Russell Andrews - Hades

As Justin was walking down the imposing cement steps from the station house, he was enjoying his own cleverness. And he was picturing breaking the news to DA Silverbush. That was the reason he didn't see the man walking up quickly behind him on his left. The man's eyes were hidden by Ray-Ban sunglasses and he was wearing a lightweight gray suit. As he came upon Justin, the man in the gray suit said, quietly, "Just keep walking." And when Justin instinctively hesitated, the man said, just a little bit louder, "Don't stop. Walk. There's someone who wants to talk to you."

Justin glanced to his left, took the man in-the dirty blond hair in a near buzz cut; the thin, wiry nature of his body; the fact that he was probably in his late forties or early fifties; that he was in good shape; looked confidently strong. Justin also saw the gun that was sitting in the man's shoulder holster, tucked neatly under the lightweight suit. He heard Bruno's warning in his head: You might want to think about watchin' your back-so he nodded; took one more step in compliance with the man's wishes; and as he did so his left elbow came up hard, very hard, and connected with the man's jaw. Justin saw an ugly, thin stream of blood fly out from the man's mouth and he saw the man already reaching inside his suit as he began to topple over, but Justin's hand was there first. When it emerged, Justin's right hand was holding the pistol that had been holstered. With a quick motion, he slashed the gun across the side of the man's head, sending him sprawling. The man in the suit tumbled two or three steps, used one hand to stop himself from falling any farther. As the man lay there, Justin turned the gun on him, told him not to move. And that's when Justin heard the shouts. Men screaming: "Drop the weapon! Drop the fucking gun!" Justin could see maybe a dozen cops-all of whom had been coming in or out of the station, catching a quick smoke, buying a coffee or a hot dog from a street vendor-dotting the entire plaza in front of the building. Guns were drawn, pointing at Justin, who was now yelling back at them, "I'm a cop! Don't shoot, I'm a cop!" And the man in the suit, still stunned and sprawled on the steps, was also screaming: "I'm a federal agent! Put your fucking gun down!"

Justin considered his options, saw the dozen or more guns pointing straight at him, threw his left hand high in the air and with his right tossed the gun a few feet away, watched it skitter down the cement steps. He raised his right hand high in the air to match his left. He was swarmed upon by the surrounding cops, two of whom were helping the man in the gray suit up to a standing position. The man in the suit stepped over to Justin, said, "You asshole," but he didn't say it very well because his jaw was out of whack and already swelling up, and then he swung at Justin, punched him hard on the side of his head. Justin went down, stunned. And he offered very little resistance after that as he was escorted down the steps by two cops and the man in the gray suit. In less than a minute, he was sitting in the front seat of a beat-up Honda. Sitting beside him was Wanda Chinkle, the head of the New England branch of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose first words to him were, "Jesus, Jay, can't you do anything without screwing it up totally?"

Justin sipped from a small bottle of warm Fiji water. Wanda kept a supply in the backseat of her car. After his first sip, Justin asked her if she'd ever heard of a cooler. He offered to give her ten bucks so she could buy a nice Styrofoam one. Wanda didn't answer or even acknowledge his offer.

They were alone, parked on a small street around the corner from the station. The man in the gray suit, who was indeed one of Wanda's agents, Norman Korkes, had been taken to the nearest hospital. At the very least, his jaw was sprained and he'd lost one tooth. The jaw probably wasn't broken, although Justin decided he wouldn't be overly sorry if it was.

"You make friends wherever you go, don't you?" Wanda said.

Jay took another sip of water. His head was still not completely clear after the punch he'd taken. "Just a little quirk of mine-I'm not crazy about people with guns who try to force me into cars." After another sip, he said, "What the hell were you thinking? You have my cell number. Why didn't you just call up and go, 'Hey, can we meet?' What is it with you people? Everything has to be cloak-and-dagger. Well, that's how people get hurt. If you're looking for me to say I'm sorry, I won't. 'Cause I'm not. Next time I'll drive the son of a bitch's jaw into his brain. If he has one."

"You done with the macho spiel?" Wanda asked. She didn't take his bait. She showed very little emotion. Mostly she sounded exhausted.

"Yeah," he acknowledged. "More or less."

"I'm not looking for an apology, Jay."

"So what are you looking for, Wanda?"

Wanda Chinkle was not a particularly appealing-looking woman. Her features were fairly plain, even harsh. And she didn't have one of those smiles that covered for her plainness. She rarely smiled, in fact, and when she did, it was more of a grimace than anything that revealed pleasure. Wanda was not someone who experienced a lot of pleasure. Nor did she think she deserved much. She worked, that's what she did. She worked and she thought about work and she slept. That was pretty much her life. At the moment, her life was revealed on her features, making her look even harsher than usual. She appeared not to have had much sleep lately, and tension lines were drawn deep into her forehead and under her eyes.

"I don't think I have to explain myself," Wanda said, "but there is a reason for the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Pretty minor cloak-and-dagger, considering your excessive response." He said nothing, just waited, so she went on. "It's not the smartest thing for me to do, to be seen with you. You come with a lot of baggage, as far as the Bureau is concerned."

"Is that right?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Oh, excuse me," Justin said. "Crazy me. Of course I do. I mean, let's see, first there was the agent who tried to kill me and then put the entire law enforcement community on my tail as if I were a wanted criminal. And then wasn't it you guys who planted an agent on me, who set me up to be killed? And wait, wasn't there an agent who actually let me get sent to Guantanamo where I had the shit tortured out of me… Oh, sorry, wait again, no, that wasn't just some agent, I believe that was you." This time it was Wanda who stayed silent. "I come with baggage?" Jay said. "Go to hell, Wanda. You owe me."

Her voice was quiet when she said, "Yes, I know I do."

"So what are we doing in your car?" he asked. "You want to shoot me just for fun?"

"I've heard worse ideas. But, no, I'm trying to do you a favor."

"Because we're such close friends?"

"I don't know how close we are anymore. But I like to think we're still friends."

"What's the favor?"

"You should leave these cases alone."

He was genuinely puzzled. "What cases?"

"The murders."

"Ron LaSalle and Evan Harmon?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"I can't get into specifics, Jay. But you have to trust me. You don't understand what you're dealing with. I'm just beginning to see what's under the surface here."

Now he was more than puzzled. He was shocked. "Are these murders connected?"

"I'm not here to give you information, Jay. I'm trying to help you out."

"Why the hell are you involved in either one of them? What makes them federal cases?"

"Look… I've been keeping track of Harmon for a while…"

"For what?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that you're better off staying out of it."

"Better off how?"

"Better off by not ruining what I've got going. And better off for your own safety."

"Now you're concerned about my safety?"