Part 6

The pursuit spilled off the boards, into the seedy sidestreets of Atlantic City. Martin heard Danny identify himself several times, but the odd pair never stopped. Finally, heaving for breath and choking on phlegm, the ailing man got desperate. He fired a shot at the street sign just ahead of them. The smaller man jumped, hitting the taller one and spilling them both on the ground. Danny's congested lungs and the hot run took his air away. He bent over, waved Martin onward and tried to find his lost air.

"Get over there!" the blue-eyed agent hollered, shoving the odd pair together, "Fitzgerald, F.B.I. " Kenny 'Chooch' Foxe was about six-seven and thin, with a yellow cast to his dark complexion. Charles Alvarez was stockier, barely five foot. "Where's Tony Vecchione?"

"Puttin' his wood in your Mama," Chooch tossed back with a wad of spit, hitting the white man in the cheek.

"At least I have a mother, I didn't spring from pond scum!" Martin turned the other man and shoved him hard against the bricks. He pulled his gun and waved to the other man, who was trying to move, "Kiss the dirt!" He waited, shoved his foot on the small man's back and then turned back to the struggling man in front of him. "Now, I was being polite the first time. We can finish this here or in the ER."

"Man, you got an attitude problem!" Chooch tossed, seeing from his side glance that help had arrived, "I ain't done nothin', Pig. You got no call to bust me. I ain't carryin'."

"I'm losin' my patience," Martin growled, 'WHERE IS HE?"

"Hey! Back off, Kojak!"

"You got no business hasslin' him."

"Get your white ass outta here."

"Great!" Danny muttered, parting the sea of angry residents, "I can't leave you alone for five minutes."

"I'm handlin' it!" Fitzgerald seethed.

"Yeah, I can see that!" Taylor hissed, "In case you haven't noticed, Dorothy, we ain't in Kansas anymore!" This got a laugh from both Chooch and Charley. "SHUT UP!" he kicked the smaller man and thwacked the other in the head, "Call for backup."

"Where's Vecchione?" Martin shrugged off the arm and ground the protesting male's face into the wall, "You better start talking while you still can."

This action brought more catcalls and a bottle sailed by. Danny turned, pulling his weapon and putting his free hand up.

"Back off. We're F.B.I and we only want to talk to them."

"Talk?"

Danny eyed the woman in the front, who was taller and heavier than he. She thrust her chest out, waving a fist.

"You call that talk? I call it something else. Ain't that right!"

The loud chorus echoed her sentiments. The swell was now up to about twenty angry residents and they pushed inward. Danny kept the gun moving and his eyes on the crowd. The fever and the race through town had him sweating and now the thought of being torn apart by angry residents increased his flow. He tapped Martin's leg and the other man half-turned, emitting a soft curse.

Then the call of a siren filled the air. Danny sighed inwardly, relief coursing through him. The flashing lights and loud wail caused the irate crowd to rethink their actions. Two cars pulled up and four cops got out.

"Alright, back off!"

"What's the problem here?"

"Wonder Bread comes down here hasslin' the man."

"Wonder Bread?" Martin griped, glaring at the woman in front.

"Poster boy!" Danny shot back, angry and sick. His sinus was throbbing, his chest hurt and his head was about to explode.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Fitzgerald seethed.

"You don't get it? You don't know the streets. Man, I lived here. I didn't live in Bradyland. That attitude of yours could have gotten us killed."

Meanwhile, a few miles away, Jack Malone was at Dirty Annie's, interviewing Candy. She gave him the names of three of the darker skinned girls who'd complained about being roughed up. He turned as a police car pulled up.

"You Malone?"

"Yeah," Jack nodded, walking to the window, "What's up?"

"We got a situation. Captain Murphy said to get you. A couple of your men are causing a riot."

"Dammit!" he pounded the hood of the car, "I'll follow." He ran to his car, which was parked down the street.

"Don't look at me that way!" Danny hissed, poking the starched white Kenneth Cole shirt, "You know I'm right. Your head's been up your ass for days now. This ain't a game, Martin, this is real. These people are real. You don't come bustin' in like the fuckin' Gestapo."

"I was doing my job!"

"Oh man, you can't be that blind!" the dark-eyed agent said, exasperated, "You didn't see the forest for the trees. This isn't Wall Street and you're not a paper jockey anymore."

"Oh, here it comes. Martin fucks up again. Must be all that white collar crime catchin' up with him. I'm sick of it! I can do this job," he paused, recalling his interview as a finalist, "and Jack Malone doesn't pick just anybody for his squad -- paper jockey or not!"

"Okay, Wonderboy, where's Vecchione then?" Taylor shot back, his eyes throbbing, "Huh? What was that address?" He cupped his ear. "I didn't hear that?"

"You call me that again and --" Martin stopped, feeling the eyes of the neighborhood on him. They were looking at him like he was a bug. Revulsion painted on every face. Him, not Danny. Danny was one of them, street born and raised, and city wise. Martin was the outsider, the paper jockey from Wonder Bread land.

Danny sighed hard, seeing the anger die in the blue eyes. Now the emotive pools harbored something else. Something he didn't like: doubt. He didn't miss them flick to the crowd. He scratched his chin and reached out touching the tense shoulder.

"Leave me alone!"

"No, we settle this here and now. What happened in that school?" Danny pressed.

"None of your business," Martin flashed, the doubt replaced by anxious evasion. He needed air -- he couldn't breath and his side hurt.

"It is as long as we're ridin' together."

"Well that can be fixed!" Fitzgerald charged.

"You look shitty in yellow, Martin!" Danny accused of cowardice.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me! You're a coward. Hidin' behind some big fuckin' mystery from what? Twenty years ago?" He saw a crack forming and tried to bust it open, "Some bully beat up on you, huh? Your little ass get tossed from the Turkey Pageant?"

"SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Martin exploded, ramming the other man hard into the wall.

"They're all yours!"

Jack nodded to the patrolman and put his badge away. He got to the alley, hearing the last bit of the exchange. Martin had Danny backed into a wall and Jack moved fast, grabbing the fair-haired man's shoulder.

"ENOUGH!" He eyed both roosters, sizing each other up. "Somebody talk to me." He waited, but still their horns remained locked. Twin chests heaved, out of breath, and pain danced in eyes - dark and fair. "Fine. But know this: you settle this shit on the way back to town." He turned to Danny Taylor. "You get the crud from your system." Then he turned to the blue- eyed pit bull "And you. Get whatever the hell is stuck in your throat out by eight a.m. tomorrow, understood?" He waited, but the blue eyes were still locked on Taylor's. He moved between them, breaking the hold. "I'm talking to you. You lose that attitude problem, Fitzgerald. It's a long ride back to Seattle." That got a response, the eyes narrowed and a hiss snuck out. "No? You don't think I'd do that? TRY ME, HOT SHOT!"

"I got witnesses to --"

"You got shit, Sherlock," Jack interrupted the rookie, "I'll talk to them. You can do yourself a big favor by getting the hell outta my face right about now."

He didn't wait for a reply, he walked off. He knew Taylor was hiding something. The dark-haired agent was protecting Fitzgerald. He couldn't figure out why. It wasn't like Danny to hold back, especially in a situation like this, which could have turned deadly. He nodded to the patrolmen who were keeping the two men under guard. The crowd lost interest and began to disperse. He looked up again, seeing his two men walking slowly back towards wherever they had left their car. Neither said a word, but he noticed Danny pausing several times because Martin was walking slow, holding his side.

"He got to you, huh?" He shook his head, wondering about the odd pair, and turned back to the two witnesses.

*****************

Not a word was spoken. Not on the walk back or on the short jaunt through town. Not one syllable. But the tension was so thick even a hatchet wouldn't cut through it. Martin kept his eyes out the glass of the window, studying every boring tree on the Expressway. The pain in side was nothing compared to the one inside.

From day one, when he'd been assigned to the team, he'd been driven. He was a perfectionist, he couldn't change that. Sometimes that line got blurry and his overeagerness was misunderstood by others. They saw what they wanted, a corporate ladder climber. He was ambitious but also he had a strong desire to right wrongs -- justice was important to him. Maybe he had been a 'paper jockey' too long. Maybe he was trying too hard and that quest for gold was blinding him. Maybe Danny was right. Hell, who was he kidding? He wanted his partner to respect him, to trust him to watch his back. Was it too late for that?

Danny sighed and tried to concentrate. It was getting harder to focus. His headache was in overdrive, the pressure in his sinus cavity was in the red zone and the fever burning through him left him lethargic. Still, he worried that he'd pushed his eager partner too hard. Despite the cocky attitude and short temper, he liked Martin Fitzgerald. He thought maybe working together, the other man would learn a few tricks of the street. But today had scared him, the blue-eyed man had lost control. Moreover, he didn't seem aware of it and had forgot about teamwork. He pressed he eyes again, trying to stop the pain.

Martin saw the agony on the other man's face and shifted.

"I'll drive."

"S'okay."

"Okay, how 'bout we pull off and get you some soup?"

Danny eyed the dark gray sky and the rain that was now pelting down. Soup might not be a bad idea. Plus, he needed to pop some Tylenol before his head fell off.

"Okay," he sighed, taking the next exit. Three blocks later, they spotted a diner on a lonely stretch of road, bordered by trees. A white sign with aqua lettering shouted at them.

"Can be too bad," Martin tried to make light of the tension and read the letters. "It's got 'Mom's' name on it."

Danny parked and got out, pausing long enough to stretch and rub his back. Then he followed the worn leather jacket into the small diner. A tired waitress, somewhere between forty and sixty with died blond hair and ten extra pounds, approached.

"Lost?"

"No," Martin smiled, "Food that bad?"

She shrugged, "Don't usually get strangers." She eyed the two males, "Good- looking too. Must be my lucky day. Smoking?"

"No," they answered in unison.

She led them past a pregnant woman eating alone, and an elderly man having a sandwich at the counter. They slid on either side of a white- and gold- flecked Formica table. Two red plastic menus appeared.

"Coffee, black," Martin said.

"How 'bout you, Sugar?" she turned to the dark-haired man and winced, "You got a fever? You don't look so good."

"The cold from Hell!" Danny commiserated.

"I got the cure. World's best chicken noodle, right here. I'll bring you a big bowl."

"Sounds good. Extra crackers!" he added, "and some hot tea with lemon."

"You got it, Sweetie." She turned to the other man, whose blue eyes were captivating, "You hungry, Honey?"

Martin's eyes drifted on the columns and he noted Special number four.

"I'll have a western omelet," he decided.

"What kind of toast?" she paused, "Wheat, rye or white?"

"Uh, wh..." his face blanched and his eyes slid across the table. Danny began to smirk, covering his mouth with one hand. It started as a chuckle, but Martin laughed. Danny followed suit and soon the two were laughing hard.

"Something I said?" the puzzled waitress waited.

"No. I'm sorry, uh..." Martin paused, lifting a devilish blue eye, "Well? Should I go for it?"

"Without a safety net," Danny goaded, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

"I'll have, uh, rye!"

"And it's still daylight!" Taylor announced, grinning.

"Yeah, us paper jockey's lead dangerous lives. Always on the cuttin' edge."

As they sipped their hot beverages, waiting for the food to arrive, Martin grew somber. He fiddled with the sugar packets, then the creamers, and was starting on the napkins, when a soft voice broke through.

"I was only trying to help."

"I know."

"Why can't you talk to me? Is it that bad?"

Martin took a deep sigh, raked a hand through his damp hair and lifted his face. He saw not anger or coldness, only compassion and understanding. He nodded, took a breath and a sip of water and started.

"It was November and I was seven-and-a-half. You were right about scenario. I had a bed to sleep in every night, plenty of heat and food." He paused, shaking his head. "Warm clothes and a seat in school every day...and...I..." he swallowed hard, "I was the loneliest fuckin' kid in that private school. You got no idea," his anger started to rise again as his father's cold face loomed above the table, "how much it hurts. Before that Thanksgiving, I really believed his lies. The sudden business that came up...and another holiday alone. Weekends when other kids went home or their folks came, I waited...by...that...win...dow..." he paused again, wiping his eyes. "Dammit."

"Take a breath, you're doing fine," Danny gentled, already stung by the words. He'd heard about the mighty Victor Fitzgerald. The man was a legend in the Bureau. This was giving him a whole new picture. Cold-hearted bastard didn't deserve a son. He studied the unadulterated pain in the sky eyes and felt that feeling in his gut.

"He promised -- gave his word -- that he'd be there. It was a show. Each grade did an act. You know, songs about harvest, a one-act play with Pilgrims, stuff like that. I had to read a poem."

"Nothing Gold Can Stay?" Danny noted

"Yeah. I spent weeks working on it, making felt leaves and gluing them. I wanted the damned thing to be perfect...for him. Hopin' he'd finally notice me. I was shy. Painfully shy. The thought of getting up in front of an audience terrified me. The boys there picked on me as it was. I was undersized..."

"Was?" Danny teased and got a small smile.

"...and sick a lot. The school nurse liked poetry; she'd read to me. That poem, for some reason, hit hard." He sipped his coffee carefully. "He didn't come, but I got out there, kept my head up and read the damn thing. I kept lookin' at the back door, hopin'..."

"Shit!" Danny's tone was a combination of dejection and loathing. The image of a lonely, small, sandy haired urchin with large, gut-swallowing blue eyes unnerved him. "You deserved better."

"Thanks."

Danny and Martin met over a sad smile on Fitzgerald's face. Then the blue eyes grew dark, the fingers went to white knuckles and he could nearly hear the heart beating wildly. The worst part of the nightmare wasn't exposed yet. Martin didn't continue the story, his eyes were focused on something beyond the window. But it was a start, and some of the wound was cleansed.

"Thanks." They each said, as the waitress appeared with the steaming food.

"You boys okay here?"

"Yeah," Danny nodded, crushing several crackers into the golden soup. They ate quietly, and he kept his eyes on Martin, who only got halfway through the large egg creation.

He buttered his toast and looked out the window. The rain was pouring down and the wind lifted a drape of fake leaves hanging over the entry. He watched them dancing in the wind, and jumped slightly when the thunder exploded. Then, out of nowhere, the face of the demon appeared, leering at him through the glass.

"Jesus!" Danny looked up from his soup at the loud clang. He eyed the utensil that had been in Fitzgerald's hand, now resting on the plate it had hit. "Shit," he hissed, seeing the face as white as the table and the eyes wide and terrified. He followed the gaze through the glass and saw nothing but rain.

"Martin?" Danny called, then touched the other man's wrist. "Are you..." his sentence was cut off by a hiss and jerk. The eyes were dark, still lost in the trance.

"I'm f..." the startled man started to say. "Shit!" His hand slid under his dark gray suit jacket to where his gun was resting.

"What?"

"Trouble just walked in. Two of them are armed, the third looks hit."

"Robbery?" Danny whispered, turning slowly. Then he saw the other man starting to ease the gun out.

"No, they're wet. Something went wrong. They're runnin'," Martin assessed of the wet gunmen.

"Chill!" Danny whispered, watching the three men carefully. One had his gun trained on the pregnant woman. "There are too many people in here. Slow and easy," he waited until the blue eyes met his and the hand retracted, "Okay."

"EVERYBODY UP FRONT HERE!" the leader barked, wiping his face with a cluster of paper towels.

Martin waited for Danny to slide out, while keeping his eyes on the leader. He was a tall man, fifty perhaps, six-three or four, at least two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. His gray hair was close cropped. The two younger man were in their twenties. One resembled the older man, he was the one holding the gun on the pregnant woman. The other, younger and in pain, was sitting in the end booth. Blood covered his chest.

"Oh God...Oh God...Oh God..."

"SHUT UP, OLD MAN!"

"Take it easy," Danny placated, putting both hands up, "He's old and scared. He's no threat to you."

"Yeah, well, keep him quiet!" the dark-haired gunman relayed, then he pressed the gun into the woman's abdomen.

"Don't...no...please..." she begged.

"Get up and get the money from the register," he ordered, then his dark eyes narrowed. He sized up the other diners by their dress. The two men at the end were out of place. The shorter one's right hand was wavering near his hip. "Suits? In a dump like this? I smell roasted piggies."

"Well now," the older man moved from behind the counter, "Let's just see about that. Up front. Come on." He wagged the gun.

Martin kept his eyes on the leader's, never blinking or giving an inch. Danny stopped to help the old man, who was having problems breathing.

"You okay?"

"My he..heart..."

"You got nitro pills or something?"

"Yes...pocket...God...hurry..."

"Okay." Danny helped him up, but the man's legs buckled. Martin stopped and turned, thinking to help the stricken man.

"Hey, pretty boy, something wrong with your ears?" The younger one hollered, "Get your ass up here or I'll put a hole in Mama's fat belly."

"Be the last thing you do," Martin sent back, drilling the dark eyes with his own.

"I thought so!" the mouthy gunman shoved his hand under the jacket and found a badge, "Hey, you're a like royal pig -- a fed." He took the gun next, handing it to his father.

"Let's see," the older man took the badge and gun. "He might come in handy. Get him in the back and tie them all up. Then come back and get Mike." He eyed the shivering youth then, "You okay?"

"...c...c...cold..."

"You hold on, we'll get you some help." He shoved his gun in the F.B.I. agent's belly.

Martin snorted, the wound was bad and the kid would bleed out before help came.

"You fucked up, Mister. You fucked up good," Martin noted, wincing when the gun hit his ribs, "that kid don't have an hour left. You should have taken him to a hospital."

"P....o...p...I...don't...wanna...d...d...die..."

"Don't listen to this prick," the old man slammed his fist into the soft belly of the agent and then grabbed his head, slamming it against the counter. Blood shot from this lip and nose, and his cheek bruised.

Danny was trying to stabilize the old man, who was large and heavy, deadweight. He saw Martin and tried to catch his eye. Another smart remark might cause one of the gunmen to lose control. His partner was on his knees, coughing and panting. He saw a wad of blood spit onto the floor. Martin was leaning against a light blue vinyl stool.

"Up. Up. Let's go," the dark-haired one ordered, shoving the pregnant woman. She was scared and clutching her belly, protecting it. He put his free hand under the large shirt, rubbing the stretched skin. This caused her to sob.

"Get your paws off of her, you animal," Martin ordered in a rasp, spitting another wad of blood from his bleeding, mashed lip.

"You got a big mouth, Piggy, you know that!" he snapped, whipping the gun between the steely blue eyes. "BANG!" he teased, but the other man didn't flinch.

"RAY!" the leader hissed in annoyance, then turned to the wheezing agent. "Get up and get the money from the register." The older man had been cutting cord and tied the expectant mother's hands. He shoved her onto the floor in the kitchen with the cook and waitress.

"What are we gonna do for wheels?" the younger one asked, his gun trained on the agent shoving money in a plastic bag. What should have been an easy warehouse heist had gone south. Not only was his younger brother shot, but they killed a security guard. The dying man had put a couple rounds in the car. It died just down the road.

"One thing at a time, Ray," the man replied, "Get the hostages taken care of. Then get your brother in the back. There's a sofa in the office. A safe too."

"Let's go!" Ray grabbed the bag and hustled past the smart-mouthed agent to get to the other one. "Up against the counter," he shoved him hard.

"Let the old guy go, his heart --"

"I give a fuck about him?" Ray scoffed and took the cop's gun. Then he flicked his hip when the old man's hand came up.

"He can't breathe. Just let me get his pills," Danny tried, "They're right in his pocket."

"You don't hear so good!" Ray grabbed the fed by the collar and shoved him hard, "Leave him!" He intercepted the agent, who was trying to get the old man off the floor.

Martin's eyes shifted in a split second, first to the trio tangled up in the narrow aisle several feet away. Then to the older gunman, who turned briefly when his wounded son cried out. Every second seemed to slow down. If he could get Danny's attention, they could jump the two on their feet. He knew, like his partner did, they might not make it out alive. Gunmen didn't hold lawmen in high regard, especially ones who could identify them. Timing -- split second precision -- he could take out the father and whip around. All Danny had to do was cover the sick man.

"He's an old man, just give me a minute!" Danny shoved back, then lost his footing and hit the gunman's legs. He felt the butt of the gun hit his neck and then a numbing sensation. He was on his knees, one hand on the old man's back and peering through the area between the gunman's raised arm and his leg. That's when he saw Fitzgerald's blue eyes dart from the father, who was tending the wounded boy, to the other gunman. He mouthed the word 'no' but it was too late.

"What?" Ray saw the dark-haired man beneath him giving lip to the other cop, "Pop, watch your back!"

"What?" the old man turned, his arm flexing out.

"NO!" Danny cried out as Martin lunged.

Two shots rang out, bodies fell and a deathly silence cloaked the diner. The only sound was the howling wind and the icy rain pelting the foggy glass.