Chapter 3

Juan Seritaz was a widely known drug dealer. The only reason this burly man with ebony skin hadn't yet been brought in was because he was exceedingly efficient. None of his buyers would confess, there were never any witness to the deals; his house and car were perfectly clean, as well as his money.

Over the past few months, Seritaz had begun to increasingly resemble a tick on the laws back. Unfortunately, any officer who had come remotely close to safely removing him would end up dead or missing.

Now Vic Mackey was on the case. He and the Strike Team had been trailing their man for two days now, and presently he was driving down the street in a car borrowed from a friend.

Vic followed at a safe distance, alone in the car but comfortable in the though that his team was hiding in the shadows at every turn. Even he wasn't sure exactly where the team members had positioned themselves, but they radioed in regularly to let him know they were still there.

"Shit," Vic snarled as the car took a turn on a familiar, dumpy street. He'd been here before a few weeks ago, during the investigation of the now dead Martinez boy. Lifting the walkie up, Vic pressed the appropriate button and said urgently into the Mic, "He's heading towards Crystal's house!"

"Who?" Came the static reply. Obviously the team had already put the pathetic girl out of their minds.

"That piece of ass Dutch is trying to set his teeth in," Vic barked, continuing to follow Seritaz. "It must be about her brother."

"How do you know that's where he's going?"

"He just parked outside," Vic replied irritably as he pulled up to the curb, killing the engine. "Pull in close. Do you see him?"

"Yeah. He's getting out of the car."

"And heading for the door."

"She's on the second floor," Vic said, waiting for the man to vanish inside before getting out of his car. "OK, move in. Slowly, we don't want to tip him off!"


Stuffing the last of her things into an oversized duffle bag, Chris found she was finally ready to get the Hell out of her shit hole apartment.

With great effort she tugged the zipper across the bag, securely closing the overstuffed bag. She smiled weakly to herself as she looked at the bag, then lifted her eyes to look around the now blank, sadly empty apartment.

She had faded away into her daydream-like thoughts about getting a new job and a new apartment, and didn't hear the footsteps coming towards the door. She was so lost in her thoughts she didn't even hear the doorknob jiggle, and when a fist pounded like a hammer against the weak wood of the door, she jumped off the floor to her feet.

Eyeing the door nervously, Chris walked forward, checking that all three locks were set firmly in place. "Who is?" She asked after a moment, trying to sound tough.

"My name is Juan," boomed the thunder-like voice from the other side of the door. "You Crystal Martinez?"

Hesitating, Chris debated whether or not she should actually answer. "Why do you want to know?"

"I was a friend of your brother," the man replied. "The little fuck owed me some big cash or some big dope."

Shit! Chris jumped back from the door, a scream catching in her throat. She had cleaned everything out. She had nothing for this man. If he got through the door - which he was sure to do, and soon - he would kill her.

In a moment Chris had gone to the phone, which she was planning on leaving here due to the fact that it wasn't of the greatest quality, and began to dial.

9-11, she thought as she dialed, her eyes not watching as her fingers traveled over the buttons. As soon as she heard the voice on the other end of the line, she wished she had been paying attention. She hadn't dialed 9-11, not even close.

"Detective Holland Wagenbach."

"What the-"

"Let me in bitch!" The pounding on the door had resumed, and grew louder by the moment.

"Who is this?" Dutch asked from the other end.

"Chris," she replied quickly, crouching down against the wall, scared nearly to tears. "I need help. Someone is trying to break down my door-"

"Are you at home?"

"Yeah, I was just about to leave-"

"OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" Pound, pound, pound.

A choked cry managed to make its way through her clenched teeth as her hand tightened around the phone. A lone tear trailed down her cheek as she whispered into the phone, "He says his name is Juan."

"Seritaz?"

"I don't know." Her voice was shaking so badly she could hardly understand herself.

"It's OK," Dutch said. "Vic and his team should be in the area. And I'm coming over-"

"Just hurry!" She cried as the door began to splinter.

Another series of poundings on the door and a fist crashed through the weak wood.

Chris let out a frightened cry as she tried to wedge herself between the couch and wall, scared out of her mind. What was she supposed to do? He was breaking through the door, unlocking the locks, he was inside the apartment-


Shane leaped the last few stairs when he heard the crash coming from around the corner. As he turned he nearly ran into Vic. "Where is he?"

"Just broke in," Vic said. "What took so long?"

"A man stopped us at the door," Shane said as the others joined him. "Let's just go get this asshole."


Juan's thick hand wrapped around Chris's wrist, jerking her from behind the couch. As he body collided with the ratty piece of furniture, it jumped away from the force about four feet.

By this time, Chris was screaming bloody murder as she kicked wildly and lashed out at his face with long fingernails. "Let me go!"

Dragging her into the open, Juan threw her against the wall. When she made contact with it, it seemed to shake. She slid down to the floor, her eyes squeezed tight and the muscles in her clenched jaw taut with dull, throbbing pain.

"Where's the money?"

When she didn't answer, he raised a hand and brought it down in a hard fist against her face. She cried out as his knuckles cracked against her jaw. Pain shattered through her whole body as she fell flat against the floor.

There was a loud crash, several voices yelling, and the sounds of a scuffle. After a few minutes, the fight noises began to settle. But first, Chris heard a disgusting thud thud thud. It was the sound of a nightstick smashing down as hard as possible into the back of a man's head.

"Call an ambulance!" Shouted the rough voice of Vic Mackey.

Chris kept her eyes tightly shut, afraid to open them and see the blood that spilled inevitably from the back of her attackers head, or the blood that she tasted in her mouth and felt running from her nose. She didn't open her eyes until she felt herself being lifted up and cradled.


When Dutch arrived, a paramedic was loading the bulky body of Juan Seritaz into the back of his ambulance, while another was examining Chris, who sat numbly on the sidewalk. He pulled up to the curb, thankful that Vic and his team really had been in the vicinity.

As he climbed from the car, Vic came to greet him. "To what do we owe the pleasure?" Vic asked with a wry smirk.

"Get out of my way, Mackey."

"Don't you even want to know what happened?"

"I said get the fuck out of my way."

Vic lifted an eyebrow, feigning mild surprise. "She called you, didn't she?"

Dutch didn't even answer as he went around Vic, their shoulders colliding roughly and purposefully.

"Are you OK?" Dutch asked Chris as he approached.

She looked up at him, nodding weakly. Her jaw donned a lump over which dark bruise with a yellowish center lay. Her wrist was bruised as well, and one or two of her fingernails broken roughly away.

"I'm surprised her jaw isn't broken," the paramedic said, "after hearing what that cop had to tell us."

Dutch looked over his shoulder to the cop the paramedic had motioned too. Vic returned the glance before getting in his car and speeding off.

"What did he want?" Dutch asked, his eyes returning to Chris.

"He said my brother owed him money," Chris replied, holding back a yawn.

"She can't stay here tonight," Shane said from a few feet away, preparing to leave as well. "Her door is destroyed and this area is too bad for a girl to be sleeping in a door less apartment."

Sighing heavily, Chris closed her eyes and looked down at her feet. Sadly, that was true. "Is it possible I can stay in station tonight?" She asked quietly. "I can't move into my new apartment until morning."

"Yeah," Dutch said. "I'm sure we could set up a bed..." She looked up at him, her face sad. "You know what? Stay at my house."

"What?"
"The couch is comfortable, I'm sure you'd sleep well."

Chris looked at the paramedic, as if for advice. The guy just shrugged as he packed up his bag and went back to the ambulance.

A long moment of silence passed before Chris chirped quietly, "It wouldn't be a burden?"

"It would be easier than finding a room for you at The Barn and setting up a bed," Dutch replied easily.

The ease with which Dutch spoke made Chris all the more uneasy. She didn't know Dutch well; she wasn't even all that fond of him. OK, maybe she was a little fond. After all, her fingers had dialed his number when her mind had been thinking 9-11.

"All right," she whispered harshly, almost bitterly. "Just tonight, though."

"Of course."