Book 3 of Cat and Mouse
Title: Startup Costs
Rating: PG-13 for language, violence, and adult situations
Summary: Sam, former FBI agent and friend of the turtles starts a private security business in New York City, while back in the lair Mike deals with family life, and the return of Agent Sanders.
Credits: Thanks to the beautifully talented and endlessly patient Sassy for the beta read.
Disclaimer: I do not own the turtles, Splinter, Casey, April, or a toaster oven. Not for profit – only for fun.
Author's Notes: The reviews, as usual, are fantastically encouraging.
Pacphys: That just sucks that you went through all that. Good for you that you got out of a bad situation.
Reluctant Dragon: Yes! You get the prize! Spot on with Raph's completely understandable anger with Sam. That's exactly the point I was trying to make.
Thanks BubblyShell, Sassy, Fallen Hikari and Reinbeauchaser for your excellent comments. Rachel's story has actually been a fairly large challenge for me, and I'm relieved that her tale is believable. Now, I must insert an evil laugh …
Chapter 4:
Four years earlier …
A little pink line should not bring terror. Juliet checked the innocuous white stick again, but the result remained the same.
She was pregnant – again.
Juliet slid down the wall of the small blue bathroom, and curled into a ball against the cold tile wall. The stick in her hand shook wildly back and forth. In less than an hour, Greg would be home and she would have to tell him. She shuddered at the idea. He would be furious. He had said that one child was enough, and that she could not have any more.
God knows, she hadn't been trying. Her pill must have stopped working, but he wouldn't accept that as an excuse.
She swallowed, and moved unsteadily to her feet. She had to pick up Rachel from preschool, and make dinner. There was no time to panic. Later, when his eyes turned cold at the news. When he threw her into their bedroom and used his fists to punish her – then it would be time to panic.
Slipping into an alley after successfully questioning Sherry, Sam was in a hurry to get to her car. She wasn't certain what she was going to do when she found Bright. Citizen's arrest? Unlikely, but she felt a little like she was on a speeding train, and the brakes seemed just out of reach. She hurried along, ignoring the shadows around her, until one of them moved into her path.
Sam jumped back, completely surprised, and Don caught her elbow in a tight grip to keep her from running.
"You scared me half to death," Sam complained breathlessly, her heart beating triple time in her chest from the fright.
"What are you doing?" Don questioned, his tone brusque.
"You mean when you're not jumping out of the shadows at me?" Sam retorted. She tried shaking his hand off, but his fingers dug in a little to demonstrate that he wasn't letting go. "What?" she asked, her voice reflecting her irritation at being stopped. If she stopped, then she might be forced to think. A noise came from the mouth of the alley - a group of people walked by, talking loudly. Don tugged on her arm, and she followed him down the alley to a graffiti covered door. "Where do you think ...?" she began, only to have her words dry up as Don slammed his shoulder into the door. It popped open to reveal only blackness beyond.
He drew her into the darkness, and shoved the door shut with his free hand.
Sam shivered. It was utterly black in here. It must have been a warehouse at one point, but now the windows were covered and the cavernous space seemed to echo her breathing.
"Don ...," Sam started, feeling little prickles of fear at his silence. He was still holding her arm tightly, so she knew he was still there.
"What ... do you think ... you are doing?" he asked again through gritted teeth, and Sam realized he was well and truly angry. "And don't tell me you are looking for Russell's mother, because I know she's dead."
"I ... I know who shot Carl Adams," Sam confessed. She blinked her eyes repeatedly, but the dark remained as heavily as before.
"Then tell the police," Don replied sharply.
"They won't do anything," Sam retorted. "They don't care who shot a drug dealer."
"Then why do you care?" Don queried. The response was silence. "Do you even know what you're doing anymore?" Sam shook her head, and then wondered if he could see the movement. He let go of her arm, and Sam felt him withdraw a pace. "Are you trying to kill yourself?" he asked in a gentler tone.
"No," Sam replied, shocked. "No, I just ... I owe it to him ... to find out who killed him."
"And do what? Exact revenge?"
What was she going to do when she got to Bright's? "That's none of your concern," she answered icily, covering over her own uncertainty with anger.
"I've made it my concern," he retorted.
"Then stop," Sam raged. "Stop following me, and stop interfering!" Her louder tone disturbed something in the darkness, and she heard the anxious rustle of wings from somewhere above their heads. "I don't know who you think you are to tell me what to do!"
"I thought I was your friend," Don replied, his voice softer now.
"Oh, come on," Sam scoffed, her temper out of her control now. Words were tumbling out of her mouth that she would wish later she had never said. "You look at Juliet and Mike, and you think that could be us! So you puppy-dog around after me in the hopes I'll forget what you are." The accusation was met with a deep silence. Sam put a hand to her heated face, and wondered if it was the complete darkness, or her exhaustion, that were making her say these things.
"So I'm good enough when you need help." Don's voice floated out of the blackness, and Sam winced at the hurt and betrayal in it. "You can forget that I'm not human when I'm convenient to you."
It was like standing on a ledge, high above the street. Sam backed off, feeling a little sick at what had just happened between them. "Don, I'm tired and ..."
"No, I'm glad you told me how you feel," Don replied, his voice now disturbingly cold. She heard something near where she thought the door was. It opened a little, and a shaft of pale light came in, revealing Don's profile. "Be assured I will not be 'puppy-dogging' after you anymore." The door was pushed wide open, and he vanished through it.
Sam put her hands to her face, and tried to find a sliver of rational thought in her own mind. Why? Why had she done that? It was completely insane … But was it untrue? She did know, in her own mind, that a relationship between them was impossible, right? Because they were too different, weren't they?
But he cared, and he was trying to protect her. And she had uttered the words most likely to drive him away for a simple reason. To make sure Don was far, far away when she went after Bright. Because she knew what she was going to do when she got to the apartment.
She was going to kill him.
This building was far worse than Vonda's, and even the darkness of night was not kind enough to hide the crumbling facade,broken windows, and trash piled up out front. This building was the end of the line – a bare step up from the street. Sam climbed out of her car, and made sure she had a flashlight in her pocket. It didn't look like any lights were on inside.
The front door was open, and the mailboxes were mostly jimmied and hanging askew. One bare bulb lit the front entryway, but there was plenty of room for shadows. Sam kept one hand on her gun as she moved up the stairs. From somewhere above, just as she reached the third floor, she heard a thin scream. The sound sent a shiver down her spine, but she gritted her teeth and kept on.
As expected, the third floor hallway was completely dark. Sam used her flashlight, checking numbers until she reached 303. She paused, fighting a roiling nausea at the combined smells of vomit, cooking, and layers of cigarette smoke. She reached up and knocked, and then waited a minute feeling foolish. Finally she took a step back, and kicked the door in.
Like a flimsy piece of cardboard it gave immediately to reveal an interior nearly as dim as the hall. A light glowed from off to the right, and Sam followed it, her hand to her nose to block some of the stench. She stepped through into what appeared to be a living room with a sagging sofa and a lamp on the floor. Her quarry, Bright, was lounging on the floor in jeans and a soiled t-shirt. He blinked owlishly up at her, but showed no indication of fear or concern. A gun lay on the sofa cushion not far away, but he made no move to go for it.
He blinked again, and Sam took in the open shoebox near his left leg. It was obvious he was high. As far as he was concerned, she was just another hallucination.
Cautiously, she drew her gun. A bead of sweat fell into her left eye, and she swiped it away with her free hand, grimacing at the sting. She held the gun out, two handed grip now, and sighted down the barrel at Bright. Here was the man who had killed Richard's nephew in cold blood less than 48 hours ago. Here he was, in front of her. Her hands trembled a little, and the barrel wavered.
Sam lowered the gun, and ground her teeth together in frustration.
She couldn't do it. No matter what excuse entered her head: here was scum that no one would miss; it was justice. She still couldn't do it. Roughly she shoved the gun back into the holster.
The familiar sound of a weapon cocking behind her made her start to spin around. Two shots fired, the bullets flying past her cheek close enough that she felt the heat of their passing. They slammed into their target, and Bright's body jerked and then fell limp again.
Realizing it was already too late – she had been much too slow, Sam turned to face the shooter.
"Well," Sanders said, his gun now pointing at Sam. "Now that we're alone, where is my wife?"