Holleran confirmed, hand tightening around his pen.  “Once he was down…  Neither of us are inexperienced enough to not know what would’ve followed, Sergeant.”

There was reluctance on the other man’s face.  A resistance to admitting what they both knew.  Sniper rifles were the domain of trained shooters – able-bodied shooters who could absorb the weapon’s recoil without issue.  Holleran didn’t have access to the actual report of the shooting, but he had Revan’s report.  Three bullets, center mass – all closely clustered.  Too precise for an injured shooter, even a well-trained one.

“Fine, you convinced me,” Staples grumbled.  Easing back on his heels, he eyed Holleran with a jaundiced expression.  “Now convince me Parker’s old team didn’t take revenge for him.”

Holleran almost smiled.  Standing, he moved to a corner of his office and picked up a plastic transcript holder.  Returning to his desk, he pulled the binder out of its box and set it aside.  “Several years ago, Sergeant Parker was snatched off the street by the former boyfriend of a young girl he’d befriended near the end of his Homicide days.”

Staples whistled, moving in to gaze at the transcript.  “Why’d the boyfriend go after him?”

Grave dark eyes came up.  “The girl’s mother was killed in an accidental shooting that coincided with the execution of an arrest warrant for the mother’s boyfriend.  The girl’s boyfriend believed that Detective Parker had killed the mother and then sealed the file to prevent his crime from being exposed.  He also believed that Parker had convinced the girl to break up with him and get clean.”

“Lemme guess – Parker sealed the file ‘cause the girl shot her own mother.”

“That would be correct,” Holleran replied.  “The gun had a hair trigger; the detectives concluded that the mother dropped the weapon and it slid to the girl – she would’ve been four, five years old at the time.  She picked it up, probably to hand it back to her mother, and it went off.”

The IA Sergeant grunted.  “Why is this relevant?”

“It’s relevant because as soon as Dispatch reported Parker’s abduction, Team One went after him.”

“Course they went after him,” Staples countered.  “He was their Sergeant and the guy who took him was in the same spot.”

“True,” Holleran conceded.  “I’m sure you already know that I went to Internal Affairs and demanded Detective Niebaum accompany me back to the SRU on the day of the riot.”

Staples scowled and nodded once.

“At the time, we suspected that Detective Niebaum may have had a role in the way the prison treated Lieutenant Parker,” the commander explained.  “I won’t say that he entirely satisfied our…suspicions on that point, but he was unharmed when he left the station.  Likely angry, but so were we.”

“And?”

Holleran gestured to the transcript on his desk.  “Historically, Team One’s priority has always been to protect their own.  With Lieutenant Parker missing, he was their focus, not Detective Niebaum.  If they had located Parker and brought him in for treatment, I would concede that they may have gone after Detective Niebaum, but so long as he is missing…”  The commander shrugged, implication plain.

“Officially, he’s missing,” the IA Sergeant retorted.  “How do we know they didn’t find him already and they’re hiding him?”

The commander’s expression never twitched, even though Staples was, from a certain point of view, correct in his assessment.  Team One had found Parker, which meant, if they were inclined towards revenge, they certainly could’ve taken Niebaum out themselves.  Except…

“Team One is also aware that a constable loosely attached to our unit was tailing Niebaum from the time he left this station until his death.  To commit a murder in front of him would be foolhardy in the extreme.”

“You had somebody following an IA detective?” Staples roared.  “Who do you think you are?”

“I am the commander of a fine, upstanding officer who is being put on trial for defending himself and his family from a mob boss who enjoyed killing law enforcement and slaughtering their families,” Holleran replied, keeping his tone perfectly level and unconcerned.  One hand gestured for the bristling IA Sergeant to calm down.  “Constable DeValle is extremely professional.  His assignment was to ensure Detective Niebaum did not interfere in the search for Lieutenant Parker or flee the city.”

“DeValle?  The guy who called EMS for Niebaum, that was your guy?”

“Not directly, no, but he frequently works with SRU Team Three and he’s quite experienced with undercover work.”

The Internal Affairs officer’s eyes narrowed.  “How do I know your guy didn’t kill Niebaum himself?”

One brow rose and Commander Holleran gave the other man an unimpressed look.  “We both know protocol, Sergeant Staples; Constable DeValle would have been checked for GSR (6) at the scene or afterwards, either by Homicide or by your department.”  A pause.  “Also, Constable DeValle is adequate with a firearm, but has no experience with sniper rifles.”

Staples’ eyes narrowed even further.  “Only reason we know it’s a sniper is ‘cause your guy told us that.”

Exasperated, Commander Holleran reached out to the intercom on his desk and tapped the button.  He waited for a rustle from the other end, then requested, “Winnie, could you contact Commander Locksley and ask her to send Constable DeValle to my office?”

“Yes, sir,” Winnie agreed.

Tapping the intercom off, Holleran returned his attention to the fuming IA Sergeant.  “An officer was killed; they would’ve put a rush on forensics.”  At the jerk of surprise, he smiled thinly.  “You haven’t read Parker’s full file yet, have you?”

“Read it enough to know at least a third is redacted,” Staples retorted.

The commander winced.  “Yes, Lieutenant Parker and his former team are all signed onto the Official Secrets Act, Sergeant.  Anything related to that is classified and redacted as such.”

Before either man could say anything else, there was a knock on the office door.  “Enter,” Holleran called, pleased when Constable DeValle slipped in.  Rising, he gestured the younger man closer to the desk.  “Constable, Sergeant Staples has some additional questions regarding Detective Niebaum’s murder.”

“Of course, sir,” the dark-haired man replied, striding across the room.

“You didn’t mention you were a cop,” Staples pointed out, tone icy.

Unabashed, the former Unspeakable came to a halt in front of the SRU commander’s desk.  “Standard procedure for my unit, sir.  Never break your cover unless it’s already blown.”

A grunt.  “Why weren’t you carrying your sidearm, Constable?”

DeValle shook his head.  “I don’t carry while I’m under unless I need it, sir.  Safer that way.”

“Safer,” Staples echoed, thick brows rising.

The young Auror nodded earnestly.  “Most of my targets aren’t your typical criminals.  They’d be suspicious of anyone carrying a gun who isn’t a cop.”

The IA Sergeant grunted again, not entirely appeased.  His eyes shifted between the constable in front of him and the commander behind the desk.  “Who all knew your guy here was tailing Detective Niebaum?”

“Every team except Team Two,” Commander Holleran replied.  “Team Two was on patrol at the time of the shooting and reported in as soon as Constable Marlowe requested a rolling up date from the on-duty teams.”

“And the dispatchers?”

Holleran frowned in thought.  “My dispatchers aren’t trained in sniper rifles, Sergeant Staples.”  A breath.  “That said, Constable Camden likely knew, but I’m not sure about Constable Stone.”

Staples grumbled low in his chest.  “You gave me Parker’s file.  Anything you got on his so-called assignment?”

“Everything,” Commander Holleran replied.  “Assuming you have room in the trunk of your car for it.”

The IA Sergeant’s eyes bugged wide and Constable DeValle coughed to cover his laughter, blue sparkling with mirth.

* * * * *

It was close to ten o’clock by the time Sergeant Clive Staples was finally satisfied.  Aside from a few squints in the direction of his computer monitor, the big man paid no attention to the nighttime lights shining through the windows of his office.  With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, absently checking his watch.

Shifting back, he regarded the boxes stacked high in the corner of his office with a sour expression.  The information inside was thorough – with enough details to satisfy even the strictest of DAs and the pickiest juries.  Officers – active and retired – who’d sold their brothers in blue out to a maniac who took grudge-holding to an art form.

And one of them had been Detective Niebaum.  The evidence was undeniable – and verifiable.  Clive had all of the late detective’s files; once he’d known to look, Niebaum’s corruption had been easy to find, sprinkled through the pages of more cases than Staples could casually count.  Why, he wondered, had Niebaum’s corruption case been dropped?

But he knew why.  They were Internal Affairs – they watched the Watchmen.  For one of their own to be corrupt…  Just as cops of other departments turned a blind eye on their dirty coworkers, taking offense when IA even suggested there was corruption, so had it been for Niebaum.  His coworkers hadn’t wanted to believe he was dirty, dropping the case at the first possible excuse.

Knowing what he did now, the seething resentment woven into every page of Niebaum’s case against Lieutenant Parker made all too much sense.  As did the motive – revenge, to be sure, but also, in a sense, redemption.  If Parker was dirty, then Niebaum was not, as twisted as that sounded.

Rubbing at his eyes, Clive turned back towards his desk.  Every report on the shooting and fire that had claimed the lives of Castor Troy and his sister, Brenda Kastor.  A fine officer with an outstanding reputation – except for the part where she was a mob boss’s sister and had a serious axe to grind against the rookie constable who’d arrested her brother all those years ago.

He’d hardly gotten through the first few pages of her case against Parker and the late Sean Archer before he’d had to put the file down.  Strawman after strawman, logical and chronological inconsistencies that even an applicant to the Police Academy could see through – it was downright propaganda, designed to turn Castor Troy into the poor, innocent victim of Toronto’s ruthless, dirty cops.  No one with any sense would believe such nonsense – which meant it had to be kept from the media at all costs.  They made their bones destroying reputations, embellishing even the flimsiest of tales into the leading stories on the nightly news.  Given how ridiculous the file was, it might even merit a primetime special.

A tired snort escaped and Staples rubbed at his hair as he wearily turned towards the only problem remaining.  The evidence that Troy and his sister had been shot with Parker’s SRU service weapon rather than an undercover piece.  Not to mention what the arson investigators had found – a daisy chain of bombs that had encircled the combatants in the factory fire shootout.  The trigger mechanism – found on the catwalks surrounding the factory’s main area.  Bullets pulled from the walls matched to the weapons found on Castor and Brenda, evidence that Parker had been on the catwalks.

Circumstantial, but Staples knew he wasn’t wrong.  Parker had set a trap and lured his prey into it.  Not exactly the action of a fine, upstanding officer.  But…  His gaze stole to the Homicide file on Detective Archer and he shuddered.  He was a confirmed bachelor – no wife, no children, and his parents had long since passed on – but he’d met plenty of parents during his career.  Police, military, and civilian alike.  And many of those parents didn’t deserve the title, but for those who did…

It was far, far safer to provoke an alligator than a parent.  For a parent might regret their actions afterwards, but they would do anything to protect their children.  Anything.  Parker had had an advantage Archer didn’t – he knew what had happened to the detective and his family.  He’d known that if Castor Troy could break out of prison once, then he could do it again.  And that…that had been a risk Parker could not accept.  Not for himself and his family.

But he had still killed two people in cold blood.  Lured them into a trap from which they could not escape.  Shot them with absolutely no remorse.

Premeditated, first-degree murder.

[6] Gun Shot Residue

Chapter Text

Sam couldn’t deny that he was grateful when he drew the ‘short straw’ and ended up assigned to help Susan, Jesse, and Sarge while Spike kept little Jane occupied elsewhere.  Sure, the inaction chafed, but, deep inside, his inner wolf was soothed by the presence of his Alpha.  Silver burned just a little brighter because Sarge was there.  Real and solid despite the fever still burning beneath his skin.

He wasn’t always lucid – the fever utterly unconcerned by Susan Travis’s don’t-you-dare glares.  But even in the depth of fever dreams, he always knew when one of them was near.  The one time Susan had evicted Sam, not wanting him in the way as she mixed a particularly delicate potion, Sarge had panicked so badly that Susan screamed for Sam to get back in here!  Now!

Scarface was getting more jealous by the hour, but Bennet and his wife Fanny were more resigned than anything else.  They wanted Sarge to stay, for their sake and their little girl’s sake, but as parents themselves, they seemed to know just how futile it was to keep Sarge away from his own kids.

So Sam stayed by his lieutenant, helping the Travises batter back the fever with cold compresses on Sarge’s forehead and bags of ice under his arms as well as between his legs.  Fanny kept them well-supplied with soup and the old-wives remedies she’d learned from her mother and grandmother.  Every tiny decrease in Sarge’s temperature was a hard-fought victory, won by seconds, minutes, and hours.  Any time his eyes opened with awareness nearly brought them all to tears, for it was pure relief and yet so fleeting.

One day slipped into the next and Sam was relieved when Spike stayed away.  The blind man was much better at navigating then he’d been in the beginning, but this battle – it was a sighted man’s battle.  Besides, Spike was playing an important role, too; he was keeping little Jane busy and out of their way.

“Sam.”

Blearily, he looked up at his girlfriend, hardly even seeing her as his mind stayed on Sarge and everything he might need next in their battle against that awful fever.

Jules took his hand, tugging him to his feet.  “Come on, Sam, you need to rest.”

He resisted.  “Gotta stay with Sarge.”

She shushed him.  “Wordy’s going to take over while you eat and get some sleep.  Ed’s orders,” she added at the budding protest in his eyes.

Looking around, he finally realized Jules hadn’t come alone.  Their team leader was there and he was already in position next to Sarge, leaning towards Jesse while Fanny gently ushered Susan away for a break of her own.

With a sigh, he gave in, though his eyes remained on Sarge until Jules got him out of the room and closed the door behind them.

* * * * *

As he returned to the sick room several hours later, Sam’s jaw quirked up to see Spike there waiting for him.  Jane was nowhere in sight, but her mother had probably already sent the little girl to bed.  With any luck, she’d stay there.

Spike’s head turned at the footsteps and his face lit up.  “Samtastic.”

A chuckle broke free.  “We double-teaming it?”

The raven nodded fiercely.  “Can’t let you have all the fun, Samtastic.”

He sighed, but returned the nod.  “Won’t be easy,” he warned.  “Fever’s still high enough that Susan’s counting the seconds.”

Sightless light-brown managed to darken.  “I can take it.”

Sam held his stance for a few more moments, then nodded in return.  “Copy.  You stay by his head, make sure he knows you’re there.  I’ll do the hauling.”

Scarlatti blinked, tilting his head.  “Hauling?”

“Ice bags,” Sam explained, moving to where Susan had set up a small rune circle – all they had to do was bring in a bucket of water and the enspelled area turned that water to ice, keeping it frozen until they needed it.  Fanny had found several old pillowcases that they could use for bags and she’d taken on the task of drying each pillowcase out after it was used.

“It’s an old method for treating heat stroke, Constable Scarlatti,” Susan elaborated, sweeping in.  Her wand snapped out and she waved it over Sarge – Sam grimaced at the temperature, nibbling his lip at the way it had gone up since Jules had hauled him out for food and rest.  Wordlessly, he snagged a soaked washcloth out of the small bucket they’d placed right at the edge of the rune circle – close enough to get icy cold, but not far enough inside for the water to turn to ice.

The Healer accepted the washcloth, curled it up, and hurried over to Spike, reaching past him to place the compress on Sarge’s forehead.

“How close are we?” Sam asked even as he collected a clean, dry pillowcase to start packing ice again.

“If we can get him through till nine o’clock, that will put us past the 48-hour mark by about three hours,” Susan replied.  “I’d like to get him through the whole night, but it looks like the fever’s climbing again.”

“Infection’s setting in,” the blond sniper concluded, scowling at her unhappy nod.

On the bed, Sarge thrashed, muttering to himself.

* * * * *

Spike stayed where he was – sometimes standing, sometimes sitting, but always in Sarge’s line of sight if he turned his head towards them.  Before, Sam had said, Sarge only needed one of them in the room to calm down, but their lieutenant had reached the point that even the subconscious whispers of his magic were beyond him.  The one time he’d gone to help Sam with an ice bag had prompted a wailing, despairing keen from the delirious man on the bed; Spike cursed himself as he scrambled back, grabbing onto Sarge’s hand in an effort to reassure him.  He wasn’t alone – his team was there and they’d never, ever leave him.  Never again.

Before his eyes, Sarge’s scarlet flexed, darkening in an unnatural way.  At first, Spike had been terrified that there was Dark Magic in play, but as the hours passed, he realized it was the infection.  Or the fever.  Or both.  Trapped in delirium, Sarge’s mind was trawling through emotional torment he rarely let surface and the anguish of the involuntary trek was transmitting into his magical aura.

“Spike…?”

Soft, hoarse, with an edge of disbelief.  Spike squeezed his boss’s hand and leaned in.  “Here, Boss.”

“Thirsty,” Sarge rasped; there was a rustle, as if he was trying to lean towards Spike, but couldn’t muster the strength.

Reaching up with his free hand, Spike pressed the compress into Sarge’s forehead, frowning at how dry it felt.  Turning his head, he called, “Sam, you got another washcloth?”

“Yeah,” Sam called back.  “Anything else?”

“Water?” Spike queried, feeling a shuddering under the compress.

“Room temperature, not icy cold, Constable Braddock,” Jesse instructed – he’d taken over for Susan in anticipation of a magic-intensive evening for her.  “We don’t need Lieutenant Parker shivering.”

The bomb tech heard a soft moan from his boss and frowned, but didn’t argue.  If it were him, he’d want something cold, but if Jesse thought shivering was bad, then that was that.  He was the doctor, after all.

Silver came over, holding something out.  Spike pulled the old compress away and took the new one, rolling it up before putting it in place on a scarlet-outlined forehead.  He heard a relieved sigh as the cold filtered through Sarge’s skin and watched as Sam carefully coaxed several swallows of water down Sarge’s throat.

“He’s gonna be okay, right?” Spike pleaded, unable to help himself.

“We’re almost there,” Jesse reassured him.  “Just a few more hours, Constable Scarlatti, and Susan can heal him again.”

He nodded, but there was still a deep snarl in his gut.  Fear that Sarge would suddenly take a turn for the worst and then that would be it – they’d come so close, only to lose him anyway.

Spike didn’t voice that fear, though – that would make it real.  Besides, even if Sarge was slipping in and out of awareness, he could still hear.  What if, by voicing his terror, he made it come true?

* * * * *

Jules forced her attention away from the sick room only one floor above – the one where her lieutenant was fighting for his life against the infection raging through his body…  Internally, she groaned – she was doing a great job of staying on task.  If only she’d drawn the short straw instead of Sam…  Of course, she knew – all of them were thinking that; their not-so-rookie sniper was currently the object of the team’s focused jealousy, because he got to be with Sarge and they had to keep working the case.

Sighing, the brunette read through the pages in front of her again, narrowing her eyes as she scanned the report Lou had managed to find on Niebaum’s own IA investigation.  The one that should’ve seen him in prison and well away from Sarge – what had gone wrong?  There had been plenty of evidence against the now-deceased IA detective.

“Got it!” Lou crowed, drawing instant attention.  Jules shot out of her chair and was behind Lou’s before Wordy or Ed could catch up.

“What do we got?” Ed demanded, halting to the right of the pair as he peered at the laptop screen.

“Niebaum was arrested when a detective from the 8th precinct provided evidence to the guys at the top of Internal Affairs.  Guys who didn’t know Niebaum personally.”

Wordy frowned, a distant look appearing in his eyes.  “Yeah, I remember scuttlebutt about that back when…”

“When Greg was under,” Ed finished for him.  “Figure that detective was one of Greg’s – why’d IA lose the evidence?”

Lou grimaced.  “They put him on suspension, pending investigation, but then the investigation stalled.  Didn’t look good for Internal Affairs that one of their guys was dirty.  They spent most of their time on all the other dirty cops Sarge was turfing out of their hidey holes.”

“How long was the investigation stalled?” Jules asked.

Their less-lethal specialist scanned through the information on his screen, fingers flying on the keyboard and mouse.  “Looks like it stalled out for a couple months.  Long enough that they put Niebaum back on-duty, but he was chained to his desk.  Paperwork only.”

“And then?” their Sergeant prompted.

The tan-skinned constable’s chin dipped a hair before he turned in his chair to face his teammates.  “Then that detective from the 8th precinct came back, said he’d believed his source way back when he brought IA the evidence on their guy, but since then, he’d found out his source had a grudge against Niebaum, so he might’ve manufactured evidence.”

Hawk blue widened, then Ed hissed, his shoulders bristling just like his Animagus form would.

“Sarge would never,” Wordy argued loudly.  “Who was it?”

Without glancing back at his screen, Lou replied, “Detective Lionel Fusco, 8th precinct.”

The team stilled, all of them trading sober glances, thought Jules noted that her Sergeant and team leader’s glances at each other were unusually long.  Lionel Fusco – their lieutenant’s onetime friend, from a time in his life when he’d only had two friends.  Then John Reese had been murdered by Castor Troy and Fusco had turned his back, blaming Parker for the bombing.

“He must’ve found out who Carl Elias is,” Jules concluded.  “But how?”

Lou shook his head.  “No idea.  Up till that news report, I don’t think anyone outside of SRU and Elias’s two top guys knew he was a cop.”

“Raf knew,” Ed broke in.

“Who?” Wordy asked, frowning.

“The Guns ‘n’ Gangs rookie who took your spot for a week,” the Sergeant filled in.  “Think he got Obliviated after Merlin put everything right, but then Guns ‘n’ Gangs tried to send him undercover in Elias’s organization.”

“And Sarge caught him,” Lou breathed, earning a nod.

“Roy and Giles debriefed him after, but he clammed up soon as he heard the last name Lane.”

“He recognized him,” Wordy mused, thoughtful.  “Didn’t want to blow his cover back then.”

Jules shook her head.  “It’s been over six months; Raf wouldn’t blow Sarge’s cover now and he has no reason to reach out to Homicide when Sarge works in the SRU.”  She gestured at the laptop screen.  “Lou, can you tell when Fusco went back to IA?”

“Not the exact date,” Lou admitted.  “Soon as he gave ‘em a good excuse, they dropped the investigation.  Fully reinstated Niebaum – even gave him back pay from when he got suspended.  As far as Internal Affairs was concerned, he was completely clear.”

“Whoever told Fusco…  You think they told Niebaum, too?” Jules ventured.

“Fusco probably told Niebaum,” Wordy jumped in.  “He already has a grudge against Sarge.  Niebaum was the only one left, the only guy who hadn’t been indicted yet.”

“Plus, he’s Internal Affairs,” Ed added.  “Perfect ally if you’re going after one of the best guys on the force.”

“Not an ally,” Lou disagreed.  “Fusco brought in the evidence that got Niebaum arrested.  What if they worked a deal – Niebaum gets to bring Sarge down and leaves Fusco alone.”

“Fusco gets to watch Sarge go through the wringer, even if he doesn’t get to do it himself,” Jules finished.

The four officers stopped, each of them evaluating their theory.  It held together – there were still gaps, where they didn’t have the details to fill in, but the framework fit.  The only problem was…

“We’ll never be able to prove Fusco told Niebaum,” Wordy observed, morose.  “Not without Niebaum.”

“We can’t even prove Fusco knew about Sarge,” Lou agreed sadly.

“So we keep an eye on Fusco, make sure he leaves Greg alone from now on,” Ed broke in, practical as ever.  “We got the evidence that Greg uncovered – we can prove Niebaum was dirty and on Castor Troy’s payroll.  Not a stretch to figure that he went after Greg ‘cause he lost his extra income and nearly got thrown in jail.”

The three constables perked up.  “So we can get Sarge to St. Mungo’s?” Jules asked hopefully.

Their Sergeant shook his head.  “Not yet.  Not till we can account for all our T-South escapees.”  His expression hardened.  “Soon as we come in, they’re gonna be looking to put Greg back inside – we need leverage to keep him out.”

There was a long moment of silence.  Finally, Wordy nodded.  “Copy that, Boss.”

* * * * *

Sam leaned against the wall, right behind Spike’s chair, and let his head thud back.  It wasn’t his first all-nighter, not by a long shot, nor even his first all-nighter watching over a sick or injured friend, but it never got easier.  The pull of exhaustion, the way his emotions felt utterly wrung out, just like the fresh compress on Sarge’s forehead, the weariness that felt soul-deep…

At least he was alive…  Less than a minute after the clock struck nine, Susan’s wand had been in hand as she summoned up her healing magic, focusing on the infection raging through Sarge’s blood, bones, and internal organs.  Even as she worked, the fever continued to climb, requiring constant effort from Jesse and Sam to keep fresh ice bags in place and Spike supplied with icy cold washcloths, but as the minutes ticked by, turning into hours, the tide began to turn, more and more, in their favor.

As the first false light of dawn peeked through the night sky, Sarge’s fever finally broke.  His sleep remained fitful, but he was breathing deeply and sweat no longer bathed him or the fresh pillow beneath his head.  Scarlet magic still swirled with his native hazel irises, but the pupils were back to normal.  Reacting properly to light – though Susan had warned that Sarge would be hyper-sensitive to bright lights for some time to come.  A consequence of how long his concussion had gone untreated and the fact that the bulk of her healing magic had been necessary for graver injuries.

Sam flicked a glance down, a worn smile appearing.  Spike was slumped over in his chair, upper body resting on the bed and his left hand still gripping Sarge’s right.  Somehow, his head had found a free spot on Sarge’s pillow and he’d tucked in, right in the crook of Sarge’s shoulder.

Then Sam blinked.  Sarge’s eyes were open, scarlet tinted hazel regarding him blearily, but with awareness.  Moving quietly, the sniper moved closer, reaching out to rest a hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder.  “Morning, Sarge.”

“Sam,” Sarge rasped.  His gaze flicked down a moment.  “Spike?”

“Ed figured it was about time we got the whole team back together,” Sam explained, keeping his voice low.  “He’s been keepin’ an eye on Jane.”

Sarge frowned, with an expression that demanded further details, but he abruptly sagged down, eyes fluttering shut as his body’s exhaustion pulled him back under.

Sam shook his head, weariness giving way to fond exasperation with his boss.  A soft laugh broke free.  Then he went back to the wall and leaned into it, letting himself fall into a soldier’s watchful doze.

* * * * *

The Sergeant shunted aside Lou’s revelation that Fusco had been the one to finger Niebaum in the first place.  Shunted aside the rage that Greg had handed Fusco a mile-high stack of arrests on a silver platter and Fusco had still stabbed his old friend in the back.  Tried to forget that anger was easier to deal with than the guilt that squirmed in his gut – for if he and Wordy had left well enough alone, Fusco never would’ve discovered that mob boss Carl Elias and Lieutenant Gregory Parker were the same person.

“Ed,” Wordy hissed, coming up right behind him.

A sharp hand signal cut him off, Ed’s glare boring into the other man as shoulders tightened.  Did Wordy want Elias’s guys to hear?  Their teammates?

His team leader stilled, though gray remained shadowed with the guilt Lane was refusing to acknowledge in himself.  After a moment, Wordy straightened.  “What’s our play, Boss?”

The sniper tactician frowned, running through what they had and what they didn’t have.  Greg was stable, but definitely not up for anything more than recovery.  The evidence he’d collected on Niebaum was secured and they could probably cross-reference with Greg’s official police record to prove that he’d never even met Niebaum prior to his undercover assignment.

A nod.  “Word, you and I’ll go have a talk with Scarface.  Find out where we are on tracking down our escapees.”

“They’ve only been looking two days,” Jules pointed out.

“Five,” the Sergeant countered.  “Escapees beat Greg half to death – no way Scarface or Elias’s other guys let something like that go.”  His gaze switched to Lou.  “Need you to start putting our evidence together in a report for Internal Affairs.  We hand everything over exactly like we found it.”

“Plus Sarge’s medical report?” Lou suggested.

“We’ll need Jesse’s text messages,” Jules added.  “Proves we didn’t find Sarge before he contacted me.”

“Yeah and his testimony,” Ed agreed.  “We’re on thin ice with this one, team – dot every ‘I’ and cross every ‘T’.”

“Copy, Boss,” Wordy murmured.

Tilting his head, the Sergeant led the way out of the room they’d been using for the investigation, towards the planning room right next door to their lieutenant’s sick room.  Much as Ed didn’t like Scarface or his gang, he had to admit the mobsters had done their best for Greg.  Even knowing what he was – in what universe did criminals protect cops?

Beside him, he could practically feel the guilt oozing off of Word and halted.  Turning his head, he met miserable gray.  “You walk in there like that and they’ll know something’s up.”

The big constable swallowed hard.  “Ed, we gotta tell them.”

“No, we don’t,” the sniper hissed, knowing his friend wasn’t referring to the mobsters, but to their teammates.  “Long as we play this right, all we got to do is keep an eye on Fusco.  Make sure he never pulls somethin’ like this again.”  Intense blue snared his team leader’s gaze and hardened.  “No one needs to know what happened that night.  No one.”

He saw emotions play across Wordy’s face, stallion instincts warring with the brunet’s conscience.  Then his friend subtly relaxed and nodded, shifting to be just a hair more behind his Sergeant.  His herd leader.

A fresh dart of guilt struck – he’d deliberately used Wordy’s Animagus instincts against him and they both knew it – but he pushed that guilt away just like he’d already pushed away the guilt for telling Fusco who Elias was.

Bumping Word’s shoulder in silent apology, Ed continued towards the planning room, moving inside with a snap to his stride and head high.  As always, Scarface was accompanied by Bennet, but none of Elias’s other chiefs were in the room.  He might’ve wondered if Scarface and Bennet were hiding Greg from their own people, but over the past two days, there had been a steady stream of mobsters in and out of the hideout.

“How is he?” Scarface demanded, interrupting Lane’s train of thought.

“He is going to be fine.”  All four men turned towards the blonde who’d just slipped into the room.  There were dark circles under her eyes and her usual tart tone held an edge of exhaustion, but the tiny smile on her face spoke louder than her words.

“The fever broke?” Bennet asked hopefully from the other side of the wooden table in the room.

The Healer nodded, hunching into a slouch.  “It took most of the night, but yes.  The infection is dealt with and his fever broke around dawn.”

Ed sagged in pure relief, something like a gasp escaping.

Susan tossed him a glare for interrupting her report, but was too tired to snap.  “Jesse’s in with them now, but Parker’s still extremely weak.  The sooner we can get him to St. Mungo’s, the better.”

“We’re working on it,” Wordy promised, surveying her a moment.  “Get some sleep, Susan.  You earned it.”

Though Lane half-expected a tart, snapping reply, Susan Travis simply nodded and left, slouching just a tad more as she went out the door.

“I wasn’t done!” Scarface complained.

“Susan never slouches,” Wordy countered.  “Sarge is gonna be okay, that’s the important thing.  Leave her alone for a couple hours.”

The mobster scowled at them, but didn’t argue further.

“Any luck with finding Castor Troy’s men?” Ed asked, hoping to divert away from Greg before Word’s guilt got the better of him again.

Scarface’s scowl deepened and he shook his head.  “We dropped intel to the Ra Kacharz on Hassler ‘cause he was Troy’s top guy,” he explained.  “Was easier to just have you cops scoop ‘im up.”

Wordy bristled, but Ed tilted his head, thoughtful.  “Greg knew SRU would take that warrant call,” he mused.  “He could trust us to take out Hassler while he was workin’ on stuff we couldn’t get to.”

The team leader’s gray widened, then sobered.  “But we can’t do that now, Boss.”

Ed shook his head.  “No,” he admitted.  “Hassler knows Elias’s people are keepin’ an eye out.”  He paused.  “Might even be waiting to spring the news about Greg.”

Bennet snorted.  “Everyone knows now, cop.  Some of the chiefs ain’t happy, but they’ll do as they’re told.”

“And the guys on the street?” Wordy pressed.

“Same,” Scarface growled.

“Okay, you got your people under control,” Ed conceded, signaling Wordy to stand down.  “Now how do we get Hassler?”

“You ain’t gonna just take the Boss and run?” Scarface jeered.

“No,” Ed replied, firm.  “If Hassler is one of Castor Troy’s best men, then he knows darn well what his boss would’ve done.”

“Come after Sarge’s kids,” Wordy breathed, horror flashing across his face.

The Sergeant nodded to his team leader, ignoring the matching horror on Bennet’s face.  “That is not going to happen on our watch, even if we do have to work together, Scarface.”  Stepping forward, Ed braced his palms on the table between the two cops and the mobsters and leaned towards his rival.

“You can’t keep him,” he announced bluntly, eyeing the flinches neither mobster could hide.  “But you help us save him and his family, then it goes back to how it was before he got arrested.  Wasn’t perfect, I know, but now that his cover’s blown to heck and gone, City Hall can’t ever send him undercover again.  Not in this city.”

Bennet blinked.  “He was staying away ‘cause of some talking head?”

Wordy shook his head.  “His transfer out of the SRU was forced,” the big man explained.  “Holleran didn’t want it, he didn’t want it, but then they went to the mayor and Commissioner Loeb.  Once both of ‘em signed off on the transfer, the undercover op, and the gag order, he didn’t have a choice.  If he hadn’t followed orders, he’d’ve been fired.”

“Then Castor Troy would’ve had a free shot at him and the kids,” Ed agreed.  Picking up his team leader’s thread, he elaborated, “After Greg came home, the mayor agreed to let him transfer back to the SRU, but he wasn’t happy about it.  Greg’s always been worried that if City Hall finds out Elias’s people are still answering to him, they’d reverse his transfer and put him under again.”

“Even more ‘cause he’s our lieutenant now,” Wordy put in.  “He and Commander Holleran are trying to get our budget expanded – would be a real easy way to put the kibosh on that if he gets transferred and shoved undercover again.”

“Politics,” Scarface sneered.

“Yep,” Ed deadpanned back in the same tone, ignoring Wordy’s poorly stifled cough and Bennet’s wide-eyed stare.  He shifted back to a standing position.  “Look, we got what we need from Elias’s files.  But we come in without catching Hassler, they’re gonna wanna put Greg back inside.”  He gestured for the mobsters to let him finish.  “That’s not happening, but we got to get Greg to St. Mungo’s.  Susan and Jesse are good, but if something’s up with his magical core, they can’t treat that.”

“You talkin’ about his eyes?” Scarface asked, uneasy when both officers nodded.  He made a face, turning away as if that would allow him to escape the problem at hand.  Staring at the wall, he asked, “What do you want?”

“We want to help your guys catch Hassler,” Sergeant Lane replied, holding his poise even as Scarface snapped back towards him, jaw slightly open and expression incredulous.

There was a long silence between the antagonists – Wordy and Bennet even traded glances as they eased away from their respective leaders.  Avoiding the pending explosion.  But, after a long and fuming silence, Scarface tilted his chin down, accepting the offer.  His mouth was tart, expression as bitter as if he’d eaten an entire lemon.  He knew – and they knew – that once Hassler was caught, Team One would leave, taking their lieutenant with them.

Taking Elias with them.

Chapter Text

He had a team full of mother hens.

It was comforting and soothing and exasperating, all in one, because, darn it, he could stand for fifteen minutes at a stretch.  He didn’t need to be carried to the bathroom and back or forbidden from getting out of bed unless someone was right there.  Yes, his head still throbbed, and he was flinching from bright lights, and his eyes felt hot from the constant burn of magic in them, but the worst of the broken bones was healed and now that he was clear of the infection, he was not an invalid.

Now if only his team would see it that way…

* * * * *

The first time, he chalked it up to the last lingering remnants of the fever.  The second, to being distracted with Fanny’s homemade chicken chowder soup.  But the third time, when Jane came barreling through the door with Spike on her heels and he jumped a foot in the air at her joyful shriek, he admitted it.  His gryphon hearing was gone.  And so was his gryphon sight, too.  He couldn’t see magic anymore, neither inherent nor spell.

The loss hurt more than he thought.  After all, it wasn’t like he’d had those abilities all his life; he’d gotten along without them before and he could do the same again.  But as he realized he was suddenly the weakest member of the team at hand-to-hand again, the worst shot – the negotiator who needed to be protected at all times because he couldn’t do it himself…  It hurt.

It didn’t help that his teammates were hiding something from him.  Even Spike – he confronted the bomb tech only get a steady stream of stammer right before the younger man fled.  The order must’ve come from Ed, but why?  Why would Eddie hide something from him?  What had he done wrong?

* * * * *

“He knows we’re not telling him something.”

Ed growled under his breath, pacing back and forth.  “He doesn’t need to worry about it.”

“But he is,” Sam countered, watching his Sergeant closely.  “Was pressing Spike pretty hard about it; Spike didn’t tell ‘im, but that almost made it worse.”  He let that hang, then announced, “We have to tell him, Ed.”

“And then what?” the Sergeant demanded before answering his own question.  “Then he spends all his time worrying about his case when he should be getting better.”

“Well, right now, he’s worried he did something wrong,” Sam retorted.  “Boss, I get it, but Sarge is worrying anyway.  Might as well worry about Niebaum ‘stead of what he might’ve done.”  When he hasn’t actually done anything…

Lane’s expression contorted, emotion and logic warring within him.  It took close to a minute, but the Sergeant finally sagged and turned to face his fellow sniper.  “Copy that, Sam.  Go ahead and tell him.”

Sam nodded and pushed away from the wall.  “Glad you saw sense.”

Ed growled, swiping at his teammate.  “I am still your Sergeant, Braddock.”

The blond grinned, but before he could deliver his counter-jab, there was a distant rumble.  Like thunder, but somehow…closer.  The building shuddered beneath their feet for an instant and they heard shouting from outside.

The two officers darted out of the room, angling straight for Fanny’s kitchen – she might not be a mobster herself, but she always knew what was going on with Elias’s gang.  Before they could reach the stairs down to the kitchen, Bennet appeared, weapon in hand and expression grim.

“We got trouble?” Ed demanded.

The other’s expression went grimmer.  “Could say that, cop.”

“Who is it?” Sam cut in before his Sergeant could unleash his temper.

Bennet hefted his pistol a hair higher and offered a one word response, spat like a curse.  “Hassler.”

Ed sucked in a breath.  “Sam, get to Spike.  Tell him to start evacuating.  Then get back here; we’ll need you on rifle.”

“Copy!”

As the sniper sprinted away, Ed turned back towards Bennet.  “How many sniper nests you got?”

* * * * *

On a good day, with his sight, Spike would’ve been hard-pressed to organize an evacuation.  Still struggling with depression and the looming probability that his vision was permanently lost, Spike had been having a long string of bad days.  Helping Sarge had lifted him out of the doldrums, but he’d sunk back into them just as quickly as he watched his lieutenant fret over the mysterious something the whole team was keeping secret.

Even so, Spike was determined to do a good job with the evacuation.  No matter how much he was quailing inside.  “Jesse, get Susan,” he ordered, swinging his head towards the faint outline of life magic that he’d been able to see ever since his magic had forced him into his Animagus form for a few days.

“And Fanny,” Sarge added.  “The girls should be with her since Spike’s with me.”

He should’ve told Sarge to stay down.  To let him handle it – he was injured, he was sick, he didn’t need to be doing anything.  But he hesitated just an instant too long – and yelped when Sarge pushed himself out of bed.  “Sarge!”

“Spike, help me get dressed,” Sarge ordered.  “There’s more than just Fanny and her girls here – we have to get them out as fast as possible.”

And just like that, Sarge was in command again.  As the stocky man straightened, Spike saw scarlet magic swirl around him, bolstering him even if he couldn’t control it.  For an instant, he even saw the faint outline of medieval style armor, before it faded away, but a chill went up his spine.  What could be so bad that Sarge’s magic was trying to create armor for him?

* * * * *

With Spike at his side, Greg Parker made his way out of the sick room that had been his world for almost a week.  He couldn’t help the shudder of relief that he was out, that his life was finally moving forward again, away from the sickness and delirium that had plagued him for what felt like eternity.

Scarlet tinged hazel darted around, settling on two blonds hurrying towards him, one dark-blond, the other a classic blonde.  “Jesse, Susan,” he greeted, keeping his tone level.  Even.  “I’m not sure how many civilians we have here at the moment, but I’ll need your help organizing them.”

“For what?” Susan demanded, sweeping him with her eyes.

“Evacuation,” Parker replied, tone clipped.  “This location’s been compromised; all compromised locations are completely evacuated and abandoned.”  An expensive policy, he knew, but keeping his people safe had always been his priority, both as a cop and as a mob boss.  Pulling in as deep a breath as he could, he focused on Jesse.  “Fanny will have a full head count; start with her.  Anthony’s kept up on drilling evacuations, but the real thing’s always more chaotic.”

The young doctor nodded and ran off again, heading for the stairs that led down to Fanny’s domain.

Switching towards the other Travis, Greg kept reeling off orders – he needed to keep command.  Spike didn’t have enough experience and neither did the Healer currently glaring holes into him.  “Susan, pack up everything you and Jesse came in with.  We won’t be coming back here once we’re out.”  One hand raised.  “I promise I will not do anything strenuous, but, please, let me do this.  Let me help my people.”

For a long moment, she kept glaring at him.  Then, as his words penetrated, she reared back a hair.  Softened.  Stepping forward, she touched his arm.  “Your people, Lieutenant Parker?”

“Mine.  If they’ll have a cop,” he affirmed.

“Sarge, trust me, you don’t hafta worry about that,” Spike put in, amusement ringing loud.

With the arm that was around the bomb tech’s shoulders, Greg squeezed, just enough to communicate his appreciation.  Then he shifted back to Susan and arched a pointed brow.

The blonde Healer drew herself up, glaring once more.  “Get yourself hurt, Parker, and I’ll have you in St. Mungo’s for a month.”

His mouth twitched.  “Deal.”

Susan’s glare switched to Spike.  “Stay with him, Scarlatti, or I’ll wrap up your Animagus form and give you to my nieces as a new pet.”

Sightless light brown widened in horror at the implied threat of pink and frilly.  Parker coughed to hide his laughter at Susan’s smug expression.  Then she whipped around and strode back towards the rooms the Travis siblings had been using, at the unhurried, but brisk pace that Greg decided was a basic requirement for all doctors, Healers, and nurses worldwide.

* * * * *

Fanny Bennet could be somewhat…flighty…at times, but she truly had a good heart and so long as a crisis was within her sphere of expertise, she could marshal her troops with all the skill of a veteran campaigner.  As soon as Jesse brought her to Greg, he had only to look her in the eye, order the evacuation, and she was moving.

Spike remained under his lieutenant’s shoulder, with Jesse and Susan on either side of the pair.  Fanny scurried into the planning room and triggered the building’s PA system with its pre-recorded message.  Parker was amused as an alarm and a female voice rang out from above them.  “Battle stations, battle stations.  All crew, man your battle stations.”  The alarm continued to wail as the message repeated every ten seconds.

Raising his voice, he called to Fanny, “Anthony didn’t like Raladin anymore?”

Her eyes lit briefly before they darkened again.  “Hassler’s new recruits know it.”

Ah.  Still, the evacuation messages had always been fairly obvious to anyone with sense.  But then, this wasn’t his organization anymore; it was Anthony’s.

Shunting aside the useless speculation, Greg nodded to Fanny.  “Your girls okay?”

The matronly woman smiled at the mention of her daughters.  “I sent them out with Maddie,” she replied.

He was about to smile back when a chill ran up his spine.  “Maddie?  Will Scarlet’s girlfriend?”

Fanny froze in utter horror.

* * * * *

They found Maddie in the kitchen’s back room, eyes staring blankly, throat cut, and blood pooling beneath her stiffening body.  Greg evaluated her position – facing outwards, towards the door, far enough away from the wall that two young children could’ve been hiding behind her.

Spike whimpered lowly as the scent of blood hit his sensitive nose and Jesse turned green as it became obvious they’d stumbled onto a murder, so Greg nudged his constable over to the wailing, hysterical Fanny and stumbled closer to the body, inspecting the scene with a critical eye.  If he was right, then Maddie had realized her boyfriend’s intentions and sought to protect Fanny’s girls, even if it was a day late and a dollar very short.  His heart ached that after only a week with Hassler, Will had been completely corrupted.  Turned into a monster who would attack women and children; with an effort the veteran officer set that grief aside.  Unless…  In the back of his mind, he blinked at the sudden thought – but it really didn’t matter right now.  Later maybe.

His ribs screamed as he crouched, but he focused in on the body and the wall, searching for any sign of hope.  If the girls had been taken, the odds of their survival were nonexistent, even if he surrendered himself to Hassler’s gang.  But…there…

“We got a tunnel,” he announced.  “Too small for an adult.”  Straightening, he came to a decision.  “Spike.”

“Boss?”

He turned his head.  “I need your Animagus form.”

“His what?” Fanny cried, wringing her hands as hysteria warred with newborn hope.

Parker ignored her; he reached out, grabbing Spike’s arm and guiding him past Maddie’s body.  Right by the wall, he slid his grip down, until he was holding the other man’s wrist.  Then he pulled Spike’s hand to the gap – the very top of the tunnel.  Shifting more towards his constable, he used his free hand to tug the blind man’s head close and lowered his voice.

“Spike.  I know all you can smell right now is the blood, but once you’re in the tunnel, you’ll pick up the girls.  Follow them; we’ll be right behind you.”

Uncertainty flashed in sightless light brown eyes.  “I’ve never tracked anyone before, Sarge.”

“I have faith in you, Spike.  Trust your instincts; they know what to do.  Mine always did.”

His constable swallowed hard, but nodded.  Pulling free of his boss, he reached out, feeling the top of the tunnel – Parker moved out of the way so Spike could stand right in the center of the entrance.  Crouching down, the blind man’s head came up, ‘looking’ into the darkness that waited.  Fingers clenched as he vibrated; fearful, he turned back, eyes rising towards his lieutenant.

“Boss, I can’t.  What if I hurt them?”

Dismissing Fanny’s wail of dismay, Greg rested a hand on Spike’s head – the best he could do since his ribs were screaming too much to crouch again.  “Spike, believe in yourself.”  A crooked smile peeked through.  “Or just borrow my belief in you, if you need it.”

There was a moment where the whole world seemed to fade away, leaving only the lieutenant and his blind constable staring at each other, one shining bright with faith he carried for all his teammates and the other teetering on the edge of fearful doubt.  Drawing in a deep breath, Spike turned back to the tunnel, leaning forward as he blurred; an African Wild Dog plunged into the shadows, vanishing from view in moments.

Parker nodded once and shifted his focus.  “Jesse, Susan, get Fanny out of here.  Keep the rest of the evacuation going; we’ve got to get everyone out, fast as possible.  I’ll catch up with Spike and get the girls back.”

“You’re not going anywhere without me, Parker,” Susan declared.  “You’re still injured and you can’t use your magic.”

He might not have been at his best, but he knew a losing battle when he saw one.  And with the girls missing, seconds counted.  So he nodded and headed for the door, moving as swiftly as his aching body would allow.  Susan was at his shoulder inside of three strides.

* * * * *

The tunnel wasn’t long – Greg figured it had been put in specifically so Fanny’s girls would have an exit most intruders wouldn’t think to look for.  Ordinarily, the room it led to was safe.  An easy escape since it was right next to the stairs leading down into the city’s underground.  However, with Will and several other former members of Elias’s organization on Hassler’s side, the safe, easy escape had turned into a trap.

Greg and Susan reached the room just as Jane tried to make a run for it, dragging her little sister along as she raced for the door.  Will scooped the girls up, a sneer crossing his face as they screamed.  Parker lunged without thought, swinging a hard right hook into that sneer – Scarlet went down with a cry, releasing the girls as he reflexively reached for his broken nose.

“Susan, get them out!” he roared, “Spike!  With her!”

The canine sprinted out of the tunnel and to the women even as Susan swept up both crying girls and ran.  Greg planted himself behind his people, balancing on the balls of his feet as he evaluated his opponents.

Will was still down, nursing his broken nose, but once he got past the initial shock, he’d be up again and out for blood.  Unless…

He switched his attention to Hassler, seeing the bald man’s sneer above the silver rings glittering in his ears.  “Quite the scene you’re leaving in my hideout,” he drawled, summoning up the sarcastic, honeyed tones of Carl Elias.  “One would think you and your thugs never learned any table manners.”

“As if a cop like you cares about manners,” Will snarled around his broken nose.

“I do, actually,” Greg countered, tone light.  “For instance,” he swept Hassler with a derisive smirk.  “If a former opponent of mine switched sides, I’d at least have the decency to ask him if anyone he cared about was still trapped with the enemy before randomly murdering any women I come across.”

Will blinked, eyes watering and turning black from his injury, but also with a hint of dread.  “Boss?”

Without taking his gaze off Hassler, the lieutenant explained, “Fanny asked Maddie to get her girls out, Will.  We found her in the kitchen’s back room just a couple minutes ago; her throat was slashed.”  He pointed to the tunnel, sensing Scarlet’s burgeoning horror.  “Just on the other side of that.”

There was a long, furious pause.  Then Will looked up at his new boss, anguish cracking his voice.  “You killed Maddie?”

“She wouldn’t give up the cop,” Hassler spat.

“That’s because she trusted me,” Parker growled, fists clenching.  “Will, I know you don’t trust me anymore, but if you loved her, stay out of this.”  Focusing on his primary opponent, he let Carl Elias all the way out, mixing the mob boss with a cop’s protective fury.  “You killed one of my own.  You may live to regret that.”

“Not likely,” Hassler sneered, swinging for Parker’s face with a set of brass knuckles.

He dodged, sliding around his foe with an ease that shocked him – wasn’t his gryphon form gone? – and retaliated with a swing of his own, right into the other man’s kidneys.  He couldn’t last long in a fight, he had to finish this quickly.

Hassler grunted, lashing out with a kick that caught his calf – he stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet, bringing his arms together to block the next strike towards his torso.  He felt something like lightning surge through him and heard himself snarl.  Magic burned within him, driving him forward into a leap right under Hassler’s next swing, tucking and rolling as if he hadn’t just come from a sick bed.

Twisting on the ground, he kicked out, catching his opponent off-guard; Hassler crashed down, cursing loudly.  Raw power and adrenaline fueled him, bringing him back upright even as his ribs howled offense.  He swiveled, bearing down on Hassler with heavy blows, desperate to end the battle before he dropped.

Three blows connected and he saw blood fly – right before a battering ram hit his ribs.  Strength, power, and magic fled as blackness tinted his vision and fresh pain roared through his battered form.  He gasped, stumbling back, arms lifting to guard, but Hassler simply swung right into them; a scream rang out as bones gave way with thunderous cracks.  He was dimly aware of going down on his knees, turning his head towards Will in mute plea…

Another brass knuckle-backed punch struck his chest and a kick landed as he fell sideways.  He landed hard on one shoulder, crying out as his broken arm hit the ground.  Breathing, already laborious, turned tight.  Rapid and shallow.  Helpless, he could only stare up at Hassler – and pray his people had gotten out safely.

Hassler wiped at his mouth, smirking at the blood speckling his fingers.  “Not a bad punch for a dead man, Parker.  Was a real pleasure – both times.  But we ain’t gonna meet again.”  Reaching down, the mobster pulled out his gun, inching it out of its holster.  Even when it cleared the top, Hassler took his time, stroking the piece and flicking any spots of lint off the gleaming slide.

Arms broken, ribs broken, ‘team sense’ down…  He was out of cards to play and they both knew it.  But simply lying here, waiting to die, wasn’t appealing, so Greg reached deep inside, dragging up the last of his strength from the depths of his soul.

“I’ll be sure to tell your three little rugrats ‘hi’ for you, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t you touch them,” Greg snarled, yanking on his magic.

For an instant, it rose, and he thought it would work – that he’d get his last-second miracle – then he screamed, doubling over on the ground as every nerve inside his body went haywire.  Agony like nothing he’d ever felt before – as if he’d been dipped in acid or hit by a hundred, thousand volts at once.

The bullet went through his torso, through his lung – his one good lung, he realized as blood immediately filled his mouth – but it was nothing compared to the way his body continued to seize, tearing itself to bits as if his magic was grounding itself into his nervous system.  He heard laughter, heard the distant wail of police sirens, and a loud bang that sent Hassler and Scarlet running before they could shoot him again.

Greg moaned, wishing Hassler had just finished him off.  He was dying, he knew that, but did it have to be like this?  Slow and agonizing – choking to death on his own blood.

“Mistuh Eli!”

Oh, dear Aslan – Jane.  She’d already had to see Maddie die, did she really have to watch him die, too?  And what was she doing here?  Susan and Spike should’ve gotten the girls out by now…

“Sarge, you gotta hold on!”

He tried to rasp Spike’s name, but couldn’t get enough breath to do it.  More blood than air.  What a miserable way to die.

“Scarlatti, move!”

He managed to open his eyes, trying to muster up a smile, but with all the blood, he knew he looked more like some poor victim in a horror movie.  Jane was whimpering, Lizzy was crying as only an exhausted, terrified toddler could, and Spike was clinging to his left hand as if that alone could keep him alive.

Dimming sight sought out Susan – she had to get the other three out.  They wouldn’t leave without her forcing them, not with him still here.  Dying by inches.  She wasn’t looking at him, though, couldn’t see the desperation in his eyes.  Instead, she was digging through a cloth carry bag, expression…  Expression…

He…  Couldn’t read…it…

And everything…was…getting…hazy…

Distant…

Spike…

Jane…

Lizzy…

Inhale…

Exhale…

Chapter Text

Sam sat on the bench, shoulder pressed into Spike’s on one side while Lou bracketed him from the other.  The bomb tech was curled more into his best friend, tears still running down his face and soft whimpers surfacing right along with the hiccupping sobs.  He no longer had the energy for the inconsolable, heart-rending wails of the first half-hour, but none of them were in any doubt that if he could’ve kept crying like that, he would’ve.

The blond sniper lifted his head, meeting Jules’ sorrowful gaze from the bench across from the three men.  She huddled alone of her own choice – at least, he thought it was her own choice, but, well…  Ed and Wordy had been so bad, the Healers had admitted them and promptly forced Calming Draughts down their throats; only Susan’s intervention had spared Spike the same.

“How is he?”

Sam turned towards the voice, but it took him several long, embarrassing moments to recognize Roy and Giles.  Next to him, Spike let out a long, whimpering cry and Lou hugged his best friend tighter.

“Dunno,” the blond managed.  “No one’s come to tell us.”

He saw Roy blink, confusion filtering in as he stared at Spike and something coiled within Sam’s gut.  Fury and hate and how dare he?  His fists clenched of their own accord and he longed to plant one of them right in that confusion.  That oblivious look that asked why they were crying when there was still a chance.  There wasn’t – they’d all seen Sarge, right before the Healers took him…

* * * * *

“Oh, gawd, Sarge!” Jules cried, flying to the side of the stretcher Susan had conjured.  Jesse Travis held one end while Spike was hauling the other end and Fanny was clutching her two girls to her chest with all her might, eyes wet with weeping.

“Emergency Portkey,” Susan announced, gesturing the officers close.  “Grab or get left, I don’t care.”

Sam latched onto the stretcher with both hands, steadying it as much as he could.  Next to him, Jules grabbed hold, right along with Wordy; Ed and Lou sprinted to the other side.  In the few moments they had, Sam forced himself to look at his lieutenant and felt his stomach lurch.

His face was pale, almost bloodless – so gray he looked dead.  His arms were broken; a bone was jutting through the skin on his left arm.  Blood – fresh and dried – coated his chest and dripped down from his mouth.  Worst of all, his chest wasn’t moving.  At all.  No sharp pants, no gentle rise and fall – nothing.

The sniper lifted his head, his blue meeting his Sergeant’s blue.  And in that moment, both men knew.  They weren’t hauling their leader – they were hauling his body.

* * * * *

“Draught of the Living Death.”

Sam’s head snapped away from Giles and Roy towards the speaker.  “Neal?”

The young Junior Auror sagged onto Jules’ bench, reaching up to rake his hands through already messy hair.  “Most powerful sleeping potion there is,” he explained, tone ragged.  “Slows the whole body down till it’s almost like they’re dead, but they’re not.”  He exhaled, pulling his hands away from his head.  “Travis gambled it would buy Parker enough time to get here.”

His heart was in his throat, too thick to speak.  Spike’s head had popped up a hair as his whimper died away – waiting for the inevitable…  Lou’s eyes were intent on the young Junior Auror, the closest thing they had to a Healer in the Auror Division, and Jules reached out, placing a gentle hand on Neal’s shoulder.

“Did it work?”  Roy’s voice was too loud, but none of them cared.  He was asking what they wanted to know.  What they needed to know.

“Barely,” Neal reported, fingers tightening together, though not into fists.  More as if he was weaving them together to gather what energy he had left.  “Dad says if it had been another ten minutes, he doesn’t think we could’ve saved him.”

There was a faint whine from Spike, but none of the rest even breathed, waiting for the rest of the news.

Without looking up at them, Neal said, “Dad’s keeping him under for at least a week; he’s only just stable right now and we hit the limit keeping him alive.  Got the blood out of his lungs and internal organs are okay again, but his ribs and arms are still broken.  Plus that kick to the head Travis couldn’t treat in the field.”

“It’s worse now?” Sam asked, every word weighed down with a mountain of utter despair.

Neal frowned.  “Not sure; Dad didn’t say.  Travis’s brother suggested a cognitive test, but can’t do that till he wakes up.”

It wasn’t good news – they all knew the fight for their lieutenant’s life was far from over – but it was a darn sight better than they’d thought.  Sam felt himself slump down, breath coming out in a whoosh as tension drained away, leaving him…empty.  Next to him, Spike started crying again, this time in a mix of relief and guilt.  Relief, that Sarge was still alive, and guilt because Spike hadn’t been able to do anything to help.  Without his sight, he would’ve gone down in that fight more quickly than Sarge had.

Jules’ hands rose to her mouth and her eyes shone with unshed tears, but she didn’t cry.  She would later – there had been more than a few times when Sam had simply carried Jules up to their bed and held his girlfriend while she cried herself out.  Shedding the emotions she hadn’t been able to show on the job as one of the team’s negotiators.

Naturally, that was the precise moment his cell phone chose to ring, letting out a shrill sound in the midst of their grief and tension.

Spike jumped, landing towards Lou as sightless light brown came around towards Sam.  Neal and Jules both jerked in their seats on the other bench; the sniper avoided glancing towards either Giles or Roy as he pulled the phone out of his pocket and picked up.

“Braddock.”

“Constable, is there a reason your team leader and your Sergeant aren’t picking up their phones?”

His spine shot straight, eyes widening.  “Commander!”  Then he winced.  “Um, sir…the Healers admitted them, might’ve confiscated their phones when they gave them the Calming Draughts.”

“Calming Draughts?” Commander Holleran echoed, a frown in his voice.  “Why would they need Calming Draughts, Constable Braddock?”

Wincing again, the blond explained, “Prolly ‘cause Hassler nearly killed Sarge tonight, sir.  Neal only just came out and told us that he’s stable… for now.”

There was a long, thoughtful moment of silence as Commander Holleran absorbed the report.  “Prognosis?”

“They’re keeping him in a coma for another week,” Sam replied, weariness creeping back in.  “Once he wakes up, they can evaluate him for brain damage.”

Holleran inhaled sharply at the mention of possible brain damage.  “Braddock?”

Wince escalated to flinch.  “When he went down during the riot, he got kicked in the head, sir.  Travis wanted to get him to St. Mungo’s, but we couldn’t pull out till we could prove Niebaum was dirty.  Then Hassler and his crew found Elias’s hideout.”

Another silence draped the line, heavy and somber.  At last, Commander Holleran sighed.  “Braddock, I need you and the rest of Team One in here.”

“Now?” Sam yelped.

“Now,” Holleran affirmed.  “Unless the hospital’s changed their policy, you won’t be able to see Parker for a couple days anyway.”  He let that hang for several seconds, then added, “I expect your team here within the hour, Constable Braddock.”

He wanted to argue, wanted to fight back, but he was too much a soldier still.  Straightening in his seat once more, he replied, “Yes, sir.”

* * * * *

His head still felt muzzy as he walked into the station.  The unnatural calm surrounding him, leaving him feeling like he’d had a bit too much to drink or maybe a shot of the good pain meds.  Deep inside, his hawk side was fighting back, but his magic was too minimal to push away the potion in his system.  Especially since the Healers had insisted on second doses of Calming Draught for both him and Word before grudgingly releasing them.

Next to him, Wordy’s eyes were so placid that he felt a thread of worry make it through the calm.  Calming Draught plus Horse Animagus – maybe not such a good combo.  After a moment, the worry faded away, replaced by perfect calm.  Definitely on the good stuff.

Commander Holleran was waiting for them, accompanied by a man in a crisp business suit – so perfectly attired that Ed knew at a glance that the man was an office worker.  Minimal field work – that business suit wouldn’t keep its crispness after a long day’s work otherwise, nor would his shiny black leather shoes hold that shine.  Add in the man’s somewhat pudgy stature and the Sergeant was confident he was looking at Niebaum’s replacement.

The silvering Internal Affairs officer gawked at them – all of them in their street clothes, dusty, worn, and most of the team sporting bruises.  Even Spike had bruises, though his were from Jane and Lizzy clinging to him rather than the fight against Hassler’s goons.  Except for Greg, none of them had any injuries worth reporting.

Thinking of Greg brought an unhappy scowl to his face, worry churning in his gut for several moments before it slipped away, engulfed by the calm.  He wanted to fight that unnatural feeling, but…then again…he didn’t.  It was keeping his head clear, keeping him on an even keel in the midst of the latest storm to hit his team.

Wordy halted when he did, surveying the occupants of the barn with a bland, unconcerned expression.  Too bland, too unconcerned.  Had he gotten a stronger dose of Calming Draught than he should’ve?

Lane pondered that question, vaguely pleased when the calm didn’t chase it away.  And why would it?  It was merely an intellectual question, an intellectual exercise…

The hawk grumbled.  Stirred, wings flapping in agitation.

Beside him, Wordy lurched, as if feeling his own Animagus form acting up, and some of the placid blandness left his face, leaving behind soul deep fear that sparked before fading back into calm, though not entirely.

“Team One, report.”

Blue darted to the IA guy and back to his boss.

Commander Holleran shook his head.  “Everything except what falls under the Official Secrets Act, Lane.”

He swallowed hard on a dry throat.  “Sir?”

There was a shade of sympathy in the commander’s dark eyes, but no give.  “You can start with when your team left the station after the T-South Riot.”

He glanced towards Wordy, grateful when he met worried gray – the calm still surrounding them, but faded enough that they could function.  Even if he still thought Holleran was making a mistake by allowing Internal Affairs to hear everything.

* * * * *

By the time they were done explaining, the Calming Draughts had completely worn off, leaving Sergeant and team leader battling exhaustion, worry, and matching headaches that were just shy of migraines.  Ed made a mental note that next time, he was darn well going to tell the Healers to take their Calming Draughts and shove them.  Where, he didn’t care.

The Internal Affairs guy – Staples – was…interesting.  Ed wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man.  A suit, definitely, but also one with a good poker face.  Not a negotiator – he’d gotten a gleeful text message from Vio about how his rookie had played the IA Sergeant like a fiddle during his interview – but good enough that Ed wasn’t at all sure what the man was thinking about Team One’s latest…debacle.

Not a disaster – just a debacle.  And so long as Greg stayed alive, it would stay a debacle.  Disasters were reserved for when a member of the team – or the SRU – didn’t come home.  Ed would’ve loved to keep it to the team – whole lot simpler that way – but Greg was the SRU’s lieutenant now.  Every member of the SRU was his people now, even that jerk Roenick and Team Two.  And Greg had never taken losing one of his own well.  Well, none of them did, but his best friend had always taken responsibility and self-blame to an art form, even before the whole…magic…gig.

Staples cleared his throat and Ed did his best to give the man his full attention around the blasted, throbbing headache.  “I understand, Sergeant Lane, that you have three trained snipers on your team.”

“That’s right,” Ed confirmed.  “Me, Sam, and Jules.”

The IA Sergeant nodded.  “I’ll need written statements from all of you on your whereabouts on the day of Detective Niebaum’s murder.”

He froze.  That…that was going to be a problem.  The bald sniper took a moment to inhale and rub at his forehead, fighting back the pain behind his eyes.  “All of us were together, sir, but…”  He looked towards Commander Holleran in silent plea – his head hurt too much for anything more than blunt honesty.

The lanky commander inclined his head.  “Sergeant, your whereabouts fall under the Official Secrets Act?”

“Not the whole day, sir, but…”  He trailed off, lifting one shoulder.

Staples frowned.  “You were using classified resources to search for Lieutenant Parker?”

“Ran out of other ideas,” Ed admitted without thinking.  He winced as the words registered, but there was no way to take them back.

“Sergeant Staples,” Holleran intervened.  “What time was the shooting?”

Silver hair seemed to bristle, but Staples tilted his head, dug out his phone, and flipped through it.  Grumbling something impolite under his breath, he announced, “DeValle called Dispatch at 2:13 PM.”

Jules jerked in surprise.  “About 2:15?” she asked, digging out her own phone.  The rest of them turned towards her as she flipped through her own phone.  A firm nod.  “Doctor Travis texted me a meeting location about two hours before that.  We had to pick up his sister and drop his pet bird off at his medical practice before we met up with him…”

The IA officer grumbled again.  “Who could I verify that with, Constable Callaghan?”

“Susan went inside alone,” Sam put in, frowning.  “The cockatiel wasn’t too happy around any of us.”

Jules grimaced, nodding agreement.  “Doctor Travis might be able to corroborate our alibi, Sergeant, but his sister…”

“…is probably about dead on her feet right now from keeping Sar…uh, um, Lieutenant Parker, alive,” Lou finished.

Staples blinked.  “He was promoted, you have a new Sergeant, and you still call him ‘Sarge’?”

All five constables flushed, but Ed simply cleared his throat.  “Greg was my Sergeant,” he explained.  “I call him ‘Sarge’, too.”

“Or Boss,” Spike interjected, light brown sparkling with the faintest hint of mischief.

Ed merely tilted his head towards the bomb tech without confirming or denying.  Shifting back towards the IA Sergeant, he said, “I don’t think Elias’s guys would be willing to back up our alibi; best we can do is the Travises.”  He let that hang, then stepped forward.  “You ever serve on the streets or just in IA?”

“I was on the streets, Sergeant,” Staples replied.  “And in Homicide; I’ve worked a few officer-involved shootings in my career.”

Lane met the other man’s gaze head on.  “Then you know.  Greg Parker’s my boss.  My best friend.  He was injured, he was sick; there was no way in hell I was leaving him alone.  Not for anything.  Same goes for my team.”

Staples waited out the agreeing noises from the rest of Team One.  “You got contact info for  your two witnesses?”

“I do, Sergeant,” Holleran interjected.  “Less conflict of interest if that comes from me instead of Team One.”

The Internal Affairs officer nodded acceptance, taking the time to survey the exhausted SRU officers.  “Gentlemen,” he began, tilting his head towards Jules in acknowledgment of her status.  “I’ll need to verify your alibi, but I’m tentatively clearing you of all involvement in Detective Niebaum’s death.”

The officers traded glances before shifting back, waiting for the rest.

Sergeant Staples cleared his throat.  “I have also looked into Detective Niebaum’s case against Lieutenant Parker.  Once I did so, I spoke to the DA – we cleared Parker of all but two charges in the case.”

“And the two left?” Wordy ventured.

The business suit seemed to sag, right along with the IA Sergeant’s shoulders.  “Two counts of first degree murder,” he replied.

Ed went stiff – that was still enough to end Greg’s career and put him behind bars for life.

“Although Parker was, at that point, still missing, the DA had a meeting with his defense team.  Counselor Murdock raised several mitigating factors, the primary of which was the fact that, once Commander Holleran was shot by the Troys, Lieutenant Parker was completely isolated from any backup he otherwise might’ve called in.”

“My men have had a very long night, Sergeant Staples; get to the point,” Holleran ordered, tone mild, but eyes hard.

Staples twitched at the rebuke, but let out his breath.  “Bottom line, the DA made the decision to drop the murder counts, too.  Wasn’t too happy, but Murdock didn’t leave him any choice.  ‘Specially not after he gave the DA a sneak preview of his closing arguments.”

“It’s over?” Spike asked, voice breaking in a unmanly squeak that none of his teammates would ever, ever mention.

Staples nodded.  “The BOLO for Lieutenant Parker has been cancelled and Toronto South has been…strongly…advised to examine their prison procedure for individuals awaiting trial.  We will, of course, continue to search for the other escapees from the prison riot, but as far as Internal Affairs is concerned, Lieutenant Parker is free to return and resume his role as second in command of the Strategic Response Unit, once he is able.”

Ed felt numb as he watched Staples move to Commander Holleran and note down the Travises’ contact information.  Over.  Just like that.  All they’d needed was one IA officer with integrity to look over the facts and Greg had been free.  He almost wanted to cry – and then maybe go find whoever had shot Niebaum and shake their hand right before he arrested them.

He looked up, meeting Wordy’s eyes before he shifted towards the rest of his team.  They all looked back, just as numb, just as shell-shocked – even Spike, blind as he was, managed to meet his Sergeant’s gaze, utterly stunned by the sudden turn of events.

“Go home.  All of you.”

He glared at his commander, ignoring the pull of exhaustion that said his boss was right.  They were beat, no good to anyone, least of all Greg.

Holleran shook his head.  “That wasn’t a request.  Go home, all of you.  I’ll coordinate with Commander Locksley and St. Mungo’s.”

As if in agreement, the first light of another dawn shone through the windows – Ed flinched away as the light escalated his headache right into migraine.  Even so…  “We can’t leave him alone.”

The commander stiffened, recognizing what his Sergeant wasn’t saying.  “I’ll take care of it.”  At the instinctive protest, he stepped closer to his subordinate.  “Ed.  It doesn’t always have to be your team.”  Dark eyes softened.  “Besides, Lieutenant Parker’s three children have been very…worried.”

Ed deflated, finally surrendering to the inevitable.  “Yes, sir,” he whispered.  Slowly, he turned, looking at his teammates again.  Tried to straighten his shoulders.

Greg was in the clear, he was going to be okay.  They’d won.

Hadn’t they?

Chapter Text

A little boy, huddled up on his bed and hoping his father was too drunk to notice the black eye he’d gotten at school.  Not because his father would be mad that he’d gotten into a fight.  Oh, no, he’d be mad that he hadn’t won the fight.  That’d he’d tried to do what Mother said to do and walk away.

A single tear slipped down, out of his good eye, and he prayed, desperately, that his father would never find out the fight had started because he’d tried to make friends with the bully.

* * * * *

Archer found him in the tiny hotel room’s bathroom, huddled up next to the bathtub with a picture of Rosalie in his hands.  The detective sighed, sitting down on the bathtub’s outer edge, saying nothing about how he’d been yelling the young cop’s name for the past five minutes and never gotten a response.

“How long did you have her?”

A twitch.  “Found her at the shelter when I moved away from home.”

The worn, jaded detective nodded, leaning in to see the picture better.  The beagle leaned into her master, tongue lolling out and her muzzle wide in a doggy grin – the picture was still, but he could tell the beagle was in the middle of a glorious scratching session courtesy of her joyous human.

“Why her?”

Another twitch that might’ve been a smile.  “She was the only one not barking up a storm and jumping at the fence.  Just sat there and waited for me to come to her.”

“Smart dog.”

A huff.  “Only when it came to food, sir.”  Then he crumpled, folding in on himself as he grieved for the only friend he’d had.  Archer rested a hand on his shoulder, waiting for the rookie constable to cry himself out.

* * * * *

“Lionel.”

He’d been looking for hours, frantic to make sure Castor hadn’t taken Lionel, too.  John was dead and that was bad enough – he didn’t think he could stand it if he lost both of them.

The heavy glass slammed down on the bar and he flinched, fighting back a flash of his father.

“Go away.”

“Lionel, what’s wrong?”

The curly-haired man laughed, a harsh, grating laugh.  “What’s wrong?  What’s wrong?”  He whirled on his bar stool, pure fury boring into him – fury, from his one remaining friend.

“Lionel?”  Confusion and plea, woven together.

“What’s wrong, Saint Parker, is you got my friend killed!”  A blunt finger jabbed into his chest.  “If you weren’t so goodie-two shoes, he’d be alive!”

He backed up, guilt flashing.  “Lionel, I didn’t know,” he cried.

Please…  Please don’t leave me all alone…

Lionel shoved him.  “No, you didn’t,” he spat.  “But he’s still dead!”  And it’s all your fault.

He stared as Lionel turned around, signaling the bartender for another drink.  Totally and completely ignoring him.  As if he didn’t even exist anymore…

* * * * *

He waited for Ed to leave.  For the inevitable to happen and for him to walk away, into the sunset, taking another piece of his soul with him.  When he found out Ed had another friend, a best friend, he pulled back, quietly swallowing down hurt.  But he knew.  Friends…they just weren’t in the cards for him.  Oh, he wanted friends – wanted them with every ounce of his heart and tattered soul, but…  It just wasn’t to be.

Besides, Ed’s other friend was probably a much better friend than he’d ever be, anyways…

* * * * *

“Some reason you keep skipping Saturday basketball?”

He blinked, looking up from his locker, gun belt in hand.  He scrabbled for an answer, something that would make sense.  That would remind the other man that he wasn’t his best friend.  “I thought you had something going on with Kevin.”

“Greg, that was three Saturdays ago.  Just for one game.”  Exasperation and annoyance – he ducked his head, avoiding piercing blue eyes.

A hand thwacked his chest, forcing him to look up.  “Greg.  This Saturday.  Usual spot.  Be there.”

* * * * *

Everything was broken.  Shattered into a million, billon pieces.  And he sat in the middle of it all, clutching his head.  Wishing he was dead – living hurt too much.  Memory, knowledge, skills, talents – his soul; it was all torn apart, as if he’d been savaged by a cerberus.  Or a chimera.

A soft moan escaped as he rocked back and forth – everything he was, it was gone, leaving behind a shell of a man.  A ghost, a Shade…

Something touched his shoulder and he scrambled away, crying out as shards of thought sliced through his palms.  Logic and emotion cutting into arms and legs.  He ended up in a corner of the destroyed room, wary, feral hazel locked on a pitch black twin of himself.  Sinister yellow met his gaze and he somehow knew the figure was…sad.

The figure let out a low, inviting rumble and he cocked his head at the sound, but shrank back, unwilling to trust.

A scattered dream that’s like a far off memory.

He didn’t…didn’t understand…but something…something rang true within him.

A far off memory that’s like a scattered dream.

The figure eased closer, extending a hand, and he bared his teeth, growling lowly.

I want to line the pieces up, yours and mine.

There was a moment as they stared at each other, one with hand still extended, the other doing his best to hide in the wreckage of his very soul.

Then the black figure moved.

And he screech-keened.

* * * * *

It hurt.  Like being torn apart and put back together.  Getting struck by lightning, yet grounding safely.  Being remade, from the inside out, weak, frail, and helpless as a newborn gryphlet.

The broken, shattered, useless shards around him – they swirled, rising from the ash of his mind’s destruction.  Two tiny, jagged pieces slid back together and he screamed from the pain of it.  From the memory they held – a sharp backhand into the wall when his father had come home drunk, but not so drunk that he couldn’t vent his frustration on the nearest available target.

A third jagged piece landed between the first two, all three merging together; a howl of agony broke free as memory flared again – he and Catherine sharing bites from their first piece of wedding cake, beaming at each other and so excited for what came next.  On his other side, a cluster of shards swirled together, linking together so fast that his entire body quaked under the force of each blow – the day his son was born, coming home to find them gone, the pounding on his door at 3 AM.  Finding Lancelot injured and unconscious in that ragged, filthy apartment complex.  A phone call, right as he’d been convinced that no one would take a recovering drunk like him – ‘Congratulations, Detective Parker, you made the cut.  Welcome to the Strategic Response Unit.’

Bit by bit, memory by memory, the framework of his mind rebuilt itself, sinking deep into the foundations of his soul.  Rudimentary knowledge bolstered the framework, each piece another nail and screw and board – he gasped as his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth and letters appeared around him.  Each of them forming an alphabet – three of them, unique and separate, but part of his very core.  Countless words layered on top of each other, forming the plaster of the walls around him.  Skills flared into being, each a sturdy piece of furniture, crafted of expensive, high-class materials.  The very best that money could buy – and each so perfectly suited to his mind that he felt a thrill of fear dance up his spine.

Who was he that the Builder would go to so much trouble?

The first talent nearly made him weep, it was so beautiful.  So unique, so exquisite, so perfectly matched to his soul.  As if it had been made for him and him alone – the mold broken afterwards so no one else could ever have that talent.  And it wasn’t alone – more formed around him, each one a perfect match for him and unique from each other in a way he understood, but couldn’t describe.  It just was.

The pain continued, but it was muted.  Distant – drowned out by the joy and awe at what was being rebuilt inside of him.  Each layer of destruction gently wiped away and knit together anew by a power that came from deep, deep within, but wasn’t his.  Not by a long shot.

And when, at last, it was done, he found himself inside a wonderfully crafted home, built exactly to his needs and desires.  Even the worst of his past had settled into place, forming a whole that was ever more perfect for the pain of those memories.

He pushed himself up, gazing up and around at the palace around him – and shame erupted.  He was so very, very unworthy.  Clad in rags, with the morals of an animal.  Imperfect, flawed – so selfish that his inner longing for a friend had chained six unwilling souls to his own.  Forcing them to stay, twisting them until they believed he was their friend – what folly.

“Be at peace, Son of Adam.”

He jerked, head coming up and eyes going wide at the sight of the Lion.  Without thought, he threw himself down, unwilling to stand before the One who knew him best.  Inside, outside, and right down to the darkest urges he’d buried so deeply even he didn’t know what they were.

A paw rested on his back, but, to his shock, the claws didn’t extend.  Didn’t ravage him as he deserved.  Instead the Lion bent His great head, breathing out – he felt the clothing around him flutter and gasped as it reformed, covering far more of his body than it had before.

“Rise, Son of Adam.”

He pushed himself up on shaking arms and trembling knees, keeping his head down and eyes averted.  But the Lion’s paw gently pushed his chin up, forcing him to meet that deep, fathomless amber gaze.

“Son of Adam, there is nothing that your magic has done which I have not permitted,” Aslan rumbled.  The Lion’s muzzle lowered, allowing Him to meet the human’s hazel even more directly.  “You have fought honorably and well this night.”

“I have?” he asked, only to wince as his most recent memories surfaced.  Involuntarily, his hands rose, clutching at his head – and the Lion breathed on him again, sending pain fleeing.

“Walk with Me, Son of Adam,” the Lion rumbled; as He turned, the palace around them vanished, turning into the familiar grassy plains of Narnia.

Greg scrambled to keep up with Aslan, though he couldn’t muster the will to ask any more questions.

“You recall, I am sure, your imprisonment in the Netherworld.”

Hazel widened in horror.  “This is something Tolay did to me?”

The Lion shook His head.  “No, it is not.  My Enemy, Tash, laid many traps for you in the months leading up to your imprisonment.  One such trap was the destruction of your mind, Son of Adam, caused by the damage to your magical core and the links which your magic forged in desperation.”

Greg shivered.  “But…that was years ago.”

The great muzzle inclined in agreement.  “The goblins of Gringotts did their task well, Son of Adam.  They rebuilt your mindscape, crafting it as best they could on the ruins Tash left for them.”  Grave amber turned towards him.  “But it has always been fragile, Son of Adam, and easily disrupted.  It has been by My Grace that their construction lasted as long as it did.”

The stocky man frowned, trying to understand the chain of events.  “Something happened when I got hurt in the riot?”

Another grave nod.  “The blow to your head damaged your ability to control your magic, Son of Adam.  Each time you attempted to reach for your power, you demanded more of the goblins’ construct than it could provide.  With each attempt, more of the mindscape broke apart, causing great pain.”

He shivered again.  “Until I destroyed it all.”

“That is so, Son of Adam,” Aslan affirmed.

The Lion halted, waiting for Greg to stop as well.  The fields around them faded away, replaced by the stone architecture of Cair Paravel, the castle on Narnia’s Eastern Sea.

“I have rebuilt your mindscape, Son of Adam.  The Enemy may never again destroy what I have redeemed.”

“But…?” Greg ventured.

“Your magic is not lost to you, Son of Adam.  It is My Father’s Gift to you and can never be destroyed by anything save death.”  The Lion stooped and Greg froze in place as the Lion’s forehead touched his, in a manner akin to what his gryphon form preferred.  “But until you learn to wield it once more, it will act of its own accord.”

Greg swallowed hard, afraid to ask, but he had to.  “Does that mean I’m gonna be stuck in my partial form?”

The Lion rumbled a laugh, but shook His head.  “I will not permit it to rebel as once it did,” He promised.  Softening, He gazed down at the human in His Paws.  “Courage, dear heart.”

Greg jerked in surprise, then looked down at his chest.  Pain – slicing into his mind.  Wasn’t this what Aslan had just fixed?

A paw came to rest on top of his hand; he nearly choked at how large it was; and the pain faded away, though there was a lurch somewhere deep inside and a sense of something changing.  Permanently and irrevocably.

He looked up again, startled at how close the Lion was.

“Know this, Son of Adam.  You are Mine and you will never walk alone, for I AM with you.”

The Truth of those words slammed into him, hard as a sledgehammer, yet soft, like being wrapped in the warmest blanket he could ever imagine.  He flung himself at the Lion, burying his face in Aslan’s fur and let the grief of a child, a boy, a man flow down his cheeks.

And if the Lion sank down, curling around him with a rumbling purr, well…  It was exactly what his lonely, sorrowing spirit needed most.

And it meant only the Lion saw the moment when hazel shifted, gaining the keen sight of a gryphon and the sparkle of the Man’s native scarlet magic.

He rumbled approval.  The Healing had Begun.

~Fin