Stephen Cannell - The Plan

Ryan stood his ground. He put his weak left leg forward so that he would get punching power off his stronger right leg. They net in the center of the roof, drenched from the downpour. Both held up their fists.

"You could a' been my friend," Mickey said, bitterly. "I was trying to help you."

"No, you weren't. You don't have any friends. You liked watching me squirm. . I was just like Rex. . Running with my head off, going nowhere."

Mickey swung.

The fight didn't last very long. Mickey's first blow hit Ryan square on the jaw. It rocked him back. Ryan pivoted to his right on his good leg and threw a left hand into Mickey's ribs, following it with a low right cross. Mickey stumbled back but didn't go down, then faked with his right and threw a looping overhand left that Ryan ducked. Then Ryan launched a vicious uppercut that caught Mickey square. He staggered backward, dropping to one knee. He let out a roar of anger and charged Ryan, who tried to pivot left, but his bad leg collapsed and he fell. Mickey flung himself on his fallen enemy, screaming with rage and joy. He had lost all control. He grabbed Ryan's neck in both of his chubby hands and tried to strangle him. Ryan struggled to throw Mickey off, but adrenaline powered Mickey's grip, giving him ungodly strength. Finally, as Ryan was about to pass out, with a last surge of energy, he rolled up and over on top of Mickey. As if pushed by an invisible force, the two of them rolled down the slight incline of the ramp to the level below. Ryan encouraged the roll and used it to break Mickey's grasp around his neck. He struggled to his feet, trying to favor the left leg, but Mickey turned and ran.

Ryan realized he was going after the nine-millimeter Beretta and limped futilely after him. Mickey picked up the gun and pointed it at Ryan.

"Fuck you Bolt," he yelled. "Fuck you. You're going away." And he fired.

Ryan felt a stinging in his right shoulder and then three shots rang out in succession and Mickey stumbled backward.

Stiff-legged.

A man on stilts.

Mickey's stomach opened up. . Stomach lining, kidney fluid, and intestines poured out into the rainwater at his feet. He looked down in horror as his life gushed out of the ragged hole in his abdomen.

Standing in the doorway with the security guard's pistol still in her hand was Lucinda. She was staring wide-eyed at her brother.

Mickey looked down. The gun was still in his hand. He dropped it and stumbled backward, trying to get to the helicopter, which was returning for him. He was moving by sheer force of will. His vision was blurred; he lost perspective, stumbling blindly on the rain-slick pavement.

The helicopter was still a few yards from the edge of the building and the Italian cousins let out a nine-millimeter stream of death. The lead chipped the concrete around Ryan but, miraculously, didn't hit him. Mickey moved on unsteady legs toward the chopper and they stopped firing. Mickey lunged for the helicopter skid and fell off the roof, catching the ledge at the last second with both hands.

Ryan looked down at Mickey. They were now only a few feet apart. Mickey had a strange, empty look on his face. With death almost on him, Mickey still held the ledge, his grip firm. Something ungodly came up from the depth of Michael Joseph Alo, a grumbling sound, powerful and angry. Ryan kneeled down to hear. Then Mickey spoke two chilling sentences.

Mickey's eyes were shining, more intense and alive than any eyes Ryan had ever seen. A jack-o'-lantern grin spread his face wide, and then he simply let go.

He fell backward off the roof, tumbling in the air, turning and rolling, the hideous leer still stretching his plump cheeks.

Four stories below, his body exploded on impact. Sirens sounded in the distance as the helicopter abruptly changed direction and streaked away into the rain-swept night.

Ryan, with his shoulder bleeding, limped over and picked up Naomi's camera, then went back to Lucinda. He put his good arm around her. "Thank you," he whispered.

"What did he say?" she asked, still stunned.

Ryan looked away. "I couldn't understand him."

They moved into the garage to get out of the rain and found Cole on the first level looking out at the street as the cop cars pulled up, a cherry orchard of flashing red lights.

"Naomi's dead. Here's her camera." Ryan handed it to Cole.

Cole bowed his head. She had gone to join her Israeli.

They walked into the street, where the cops took them into custody. They were cuffed and read their rights. The rain slowed as they were put in separate squad cars.

Ryan sat alone in the backseat, listening to the windshield wipers flip-flopping the moisture away. He was in the middle of a city of eight million people, yet he was alone and afraid. He couldn't forget the last words Mickey had said to him.

"I'll come back," his prep school roommate had promised. "I'll come back and get you."

When Haze Richards arrived home from Europe and stepped off the plane at Dulles, he was taken into custody by federal marshals and whisked to FBI headquarters. Two days later, Malcolm Rasher made a brie f s tatement to the news media from the steps of the Rhode Island governor's mansion: "Haze Richards has withdrawn his name from the ballot for President of the United States. This, in no way, indicates wrongdoing on Governor Richards's part, but until this investigation is completed, Governor Richards feels it would be unhealthy for our democracy if he continued to pursue the presidency. Governor Richards wishes to thank all of his supporters and he will make a statement in a few days."

But he didn't come out of hiding to defend himself for over a week. The press swarmed on the story and turned up more and more damning information. There were allegations that Anita Richards had been about to file for divorce and had made an appointment with a divorce attorney in Providence. Wasn't it strange that she died one day later? And wasn't it odd that Haze had received such an astounding amount of campaign funding under the five — hundred-dollar reporting requirement? Questions without answers.

Nobody had seen A. J. Teagarden in a week.

Cole had told Ryan, two days after they'd been released from custody, that Haze was headed for a conspiracy to commit murder indictment. Cole and Ryan had tried to feel close, but the two of them had very little in common. Events had brought them together, not friendship. With Ryan's bandaged shoulder aching from the gunshot wound, they finished a drink in Ryan's hotel room and said good-bye, knowing they would probably never see each other again.

Lucinda had gone home to be with her mother, who was distraught over Mickey's death and the revelations about the Alo family, so Ryan was left alone in his suite at the Sherry Netherland Hotel. News crews prowled the halls, climbed onto fire escapes across the street with long lenses, and tried to get pictures of him. His phone never stopped ringing. He told the hotel switchboard to turn it off. They delivered the phone messages and mail every evening in a canvas mailbag that weighed over two pounds.

Marty Lanier had called five times.

Every night, he talked to Lucinda from the hotel room. She was in the New Jersey house with Penny.

"It's weird," she said the night before he left for L. A. "She's so distant." Lucinda was quiet for a long time. "She doesn't understand why I I. ." And she stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

"You didn't kill him, Lucinda. . He killed himself. He forced it."

But she couldn't believe him and the evening conversations between them had become filled with long, empty spaces where neither said anything.

"I'mgoing to go home," Ryan finally said. "I have to say good-bye to Matt. I can finally do that, I think. But I miss you. I wish I could see you."