A/N: Here we go again! Thanks as always to imorca for her amazing beta skills. Also, supreme thanks to everyone who has read & reviewed this crazy obsession of mine. You rock.

Chapter 10: Precarious Parallels

Daryl had no idea how long he'd wandered the streets, letting the buzz of Atlanta's night life wash past him without notice, every thought of his back at the club… at the dance… with her.

The fuck is wrong with you?

Daryl prided himself on control. It was a lesson he'd learned early on, back in the days when he was still making his bones. Focus, attention to detail, keeping your head; that was how you got the job done. He'd applied that lesson to every aspect of his life. He enjoyed the drink but always kept himself in check, careful to never lose his wits. It was the same all over, from the money he gambled to the broads he fucked. Control.

In return, he was rewarded beyond measure. Power, money, beautiful cars, fine clothes, a position of status in Atlantian society. With a snap of his fingers the finest dishes of food were placed before him and the best liquor east of the Mississippi to fill his glass; with a wave of his hand, he could have the warm, willing body of a gorgeous woman to decorate his arm. Nobody cared that he came from a shanty town in the kudzu riddled jungles further south, that he'd grown up poor and starving, as filthy a redneck as they came. He'd moved on, grown past his childhood to a measure of life that Lee Dixon, for all his drunken bluster, could never have envisioned for his second son.

He just had to pretend it didn't bother him that the overwhelming show of respect wasn't tinged with a healthy dose of fear that tugged at his insides.

Daryl wasn't foolish. He knew the cost of living this life and for years had paid it gladly. Old man Greene could be a pain in the ass, but he was fair with his men. The rewards came based on the quality of the work provided, on the loyalty of the man, and for seven years he'd reaped the benefits of being one of the most loyal, the most careful. Only Merle surpassed him.

Now here he was, walking through the hustle of a Friday night in downtown Atlanta questioning his own sanity. It was ridiculous. Who was Carol Peletier anyway, but just another pawn in Greene's chess game? A nobody, just a dame with a sad tale and a pretty face, like so many.

He wasn't going to let one dance with one woman change anything for him.

Shane sighed, pushing down the urge for a finger of hooch from the bottle hidden in his top desk drawer and focused his attention on Dale, sharp and crisp in his lieutenant's uniform, standing in front of the room. Besides the two of them, there were five others, all plainclothes, scattered around Shane's office.

Leon Bassett, Shane's old partner, was sitting at what had been his desk, still covered in an inch's worth of thick grey dust, and looking for all the world like a bug had crawled up his butt. Same as he ever did. Shane didn't want him for this and had made his feelings perfectly clear to Dale, who had been just as firm in his answer. There were, after all, only a handful they could trust.

Otis Lambert sat in one of the chairs in front of Shane's desk. He had the weary, care worn look of a beat cop past his prime, which in essence is exactly what he was. Shane remembered training under Lambert when he'd first started. The man was good but more importantly, he was good with the people. Five minutes and people found themselves telling the man their life stories. He could get anyone to talk without having to raise his fist, which Shane figured they were gonna need.

Oscar Campbell had the other seat by Shane's desk. The man was huge, all sinewy muscles that covered his huge frame. Shane was sure the man could crush him with only one arm.

The story mill said he'd been a boxer, even back in his Army days. He insisted on being addressed by his first name and was rumored to keep a ladies handkerchief in his pocket, a token from some dame he'd loved and lost. He was newer to the force and had proved to be of a quieter persuasion, but he had a soldier's mindset, honed from his time in the Philippines fighting the Japs.

Shawn Black leaned against the wall, a jumble of jittering nerves and twitchy fingers that he clenched together in an effort to keep still as his eager eyes shone from his ruddy face. The kid was new, fresh out of the academy, but a hell of a shot and was eager to prove himself. Dale was hoping by bringing him in now, they'd get him firm on their side before Greene could try to sink his hooks in.

Tony Daniels rounded out the group, hunched over by the door smoking his third cigarette of the hour. Shane didn't trust Daniels as far as he figured the lean stick could physically pick him up and throw him. For one, the guy was a damn Yankee, the product of a Georgian dish who'd up and married some two bit salesman from the North and run off to New Jersey with him some thirty years back. When that had flamed out, as those things do, she'd brought the kid home to be raised up right. Shane figured it was too late, what with Tony being ten years old by then and set in his ways. He still had traces of his Jersey accent, something that set Shane to grit his teeth every time Daniels spoke. Like nails on a blackboard.

This mismatched set, then, was Dale's motley crew of gang fighters. There were better men on the force, better shots, sharper tools, but trust ran thin. There were too many men who were dirty, men who should have been their brothers in arms but instead made deals with the devil under the table.

Hell of a way to spend a Friday night.

"So, you all understand why you're here," Dale said in his best officer's voice. "For years, this city has been dominated by a bloodthirsty tyrant, a sheep in wolf's clothing. Cops are dirty and people run scared… It's high time it stopped. We're the ones who are gonna put an end to it."

Dale was prone to theatrics, but Shane had to admit, the man was good.

"You're talking about a hard sell here, boss." Lambert's voice was slow as molasses.

"I know," Dale replied. "It's a long, hard road in front of us."

"Road, psssh," Oscar said. "It seems to me like there isn't a road at all. Has anybody ever gone up against the mob and won?"

"Why ain't the Feebs getting involved in this?" Bassett asked. Shane arched an eyebrow as he and Dale glanced at each other. It was a fair question, one that he'd asked himself. The answer didn't give anybody much hope.

"Because our illustrious governor does not want this to go nationwide," Dale explained simply. Several snorts of laughter, thick with derision erupted around the room. Their "illustrious governor", as Dale had called him, had made all the hot sheets for getting caught with his pants down in a one star burlesque joint. It was a source of both amusement and shame for everybody in the state. There was nothing like seeing your political leader in flagrante delicto with a dime-store hooker to encourage a bout of damage control.

The governor's banging whores and our mayor is in bed with old man Greene. Some life.

Black raised his hand and Shane resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Shit, kid, lemme tell you somethin'," Shane laughed. "This ain't the academy anymore. You got somethin' to say, just speak."

"Right… It's just… everybody knows this is Hershel Greene's town. It's just that nobody can prove it."

"That, right there, is our primary mission," Dale said. "We're gonna prove it."

"How?" Black asked.

"By playing Greene's game right back at him." Daniels' voice was the thick, hoarse rasp of a heavy smoker.

"Within reason." Dale was quick to jump on that. "The law is still the law-"

"The law hasn't done diddly for us in the past," Daniels said sharply. "First report that gets filed will go right into his hands and you know it."

"Which is why we aren't going to be filing reports."

Well now. This was new, something Dale hadn't shared with him before. Dale was a stickler for protocol, for order and procedure with all of his unshakeable faith in the system. He definitely had the attention of the room now.

"No uniforms, no badges unless it's absolutely necessary." Dale was spinning his hat in his hands, an easy tell that the man was nervous about this part of the plan. This cockamaime plan… "Daniels is right. The mob works in the shadows? So will we. The mob doesn't wait for search warrants? Neither will we. We will work within the system, but we aren't waiting for the system's permission either."

Holy shit. Something of his surprise must have shown on his face, because Dale was grinning as he looked at him again.

"I'm tired, gentlemen. Tired of watching my town fall to smoke and ash beneath the boot of this man. Tired of watching good, innocent people get trampled in his wake, tired of being pushed aside while he manipulates the world to his liking. No more."

"Why not just kill them?" Daniels had Shane on high alert, everything in his manner suggesting he was already in Greene's pocket despite Dale's insistence the man was clean.

"We start killing like that, we're no better than they are," Oscar said firmly, instantly winning Shane's approval.

"You do not pull your weapon without cause," Dale ordered. "If your life is in danger, then aim to wound, not kill. We need them alive. The last thing we want is for any of them to become martyrs."

Dale was absolutely right there. Rick's enthusiasm for vengeance against Greene had made him an outsider, scorned as delusional by the normal press circles, most of who still lived in Greene's pocket. It was one of the many ways Greene had snaked by over the years.

"You really think we'll manage to change anything, Lieutenant?" Lambert asked in a voice more suited to indulging small children, not a supervising officer of the police. Shane couldn't entirely disagree. Not for the hundredth time, he figured they were doomed. Maybe they were… but he wasn't going down without a fight. Not now.

"Change has to start somewhere, right?" Shane asked the room in general. "If we fail... we fail. I don't know about you boys, but I'm going down swingin'."

"Do we even know where to start?" Oscar stroked his chin, his expression thoughtful. There's one. "We don't know where he's running his business from, where to find any of his men… nothing."

"Actually, we have some headway on that," Dale said with a smile. "Shane?"

Shane pulled a manila envelope from his drawer, pointedly ignoring the half full bottle rolling around and snapping it shut again before slipping the envelope's contents onto his desktop.

"Y'all remember Eddy Peletier, showed up deader 'n a doornail about a month ago?"

"The kid who used to shine shoes on Main?" Black asked. Shane couldn't help himself this time, rolling his eyes in disdain.

"No, dummy," he snapped.

"The fat dope in the warehouse," Bassett said slowly. Shane nodded. "Took a slug to the head. What about him?"

"His wife has taken over the family business," Dale said. "A boarding house, about five miles outside town on the south west side."

"So?"

"We have proof that's where Merle and Daryl Dixon are currently taking up residence, along with several other suspected associates."

Shane passed out the photographs he'd taken from Rick, waiting patiently as the looks of shock and a near gleeful determination crossed the faces present.

"What are we waiting for?" Black said emphatically. "We know where they are! Let's go arrest them!"

Shane sighed and slapped a hand over his face. "Boy, haven't you listened to a damn word? Lemme ask you something, when you get there and pull out those shiny bracelets of yours, what exactly are you plannin' to say? We. Have. No. Proof."

Shane watched with little sympathy as the kid's face turn beet red.

"We need to catch them in the act." Lambert assumed the role of teacher, speaking towards Black with a much gentler tone than Shane had used. "It isn't just knowing where they are. We've got to get something on them that sticks, something they can't bluster their way out of like they have before."

"Like a witness?"

"Exactly," Dale said. "Documentation, photographs, witnesses. This isn't just about killing one ant, gentlemen. This is about taking out the whole damn anthill."

"What about other ants?" Daniels asked nonchalantly. "Let's say we pull this cockamaime scheme of yours off and shut down the Greene machine once and for all. Who's to say someone new won't rise up to take his place?"

"Let's start with the anthill we have before us," Dale replied.

"How?"

"Shane," Dale said firmly, turning to the detective. "You've been working the Peletier case from the beginning. Keep at it." They'd talked about this, using Shane's role as the primary detective on dead Ed's file to keep him close to the house. That was going to be his prime target area. "Do everything you can to get close to Mrs. Peletier. We may be able to use her."

Say what now? Shane stared at Dale, not liking the man's implications. Stalking the house was one thing, even using his role on the force to gain access to the house had been his idea. But bringing Carol herself into this, putting her in potentially more danger than she was already in, had never been part of the deal. Dale's face was stone and Shane realized how blind he'd been where Carol Peletier was involved.

Each time he saw her, he noticed something else about her: a hint of a freckle in the hollow of her throat, the way her hair curled past her ears, the dimple in her cheek when she smiled. Lately, she'd seemed stronger, more vibrant than she'd been before. He'd been finding any excuse to call her, to arrange a meeting to discuss the case of her husband's murder and every time, he'd worked to stretch their meeting as long as possible and started to think up excuses to call again the second she left his sight. For fuck's sake, he hadn't even stopped to think about why he'd been acting like this, what it meant, until now and it slammed into him with all the force of a runaway freight train.

"If she is involved somehow, then she'll have information," Daniels said slowly. "It makes sense. Get close, then see if she'll talk. Walsh, you lucky bastard."

Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. This was the obvious maneuver and he should have seen this coming. Hell, he should have suggested it. God damn it, what was the matter with him?He'd never been swayed by a woman before. Who was Carol Peletier that she could shift him off his axis without him even realizing it?

That he craved her was obvious. It was more than physical though. Shane wanted to protect her. He thought… maybe, he wanted to save her. He could save her and they'd… what? Run away into the sunset together? Good Christ, is that what he was after? The yearning for the sweet burn of booze blasted through him, the desperate need to drink this sudden realization into oblivious setting his throat on fire.

Dale was rattling off the other assignments, the instructions Shane already knew, that anything the squad did needed to be approved by Dale, but most of all the need for absolute secrecy. Plausible deniability, for one, but it was the only way for those with families to keep them protected. It was unspoken knowledge amongst them all that once they got started, retribution from Greene was sure to follow. The thought made Shane sick to his stomach. He knew, just knew, that Carol was innocent in this, yet he had the sinking feeling he'd just led her right to the sacrificial fire.

An image of the lovely widow, bloody and broken beyond belief, filled his mind and he nearly howled with it. Her firm, supple flesh gone tight, hard with cold, those blue eyes closed forever…

He was desperate for a drink. His hand was halfway to his desk drawer where salvation lay, meeting be damned, when a loud thunk on his door made them all jump. They watched Dale stride over, every inch the officer in command as he flung the door open with an impatient snarl at being interrupted.

"What?!" Dale shielded the room with his body so the unfortunate sap on the other end couldn't see who was inside. They could still hear though, and Shane realized it was Jefferson, the desk cop, rambling away at high speed.

"Dispatch is looking for you, sir. Patrol found a coupla stiffs washed up along the Chattahochee."

"All right-"

"There's more, sir. Hartigan's is on fire. People are sayin' it was a huge explosion, like a bomb went off or somethin'!"

Shane was on his feet before he realized he'd moved. Hartigan's was Greene's turf, one of the few places the man admitted to owning publicly. Dale was thanking Jefferson, pushing him back towards his desk before shutting the door with a snap and gazing over the newly established crew. Shane gave the room a quick once over, pleased to see everyone on their feet.

"Any last questions?" Dale asked quickly.

The silence was thick, full of anticipation. Shane was aware that in the space of a moment, they had become something more than what they had been when the meeting started. A squad, a team. This could work. When nobody spoke, Dale's answering smile was grim.

"Good. Time to go to work."

The fire was huge, great orange flames leaping out and casting their glow all over the street, the thick black column of smoke stretching tall into the sky. He watched, turned in the car so he could see out the window with his one good eye as the first of the fire trucks pulled up, parking haphazardly half onto the curb. The crowd around what remained of Hartigan's was growing as word spread through town, people dressed in their finest attire pulled from their evening of social nonsense to see his plan first hand, to stand by helpless as the incompetent firemen worked to put out the roaring blaze.

"You do good work," he said. The man next to him shifted in his seat, peering around his shoulder.

"Thank you."

Fire was good. It cleansed, purified, and left room for new things to grow.

The information provided had been solid, the bomb child's play to set up. Caesar Martinez was a good find, his work with explosives in the coal mines up north providing him with a background for his new living. He was sharp, eager to learn, but most of all loyal. Loyal to him for rescuing Martinez from a life underground.

He'd make an excellent second once their plan for Atlanta was complete. Things were looking good. The plan was in motion, the wheels turning.

"Now is the time for greater strides," he murmured.

"Sir?"

"Hershel Greene is an old man full of old ideas," he said. "It's time for a new era. My era." He settled back into the plush leather with a grin, tapping three times on the back of the driver's seat. "Drive on."

"Yes, Mr. Blake."

The black Lincoln pulled onto the street, blending into the late night traffic in the wake of the raging fire.