Well, to be honest, it's been so long that I'm not even sure there are still people out there reading JS fics. But anyway, today seemed like a fitting day to post this... so here it is. This case is set in November of 2001, during Jack and Sam's affair. It's a JS fic, but I have also tried to portray Danny and Vivian as more than just secondary characters. Because the story is set in 2001, I couldn't write it without making it a post 911 fic. I wasn't in New York when it happened and I don't claim to know the exact pain, trauma, and fallout caused by the events of 911. Any mistakes are therefore mine.
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NY 7A-39151
Prologue
Fulton Street was as quiet as a street could be expected to be at this late hour in Manhattan. Thick, dark grey clouds blocked most of the moonlight, the misty atmosphere resembling the gloomy one of a Hitchcock movie. Clasping and unclasping his hands nervously, the young man who stood at the corner of Fulton and Nassau adjusted the scarf he'd hurriedly thrown around his neck in the hope of warding off the cold. He wore a dark suit jacket and leather gloves that masked a wrist tattoo, and his short, unkempt brown hair made him look younger than his twenty-six years.
"God, I'm so sorry," the other man said. "They picked me up when I got out, there was nothing I could do."
"Phil—"
"They just, uh, threw some money at me, said I had to get rid of you." He fidgeted nervously with the buttons of his coat. "How the hell did they find you?"
The young man with the scarf let a joyless smile dance across his lips. "I ran into IV yesterday. They were going to hunt me anyway, right?" He waited a moment, asked wearily, "You gonna kill me here, Phil?"
There was a moment's silence. "No." The voice was quiet, but determined. "I'm not gonna kill you. But, uh, take this." He handed over a stack of dollars, and along with it came a small key.
"Why?"
"Because I'm not that guy anymore," Phil shook his head. "Take it. I'll keep them away for as long as I can. You need to leave the city. Find Carla."
The young man's eyes shot up at the mention of the name. His next whisper was raw and shook with emotion. "Do you know where she is?"
"Memphis. I want you to make sure she's fine. Protect her." The man named Phil paused, added, "Take care of my sister and love her the way you once did. That's all I'm asking for."
The two individuals observed each other for a long moment, perhaps trying to remember what the other looked like before parting.
"Good luck, David."
"Mark," a quiet mutter corrected. "Call me Mark."
Shaking his head with palpable grief, his friend shook his hand briefly and turned around, peeking discreetly at his watch before walking away. It was nearly one in the morning, and a light rain began to fall as Mark veered to the left and hastily headed for the next block. Reaching his destination, he waited under a red awning for the automatic doors of a building to let him in, and as he entered the hotel his footsteps were cushioned by thick velvet carpet. Walking past the security camera with his head down, he called the elevator and waited to be taken to the second floor. Once there, he took a deep breath, the emotional stress of the past few hours weighing heavily on his shoulders, then he fished out the key his friend Phil had given him and looked around for room 227.
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Exactly one floor above, the key to room 327 had been placed on the bedside table closest to the window. It was as quiet as in the hours before dawn, and two people slept obliviously, their minds in a place beyond the material boundaries of reality. There was a faint light inside the room serving as a reminder that no place in the city is ever completely dark, even in the dead of night with the obscuring shades drawn. A few personal possessions were scattered around the room, ranging from reading glasses to a watch, clothes, and numerous vanilla folders on the table; but these everyday items had clearly been randomly dispersed, not deliberately arranged.
When the door to room 227 banged closed, one of the occupants of room 327 stirred, opening an eye as his mind tried to separate reality from the fuzzy dreams he'd been having. Ignoring the blinking green light of his cell phone on the bedside table, he noted with relief that the digital clock read 1:02 and, rewrapping his arm around the warm body curled up against him, quietly drifted back to sleep.
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"We got him, boss."
The voice, when it spoke, was gruff and betrayed the man's Texan origins. Instead of turning around, Ben Marquez took out a cigarette and contemplated the darkness around him, tugging at the sleeves of the leather jacket he'd bought downtown the year before. Nights were cold in November, perhaps colder this year than the last, with a bitter breeze that cut through cloth and skin. Still, it felt good to be back in New York. He'd been absent far too long.
"Was anyone watching?"
"No."
Leaning against the balcony's steel railing, Ben released a satisfied breath. The job had once again been well done. Most would have considered it a fortunate coincidence, or even luck, but he knew that more than favorable circumstances, patience and persistence were at work here. His men were the best at what they did, and that was, they were the best at what he'd taught them. He had built an empire from brutality and fear, and his men had mastered both the convenience of lies and the delicate art of bribery.
"Didn't think something like that would happen after all this time," Ben said.
"Yeah. Got lucky it was him."
Ben nodded. Still watching the world at his feet, he ordered, "Lock David down in the basement."
The man behind him did not move, watching instead as Ben brought the cigarette to his lips, lit it, and sent a puff of smoke into the chilly air of November. Ben Marquez was one of those who believed power was tangible; that you could feel it in the wisps of smoke and touch it with your bare hands.
When he sensed the other man's hesitation, Ben slowly turned around. Save for thick black leather gloves, Harv, aka number VII, looked little like the criminal Ben knew him to be. His jeans were faded and a grey Spurs sweatshirt hung loosely around his shoulders, conjuring anything but the image of a cold-blooded assassin.
"What about III?"
At the mention of the one who'd betrayed him in the worse possible way, Ben felt cold rage seep through him. He was fair to his men, had always rewarded good results, glorified sacrifices, and encouraged initiatives. That they would go to such lengths to deceive him both surprised and disgusted him. And not because he particularly enjoyed the idea, but because he had to keep his men in line, he'd make III pay for his betrayal.
"Find him. And when you do…"
There was a small moment's silence. "Boss?"
"Kill him."