Chapter 1

Elliot bypassed the local Irish bar, preferring to spend this evening on his own. Not that he didn't enjoy hanging out with his SVU colleagues, but the drink after work routine had gotten just that - routine. He needed a change. He could skip the after-work drink, of course, but the thought of going home to his empty studio apartment wasn't all that appealing. Maybe a drink would make it more so - at least he hoped that would be the case as he turned into the doorway of a rather gritty-looking bar. Gritty was precisely the way he felt after the Stebbins case. Even a guilty verdict wasn't enough to wash away the grime on that one.

He liked the bar immediately if only because he knew nobody there, and more particularly, nobody knew him. He wasn't Elliot Stabler, the police detective. This wasn't a cop bar. Here he was a stranger - just another mope getting in a little liquid relaxation like a thousand others after work in the city.

He had some thinking to do, after that night he'd been driven to tell Kathy he wanted to come home. It had seemed imperative at the time. But he still hadn't done it – hadn't moved back. Why not? Words, he thought, were easy, action, less so. He didn't know why he hadn't taken action on his words. It was lonely and depressing to be on his own. He loved his family - the kids, Kathy. At least he thought he loved Kathy. He should love Kathy, anyway. Four kids and decades of marriage had to be love, didn't it? But if it was then what was he doing here? He needed to get some things straight in his head and decide whether to fight or to move on.

Elliot sat at the bar and waved over the bartender. He asked for a tap beer. The bar was dark - one of those types of places where you couldn't tell whether it was day or night from inside. It was also not crowded, which he liked. His cop instincts took in the patrons and recorded the details into his analytical brain in an instant. Three white males, mid twenties, sat joking around with each other at a table on the far side. An old Hispanic guy held down the corner barstool on the near side like it belonged to him. A man and a women, mid-thirties, held hands across a small table, their expressions indicating some kind of secret assignation. There was the barkeep, of course, an older man with a narrow chest and a potbelly hanging well over the waistband of his black pants. And a few stools down, a youngish woman with medium length black hair pulled back into a clip. She was very fit looking, Elliot noticed with an appreciative eye. Stop being a dirty old man, he warned himself, you've got daughters not that much younger than her. She looked mid-twenties or so, and while she didn't look hostile, she definitely appeared cool and alert.

He lifted his glass and enjoyed the warmth of the alcohol as it radiated down through his body, relaxing him. It wasn't often when he really relaxed. Even playing dad with the kids, he was always thinking about a case, or always on alert to defend his family against anything that might encroach upon their peace and contentment. He sipped again, not liking how good the feeling of chemical relaxation was. He didn't want to come to rely on it, like so many cops did. That was one reason he was uptight much of the time – fear - fear of becoming something he hated. There were so many anti-role models to withstand in his life and work.

The couple at the nearby table, who had moved on from holding hands to what amounted to light petting, left, their arms wrapped around each other. His sarcastic sense of humor pointed out to himself that at least somebody was getting some. That longing came back - the one that had driven him to spend the night with Kathy again after so long. It was easy - the sex part. You didn't have to think much, all the talking was dirty, and nobody really thought it meant anything.

He was about half finished with his beer when the bartender passed by, bringing a fruity-looking drink to the black-haired woman. Elliot was surprised because it looked like the woman was sipping whiskey. He looked at her again - she was definitely not an umbrella-drink girl, he decided. The drink itself looked alien in the gray surroundings of the bar - it was shockingly pink and he was sure the color could not come from anything found in nature.

"Compliments of the gentlemen." The bartender told her, setting the drink down and gesturing to the three white guys at the table in back who raised their glasses as she looked over.

"Uh - "

She looked surprised, Elliot noticed. Like this pink abomination had startled her out of a deep contemplation of the meaning of life.

"No thanks." She shook her head and looked away from the three guys, pushing the drink back across the counter to the barman, who smiled and picked it up.

The barman shrugged and carried the drink over to the table with the three guys, putting it down. "Sorry, fellas, the lady ain't interested."

The woman, Elliot saw, resumed her quiet contemplation of the bottom of her whiskey glass. It looked like maybe she'd already had a couple, although she carried it well, he appreciated. It had been a while since he'd been in a "normal" social situation outside of work or family, and he realized he was staring, so he resumed his interest in his own beer. A fine tap lager, he assessed, although maybe he'd try a whiskey for the next round.

He'd been appreciating the beer too much, he realized, suddenly noticing one of the guys from the table had joined the woman at the bar. He was standing between the woman and him, leaning into her.

"Come on, baby," the man implored. "Come and have a drink with us." His words were slurred slightly, and the sandy-haired guy was a little unsteady on his feet. Obviously he'd had more than a few, Elliot assessed.

The woman ignored him.

He leaned even closer, pressing his body against her shoulder. "I'm a light switch, baby, and you turn me on. Come on, have one drink with us. Just one. Come on, we won't bite."

She didn't look up at him. "No, thanks," she said firmly.

A guy remaining at the table yelled over, his accent very Brooklyn. "What, she too good to have a drink with the likes of us?"

"Yeah, bitch thinks she's something, don't she?" the man responded, reaching up to touch the woman's black hair.

The Brooklyn guy sauntered up. Elliot put his beer down and watched from his peripheral vision. He wondered if he was going to have to break up something. He wasn't in the mood to get involved with a fracas. That would make him "Stabler, the cop" again, something he had been hoping to avoid. Maybe the bartender would take care of things, he thought, looking around. The bartender, he noticed, was trying to appear busy with the Hispanic guy on the other side of the bar.

"Look," the woman said, pushing the man's hand away from her. "I'm just sitting here, minding my own business. I'm not interested in having a drink with you."

"Bitch ain't interested, she says," Thug Number Two, the Brooklyn one, said, slamming his hand down on the bar with a loud thump.

"I think she is," Thug Number One replied. "I think she wants to come and play with us. Don't you baby?" He put an arm over her shoulder and leaned closer, his face nearly touching hers. "Get over here, Danny!" he called to the third one.

Things were getting ugly real fast, Elliot realized, and the old bartender sure wasn't going to become bouncer material anytime soon. He scoped the three guys quickly for suspicious bulges in their clothing that might indicate guns or knives. There was nothing obvious, but you never knew for sure. He'd known cops to get shot or stabbed by perps that didn't look like they were carrying. He considered his reaction. His cell phone was in his pocket, and he fingered it, knowing he should probably make the call, wondering how long it'd take to get a squad car here – probably too long. He had his sidearm, of course, but using it would be a hell of a lot of paperwork. He hoped it wouldn't be necessary. The three guys were pretty drunk – they were likely slow and stupid. Maybe he'd be able to contain things. He slid off his stool quietly.

The woman then got off her own stool, but Thug Number Two on her right held his ground, not letting her by.

"Whoa, little lady. Where do you think you're going?"

The three men surrounded her. Definitely a dicey situation, Elliot thought, thinking he'd probably have to draw his weapon after all. He stepped forward; sure that taking on three drunks on his own wasn't a particularly smart move.

As he lunged for Thug Number One, who was in between him and the woman, she kneed the man in front of her, and then quickly whirled and dropped a kick into the belly of Danny, Thug Number Three. Elliot had a hold on Thug Number one, forced him forward over the counter, his arm twisted up behind him, immobile. Elliot didn't have to draw his weapon, and he was glad. He'd been planning on subduing Thug Number One and then probably drawing on Thugs Two and Three if they didn't back off, but amazingly the woman had taken care of them handily.

"The lady said she wanted to be left alone, now didn't she?" he breathed into the man's ear, watching the downed men in case they came up for more.

"Fuck you man. Mind your own business."

"Thanks," the woman said, breathing heavily.

She had moved a few yards away and the two guys started picking themselves up off the floor. Elliot noticed that they were having trouble getting up, whether from the woman's blows or the many drinks they had imbibed, he didn't know.

"No problem," he replied. Then he called over to the bartender, "Hey, call the cops to pick up these morons, will you?"

"No!" This came from the woman, who looked wide-eyed. "I'm fine. It's OK. They're just drunk."

"If anything, the cops should arrest you for assault, bitch," Thug Number Two said, bent over at the waist holding his groin area.

"Shut up." Elliot hollered.

"Look," the woman said, "they're going to leave now. Nobody's going to make any trouble." She looked at the men. "If you go now, we won't call the cops. I'm sure you've got better things to do tonight than spend it in a jail cell, don't you boys?"

Elliot didn't like it much. Personally, he thought the creeps deserved at least a night in jail. Everything had turned out OK, but he knew things could have been much different. He'd seen too many other outcomes when it was too late to do anything but file charges and pick up the emotional pieces of a shattered victim. On the other hand, a call to the cops could be more trouble than it was worth. The guys would probably only get drunk and disorderlies, and he'd become Stabler, the police detective, again. He'd have to explain why he'd not identified himself as a cop or called in the incident.

"All right." He nodded at the woman. Then he leaned forward over Thug Number One, who he still had secured. "So you're going to leave nicely and you're not going to bother anyone else tonight, are you." It was not a question, and he punctuated his words with a sharp twist on the arm in his grasp.

"Yeah, fine," the guy gasped in pain. "Just leggo already."

Elliot did so, and the young tough pulled away, massaging his arm. "Come on," he called to his buddies. "Let's get the fuck out of this dump." The three men headed to the door, one limping badly. At the door, he called back, "Fuckin' dyke bitch!"

The bar was suddenly quiet and had the atmosphere of a mild morning after a bad storm. The barman came back making no apologies for his disappearance. Elliot shrugged and sat back down on his barstool. The woman stood for a moment. He imagined she was trying to decide whether she should leave or not. Leaving now might not be a good idea, he thought - those morons could be hanging around outside. It looked as though she had come to the same conclusion, as she returned to her own place at the bar.

The door suddenly banged open, loud in the new quiet of the place, and both Elliot and the woman were instantly on alert again. It was not, however, the three thugs they had so handily dispatched, he saw, relieved. It was another group of young guys, though, these looking like a frat boys out for a night of pub-crawling. One of them called toward the woman, "Hey, baby, what's shaking?" as they entered and crowded around the bar calling out orders to the suddenly-frazzled bartender.

The woman picked up her drink and approached Elliot. "Look," she asked, "can I sit with you?"

He shrugged. "Sure."

"Don't think I'm hitting on you," her eyes were hard and glared a warning. "'cause I'm not. It's just if I'm with someone then…" She gestured at the frat guys.

"Yeah, sure." He wasn't particularly flattered that the woman apparently thought of him as just some "safe" guy to keep her from being hit on by others. Still, this whiskey-sipping woman who had taken out two men in two seconds intrigued him, so he was more than willing to take a hit in his pride and get a chance to talk to her.

She sat on the stool next to him and took a sip of her whiskey. The glass was nearly empty, and it looked like she could use another. He signaled the bartender, who had finished serving the frats. "Another?" he asked her.

"Sure."

"And I'll have the same," he told the bartender.

"But let me get them," she offered. "I owe you for your help."

"Oh, I think you had those guys pretty well in hand. Those were some nice moves. I'm not sure you needed me."

She snorted. "Drunk or not, I couldn't handle all three of them. I knew you had the sandy-haired one. That's why I went for the other two."

"Huh?"

"I saw you watching. Knew you had that one covered."

She'd seen him, known he was planning to take out Thug Number One. She had good instincts, he thought. Maybe she was a cop. He hadn't seen her around, which meant if she was a cop she didn't work in Manhattan. But there was something not quite cop-like about her. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, though.

"Yeah," she said. "I wouldn't have forced the issue if you hadn't been ready."

"You forced the issue?" he asked, surprised. The woman was certainly brave. Too often he saw a different outcome to this sort of scenario. A woman beaten and raped, doomed to suffer the invasiveness of a medical exam, the indignity of a police investigation, and if she was real lucky, a jury trial where she had to defend her blood alcohol level to twelve strangers who weren't smart enough to get themselves out of jury duty.

She shrugged. The barman brought the whiskeys, and she dropped a twenty, putting up a hand at Elliot's protests.

For a while they sipped their whiskeys in silence, both staring at their glasses. The whiskey burned pleasantly, and Elliot enjoyed it. He risked a glance at the woman. Her features were strong and sharp, her skin tanned under her dark hair. Her eyes were dark and deeply set. She wasn't what most people would label "pretty" or "beautiful" like his wife was, or like his partner was, but she was certainly striking in her own way. Under her short sleeves, he could see very toned biceps. She was slim, but not slight – wiry would be a good word to describe her, he decided.

She looked over at him. "So, you a Marine?"

He blinked. "Uh -"

"The tattoo. The EGA." She nodded to his forearm, which bore the Marine Corps eagle globe anchor emblem, displayed under his rolled-up shirtsleeve. "You handle yourself well."

"Yeah. Well, a while ago," he answered.

"Once a Marine, always a Marine, isn't that how it goes?"

He chuckled. That was what they all said, although he didn't particularly feel it. That part of his life was over a while ago, and he was glad of it. Then something clicked. Yeah, she wasn't a cop… "You, too, aren't you?"

For a moment he thought he saw fear in her eyes, but it was fleeting. Her gaze grew steady again and she smiled a little. "What, you think I'm a jarhead?"

He looked her up and down. "Hmm. Maybe not a Marine. Definitely military, though. Am I right?"

She didn't say anything then, but her expression changed. She went back to perusing her glass again.

He drank another sip of his whiskey, giving her some space. She'd been the one who'd brought up the damn Marines. It wasn't something he thought about that often. At least he tried not to, anyway.

After a few minutes, she turned back to him. "Sorry. You're right. Navy."

He nodded. "Swabbie, huh? I take back everything I said about you having those thugs in-hand. Must have been sheer dumb luck." He grinned broadly. The rivalry between the two military branches was a strong and enduring one.

"And to think I trusted you to have my back. If only I'd spotted that tattoo sooner..." she moaned, mock-ruefully.

Elliot noticed that she looked more relaxed than she'd seemed before. He smiled. "Aww, now you're going to tell me -"

She interrupted him, raising her glass. "You can always tell a Marine, but you can't tell him much."

She laughed as if this was the funniest thing in the world. Maybe the alcohol was finally showing some effect on her, he thought, smiling back at the ancient joke.

"I'm Elliot."

"Juliet." She drained her glass and signaled for another.

"You sure you want to do that? That's not kool-aid."

She chuckled. "Kool-aid! That's what they're all drinking." She nodded at the barman, holding up her empty glass.

"Huh?"

"Those bastards that sent us. You know." Her new drink arrived and she started into it.

"Uh, OK," he said. "You might want to take it easy." She had about half the drink downed in a couple swigs, ignoring his words.

"Look, you don't tell me what to do. You think just because you helped put down a couple drunken pissants that you can sit there and judge me. I don't need you."

"Okay. Sorry." He backed off. Touchy, he thought. Then words she had spoken sunk in 'the bastards that sent us' - sounded like she'd been in Iraq, or maybe Afghanistan. He'd heard that with the increasing duration of the war in Iraq and the shortage of staff, more Naval personnel were being stationed there. Yeah, he recognized it in her eyes. She'd been there. Damn desert. It changed people. "So you were over there?" he asked.

She looked at him sharply, but then her face softened and she nodded.

"That sucks," he said.

"Yeah."

The bar door opened and a tall man entered. Elliot took note of him as had with all the patrons. This guy was big, but fit. His brown hair was longish and a little scraggly-looking, and he sported a goatee. He wore what looked like a wifebeater under an open plaid shirt. The guy looked at Juliet with a long glance that Elliot didn't like. He stared back at the newcomer hard, eyes narrowed. He wondered briefly if he was subconsciously trying to defend some territory he thought he'd won, and then told himself that he was being was ridiculous. They were just having a drink together, nothing more than that. Hell, she was only sitting with him to keep random losers from hitting on her. So he was doing her a favor by running off goatee-guy.

He watched the newcomer sit down at the bar by the Hispanic guy and order himself a beer.

"Time for another round," Juliet announced, draining the rest of her drink.

Elliot could tell she was getting drunk. Her words were slurring a bit and the natural alertness she had displayed had definitely faded. He was pretty certain she wouldn't be up to taking on any more drunken pissants should the need arise.

When the bartender poured another measure of whiskey in her glass, she hoisted it, gave a mock toasting motion, and said, "You know, sometimes I wish I was back there."

"The Middle East?" he asked, surprised.

"Fuckin' A!"

"Why?"

She took a sip of the whiskey. "Because you knew where you stood there. You did your job. Sure, the little brown bastards hated our guts, but we all stuck together. There was us and there was them. We wouldn't take any of that shit, you know? You knew somebody had your back. Things are different here."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. At least over there you knew where you stood," she repeated. "But here people just fuck you over and you can't do shit about it." She slammed her hand down on the bar. "Bastards."

"When'd you get back?" he asked.

"Six months."

"When'd you get out?"

"Huh?"

"Or are you still in the Navy?"

She took another swig of her drink and then laughed, sputtering a bit on the whiskey. "Shhhh." she said, putting a finger to her wet lips. "It's a secret. You can't tell."

"Tell what?"

She laughed again. But then strangely she started to cry. Alcohol was a funny thing, Elliot knew. It magnified emotions and reduced inhibitions. He watched her cry and he didn't like it. Her tears belied her strength. She didn't look anymore like the strong young woman he'd met. Only an hour or so had passed, but now she looked more like the women he dealt with on an almost daily basis - the victims, shaky and crying, shattered. He waited, not wanting to push her. He knew how seeing the kinds of things you see in a war zone could really mess you up.

"I'm not out. Well, I'm out, but I'm not really out." The tears changed to a laugh again. "You know."

He didn't. For a moment her talk of being 'out' made him think maybe she had been discharged for being gay or something, which didn't fit anything he'd learned or come to believe about her to this point. Suddenly another thought struck him. "You're UA?"

"Shhhh!"

"Uh, okay." He was a cop, but the military had their own laws and their own enforcement. It wasn't really his business if she had taken an unauthorized absence from the Navy. Still, he couldn't help wondering why. It had sounded like she liked being in the military, that she even liked her tour in a combat zone for God knows what reason. Mentally unstable, maybe, he wondered briefly, but then dismissed it. Before she'd had so many drinks, she'd seemed all right.

"Why are you UA? Decide you don't like the Navy anymore?" He smiled and tried to make the question casual and lighter than it was.

She slammed her hand down on the bar, and he could see her blinking back tears from her eyes. "I fucking love the Navy!" Her voice was loud and angry.

"Then what are you doing? You can get in some real trouble, you know."

She didn't reply, and he noticed she was crying again, quietly, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, to try to comfort her. As his hand touched her body, she jerked as if electrified, jumped up from the stool unsteadily and knocked his hand away.

"Don't you fucking touch me!" she seethed through gritted teeth.

Her eyes glared at him, and he knew that look. He'd seen it a million times in his work. She'd been assaulted, maybe even raped. Not too long ago, either, he speculated. He pulled his hand back. "Sorry."

She stood there, again looking as if she was wondering whether to stay or go. He hoped she wouldn't leave. She was too drunk and too upset to be out on the streets alone. If she left he'd have to go after her, make sure she was OK, and he didn't think she'd take that very well given her state of mind.

"Sorry. Look, I was just trying to help a fellow serviceman," he said, wondering if women in the service referred to themselves as servicemen anymore. It was an odd term, but service-person was in no way better. "Why don't you sit back down? I'll buy you a cup of coffee. You've had a lot to drink."

She hesitated, but then sat back down. "I did love it, you know." Her voice was quiet and her eyes grew sad.

"It's okay. Here, wait a minute. Can we get some coffee down here?" he called out to the bartender.

When the coffee came, at least it was hot, he observed, sipping the burnt-tasting sludge. He guessed they didn't get much call for java in this place. The noisy frat boys moved on. He and Juliet, the Hispanic guy, and the long-haired goatee guy were the only customers left. He knew without looking at his watch that it was getting late. He should really get home and get some sleep, but he didn't want to leave. He couldn't leave this woman in the state she was in.

He thought for a moment about asking her back to his place. Not in that way, he told himself. Just to help her out.

Who are you kidding, the darker side of his alcohol-relaxed brain prodded him. He frowned. If he couldn't be certain of his own motives, the woman certainly wouldn't be, either. No, asking her back to his place was not a possibility.

The door opened again. Elliot looked up automatically. He was surprised to see two men in Marine Corps uniforms enter the bar. This dive was pretty far from any military base. There wasn't much uniform traffic in these parts.

She saw them too, and jumped up, quickly moving behind Elliot, passing into the back hallway of the bar where the bathrooms were.

Elliot looked again and noticed that the Marines were wearing white armbands that read "MP" on them. Military Police. What the hell? He got up and followed the woman. He found her trying to open the back exit door, which was locked. It was a violation of fire regulations, but he guessed it kept people from ducking out on their bar tabs. "Hey, what's going on?" he asked.

"Please, I need to go." She looked suddenly dead sober, and very afraid.

"Well, you're not getting out that door," he said, gesturing to the padlock and chain. "Maybe I can help you. What do they want you for?"

She shook her head. "What do you mean? I just need to get out of here."

"Sure. It's just a coincidence that you're UA from the Navy, the military cops are out there in the bar and at this very moment you just have a strong desire to leave out the back way. What's going on? They'll be back here in a minute, you know."

He heard voices calling, footsteps coming.

"I need to get out of here. Please."

"You'd better tell me quick then."

Her eyes were wild and he could see the internal debate written in her face. He looked at her, tried to show her with his eyes and his expression that she could trust him.

"I didn't mean to do it," she whispered urgently. "He… he raped me. Please, help me." Her face was panicked.

"You didn't mean to do what? Who raped you?"

"Please, there's no time. If they take me, it's over. I'll be in Leavenworth. Or dead."

The two large Marine MPs loomed up behind Elliot. "Sir," one of them said in a gruff voice, "I need you to step aside. We're here to take Lieutenant Miller into custody. Lieutenant, please don't resist."

Elliot saw the look in Juliet's face, and he knew in that instant that he didn't want her to be taken by the MPs. He knew that something was really wrong – he felt it - that instinct that served him so well in his police work. He didn't know what was going on, but he wanted to do something. No, he needed to do something. Taking on two Marine MPs physically was not an option, however. He thought fast. He needed to buy some time – to get someplace where he could talk to Juliet, find out her story. Leaning forward a bit, he spoke under his breath, quiet enough so the MPs wouldn't hear. "Hit me."

"What?" she whispered back, eyes wild.

He nodded. "Hit me," he mouthed.

She stood still, staring at him. He reached out and grasped her shoulders, leaning in close. "Trust me. Do it. And make it good."

With a confused expression, she drew back and threw a roundhouse punch that caught him hard on the left side of the jaw, nearly knocking him off his feet. The woman had some game, he thought through the pain radiating across his head. He bent down, recovering for a moment, keeping his body between the Marines and the woman. Then he stood, wiping blood from his lip. He spoke loudly. "Juliet Miller, I'm placing you under arrest for assaulting a police officer."

"What?" she said, surprised.

He turned her around and pushed her forward against the wall and began a standard weapons pat down.

"Sir, we need to take Lieutenant Miller," one of the Marines said.

"Sorry fellows. She's mine. I'm a cop." He pulled out his badge. "Assaulting a police officer is a crime. And this is my jurisdiction."

"You're a co-" Juliet started.

He pushed her forward quickly and leaned over her as he continued patting her down. "Shut up," he whispered sharply in her ear.

"We got our orders, sir," the Marine said.

"Yeah, well, you'll follow mine now. This isn't a military base. I'm NYPD. My house, my rules." Elliot cuffed Julia's hands behind her back, taking care to fasten the cuffs as loosely as he dared.

He pulled out his phone and called in, asking for a patrol unit.

"Sir, you can't do this," the Marine objected, blocking Elliot's path back down the hallway.

"You'd be surprised what I can do. Like arrest you for obstruction."

Grasping Miller by the elbow, he steered her around the Marines, out of the back hallway, and across the barroom. The bartender was nowhere in sight – it seemed like disappearing during times of trouble was his standard operating procedure. The longhaired guy was watching them with hooded eyes as they passed - like he was interested, but didn't want to seem interested. Elliot gave him another warning glance and hoped he'd mind his own business.

The Marines trailed after them, but Elliot ignored them. Once he and Juliet passed through the open door he let it close behind them, separating them briefly from the MPs.

"What are you doing?" she whispered urgently in a low voice.

"Buying you some time," he said quietly. "While the jurisdiction gets sorted out, you'll be in our custody. You tell me what happened and I'll do what I can for you."

As the Marines came through the door, he saw the flashing lights of the squad car approaching from a couple blocks down. That was quick, he thought, the patrol must have been pretty close.

"Sir, I don't think you realize. We're here to arrest Lieutenant Miller for desertion at time of war and attempted murder of her commanding officer," the larger of the MPs said.

What the hell had he gotten himself into? Attempted murder? Desertion? That was some serious shit. He looked at her again, surprised. She shook her head slowly and looked up at him. He saw the pain there, in her dark glistening eyes, and in that instant he knew he was doing the right thing. She needed a chance, and he was going to do his damndest to give it to her.

"Look," he said, turning to the MPs. "I don't want to get into a pissing match, fellas. We'll sort it out down at the precinct. Let them handle it upstairs. That's what the brass is for, right?" He smiled and held out his right hand to one of the Marine MPs, conspicuously letting his EGA tattoo show. "Semper Fi?"

The MP stared at him for a long moment, and then took his hand and shook it, a bit grudgingly. "Semper Fi."

Elliot showed his ID to the uniform cops who arrived, opened the door of the squad car and helped Juliet inside carefully. Her dark hair was soft against his hand as he guided her head through the door of the car. He stepped around to the other side of the car and got in next to Juliet, noticing the longhaired goatee man watching from the bar doorway.