I actually got a chance to update! :p Added in a little more Stella ... and, well, you'll just have to read and see!
Enjoy!
Across the Line 13
Lindsay could hear them running, the sound of footsteps on the brush. She ran blindly, numb, moving on adrenaline, but acutely aware.
She'd been shot.
She stumbled, landed hard on her knee. It knocked the breath out of her.
She gasped, needing air, then she pushed up, pushed passed it and kept going. The sun was coming up.
She saw the shape and stumbled to a stop, her arm already lifting, gun in hand. She knew him, she thought, even as he raise his gun. He was one of them, an officer who had secured the scene for her a dozen times.
And yet, the intent was there.
He underestimated her.
She pulled the trigger, and stumbled back, too weak to brace the rebound.
He stumbled back, eyes wide with surprise.
She cried out as she was grabbed from behind and shoved down.
She stared up at Pierson, her vision blurred. He simply kicked her gun from her hand. Pierson was gone. She saw his eyes-the man she shot. She saw him fade out, fall over, and nearly went under herself.
Breathe she told herself. Breathe.
"You think you were going to get away from me? You think you had it in you," Pierson spat, as he yanked her arms together. The cuffs locked around her wrists with a click.
She stared up at him as his image wavered.
"It—hurts." She managed as pain shot from her shoulder. "Hurts."
"You think I care, Lindsay Monroe from Montana? You think it matters what you feel?" He stood and yanked her arm. Yanked her up.
Her knees buckled, her vision ... blurred.
"They'll find me," Lindsay told him as she fell to a knee, dizzy. She would not give in. Her brown eyes were fierce, as she locked on. "And even when they find me, its only murder on your head."
"Really? When you just killed a member of the NYPD?"
"This isn't your jurisdiction, Pierson," she struggled with her breathing. Stay conscious, she told herself. "The crime lab here won't protect you."
Mac had made sure of that.
"They won't find you," with surprising strength Pierson lifted her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. She grunted and wondered why she just didn't slide off. "Besides. You're my little insurance piece. As long as I have you, they need me."
He didn't understand crime scenes, she thought, as he carried her through the woods. He didn't know that to the right eye, under the right questions, someone could tell a lot.
Especially when they already had an idea of the questions they needed to ask.
The blood was rushing to her head. She felt sick and had to push past the nausea, the pain, the image in her head. She saw him again, saw the man she'd shot, saw the surprise and the reality of death as he tumbled over.
Death ...
Danny, she thought as the necklace fell forward, hit against her chin.
Trust the rest of us. Trust me.
~ny~
Flack left Finch in interview to stew. He hadn't lawyered up. He was sure the man thought he could stall. It gave Mac's contacts time to get to the station, to lay out their evidence, and the case they were building.
He walked into observation where Stella waited silently, her arms crossed. She turned the coffee she held in her hand around and around, using only her fingertips. She'd said little, but he saw the worry in her eyes. Mac and Danny were on the road. Lindsay was still MIA.
She'd met with Mac's contacts as well. She knew what he knew.
And neither of them knew if Finch even had what they needed.
But when they walked back in to interview, they were more prepared.
"You've been very busy, my friend," Flack said as he took the lead. This time Stella didn't sit. She took two steps over to the side, her shoulder to Finch, and waited her turn. Her eyes watched the mirror, watched Finch.
Flack set the file on the table and opened it, taking the contents out slowly and laying them out for Finch to see much as Stella had done earlier.
"People have had a line on Pierson's personnel choices for awhile, so they've been watching you. In fact, the FBI had an eye on you before you transferred into the NYPD from Jersey. You remember your friends in Jersey, Detective Finch. Not your fellow cops, because they don't really vouch for you. In fact, I had several interesting conversations with your former colleagues."
Flack set out one photograph after another until all five were laying on the table, each was a shot of Finch with people even Flack knew were mob guys. "You weren't very careful."
Finch frowned, his jaw tight. He met Flack's gaze. "I walked away from that life."
He didn't come across as believable, just as a cocky SOB.
"Then who are you if not a contact for the Vencetti family? I just need a name."
He let out a breath, sharp and surprised. "I don't have anything man."
"Sure you don't," Flack pulled out another file as he went through the next information quickly, aware of Stella's watchful gaze on the scene in the mirror. "According to the FBI, your finances only improved when you started working with the NYPD. In September 2005, you were put under Captain Pierson's watch. You've been there ever since. Seems you started collecting a healthy bonus around that time."
"I have a trust fund."
"And I have a shack on the beach in Tahiti—" Flack said lightly as he set the last report on the table. "But I'll call you on your lie first. I don't even have to run the numbers on this, or go check through whatever excuse you put in front of me, because those boys in Washington have a line on you already. They were created to take care of the mob and that's what they're doing. Plus, they've been holding out on you, Finchy boy. You haven't been very honest with yours taxes, but they waited because they wanted to see what kind of goods you could give them. It's time to return the favor."
Finch snorted. "What—you're offering some sort of a deal? You think I'm going to take it?"
"I think you should. It's not going to be on the table for long. You think Pierson's not going to cover his own back when he's brought it? Mac got some dots connected on his own ... I bet you don't know about dots. You loaded a computer program on the flash drive. Or better yet, you had someone load it. But it had a program of its own, and while it might not have locked into Pierson's computer, it did capture an image of the computer that was used." Flack felt the buzz of the phone in his pocket, and took a step toward the door. "They've already pulled up a couple of names. We'll start with them," he looked toward Stella and watched as she slowly turned toward him. "You think we really need to put a deal on the table?"
"You don't even know who you're dealing with."
"Just think about it," with nod toward the door, he stepped out with Stella close behind, and stepped into the bullpen with his phone out.
"Tell me you've got something," Mac said without preamble.
"I'm working him. I don't think he's all that loyal toward Pierson, but he's going to hold out some sort of a deal. He's a rat, like Pierson. Smarter—"
"We don't have time. Lindsay's gone."
"What do you mean, gone?" His gaze flicked to Stella's. He saw the surprise. It was one thing for her not to answer the phone, it was another for her to be gone.
"I'm at the cabin. Someone was here. Looks like they went into the woods and came back out," Mac sighed. "We've got blood on the drive, and she's gone. Whatever car was here..."
When he finished with Mac, Stella was on her own phone. It was tucked between her ear and her shoulder as she leaned over a desk to write down the information. He glanced at it, noting Pierson's car and plate info. She met his gaze, motioned with her head for him to head back in without her.
Flack walked in, and leaned over the table. "You came to me, Finch. You used me, I don't like that."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You wanted us to trust you, so you came to me and warned me to warn Danny. You played with Monroe, a fellow officer. You wanted us to think you were on our team, but you weren't. You gave her a drive. Now she's gone."
Flack was glad to see the look of surprise in the man's eyes, a flinch of fear.
"Look, I don't know anything about that."
"Do you know what they put in that flash drive? A tracking program that took them right to Monroe. Something happens to her, any deal's off the table."
Finch paled. His gaze flicked to the door as Stella came in, then back to Flack. "I don't know where she is man. If Pierson did something-"
"So you are allied with Pierson."
"Not exactly with him. And ..." he looked away from Flack.
"Then what do you know?"
"Look, I never really could get away from Vencetti, all right? And I needed protection, just a little service, but got out of control. Pierson's stupid. He could have ..." he stopped himself, caught on that he was giving away too much. "All I wanted was to give them proof that Pierson was not up for the job. Boss trusts him, puts out lives in his hands and he's screwing around. He's going to throw the whole operation and he's going to get us killed."
"You killed, you mean," Stella said slowly. She waited until Finch looked at her. "There is no us in this room. There is no operation. You did what it took to save your face, no matter who got in the way."
"Seems to me you're right in the middle of it," Flack said.
"Look ... Monroe, she's cool, but she was stepping into something too big. I told you that."
"And you handed her the flash drive."
He stared at Flack, held off.
"We don't have time for this-" Flack pressed.
"We want the name of your boss," Stella said her dark eyes flashed. "And we want your contacts."
"I want a deal and I want a lawyer."
"ADA's outside," Flack stood up straight. "I need to know where Pierson might have taken Monroe, and I need a name."
"I don't know, man, I'm not Pierson's guy. He didn't bring me in. I was placed by ... I want that deal. I can give you a name and whatever you need that I have. But I don't know anything about Monroe."
With one final look at Finch, Flack stepped outside.
~ny~
The sun had come up, as Danny took the most direct route to the cabin. The road was empty, old and cracked. An old highway with original pavement. There was a farmer out on his tractor, a couple on bikes.
But otherwise, it was empty. It allowed him lean with the speed of his ride. He focused on the buzz of his engine and pushed out the noise in his head.
But it was there. It crept in, reminding him of what he had to lose.
Standing on the pier at Coney island. He'd bought her a hot dog and she'd turned around, looking at him, and laughed. The wind had toyed wither her hair. Her eyes danced with mischief.
The memory was like a bright and vivid photograph in his head.
He'd said something, she'd said something, and he fought the urge to kiss her. He should have kissed her then. He shouldn't have been afraid of change.
It wasn't change, he realized now-not when it was so right.
~ny~
She was moving, Lindsay thought Lying on her side, her arms still behind her back. The road was uneven, which told her they were still out on that old highway. It was empty, the reason Mac chose it. There would be no one there, no one to help.
Pierson had tossed her in the back seat of his car. She'd blanked out.
She blinked open her eyes and noted the light. It was still dim. Not much time had passed. She could see her hands, stained with her own blood. But at least she could see them. There was a reason why cops cuffed a person with their hands behind their back.
She had a chance ... just a chance. She looked at the cuffs on her wrists and slowly lifted her arms, tested the motion. Once, then again, she tried as she breathed out—and fought against the pain.
Almost there, she told herself, as the pain in her shoulder burned.
And her vision grayed.
She needed to see the road, she realized. She would have to take the chance that he wouldn't react. She slowly worked herself into a sitting position, then let her head fall back against the seat as she looked forward, met Pierson's eyes in the rear view mirror.
And then she saw it—the motorcycle rider was just a dot on the horizen, but it was a chance.
It was her chance.
One move.
She had one move.
And on a breath, she tossed her hands up, screamed out the pain.
And threw them round his neck.
The car jerked as Pierson scrambled for control.