Melissa Asten was sitting at Monahan's desk in his office at the precinct, sipping coffee when her husband walked in with Captain Donovan. She stood quickly, and ran to Asten, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Oh Bob...thank God you're all right."

He pat her gently on the back as Donovan backed out the door, giving them a little privacy.

"I'm fine, honey," Asten said, "I'm sorry I scared you like that."

She held his face between her hands. "As long as you're okay, that's all that matters to me." She kissed him lightly, then looked into his eyes. "Lt. Monahan said you and Quincy were being detained by the F.B.I. Bob, what in the world's going on?"

He broke away from her gently. "You'd better sit down, 'Liss, this is going to take some explaining."


Monahan glared at the young S.W.A.T. officer. "An entire police force of resources at your fingertips and puttin' a tail on him's the best thing you can come up with?"

The young man looked as though he'd just swallowed a box of nails. "Well sir, I...well--"

"--Shut-up, Ulster. Just...get outta here, I can't stand the sight of you." Monahan looked over at Brill as the young officer quickly skulked from view. "What do you have, Brill?"

"Chances are the feds aren't going to be sharing any info with us, and they certainly aren't going to let us in on their plans, or even let any of us speak with Quincy. Best guess: they'll take him to Vegas and try and nail Vandano there. It's smaller, closer and they can isolate the target better in that venue. Besides, I did a little checking, and Vandano has quite a bit of his personal assets tied up in the strip, so he's there a lot, and not likely to take it well if Quincy, posing as Michael, makes an attempt at some kind of extortion."

Monahan looked sharply at Brill. "You sound pretty sure that the feds'll go that route."

Brill smiled shrewdly. "I got a man inside that can feed us a little."

"Yeah." Monahan smiled, and then glanced at the rest of the cops assembled in the room. "That, gentlemen, is how police work is done." Donovan walked in then, and Monahan stared at him. "We've got an angle, captain, now we just need to formulate a plan."

Donovan nodded, his face grim. "Frank, I, uh, need to see you for a minute..."

Monahan's belly dropped to his knees, but all he said was, "Brill, get started, I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Yes, lieutenant," came the crisp response.

Monahan followed Donovan out into the main squad room and then into the captain's office. Donovan closed the door, and Monahan felt the sweat begin to roll down his back.

"How'd it go with the feds, Stan?"

"'Bout like we anticipated. Quincy cut a deal to try and save Asten's sorry behind. I honestly don't know how much we can do on this one, Frank."

"What're you sayin', Stan?"

Donovan put a gentle hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "I'm saying they've got Quincy by the balls, Frank. He's gonna do whatever they tell him, no matter what the cost to himself. They're holding Asten over his head; I can't see him giving in, can you?" Monahan shook his head and Donovan continued, "The feds aren't gonna look kindly on any local agency operating outside its jurisdiction, interfering with their take down of Anthony Vandano."

"Stan, Quincy's a friend of mine, I can't just abandon him, any more than I could you."

Donovan's mouth pulled into a tight line as he walked behind his desk, creating a barrier. "Frank, it's the F.B.I. we're talking about, not some public-funded junior cotillion."

"Are you tellin' me we're not gonna do anything, captain?"

The stiffness in Monahan's tone stuck in Donovan's craw, but on a personal level, he understood it. "I'm telling you to drop it, Lt. Monahan. That's an order."

"You can't be serious."

"I'm afraid I am, lieutenant."

"You realize that Sequana will get Quincy killed in order to get to Vandano?"

"I know that, damnit," Donovan growled. "The F.B.I. considers Quincy to be expendable collateral. What can I do, Frank? If I sanction a move on behalf of this department, we're all gonna lose our jobs, or worse, wind up in a federal pen. Do you get that, Frank?"

"Yeah, I got it. The thing is, Stan, keeping this job, or any job isn't worth Quincy's life to me." Monahan pulled out his badge and his gun, and tossed them onto Donovan's desk. "You know where you can put those, Stan. I'm done."

Donovan watched one of his best cops and closest friends storm out of his office, slamming the door behind him. And Stan Donovan smiled.


Danny set the plates of food down on the table, and took a seat between Brill and Sam. It was the where they usually gathered to play poker after hours, but now it served as the meeting place to discuss how they were going to help Quincy.

As he so often did, Asten cut right to the chase. "Where do we stand with the department, lieutenant?"

Monahan shook his head. "We can't rely on them for anything...at least not in an official capacity. If we do this thing, we're on our own, and everyone needs to understand that."

Danny frowned. "How can that be with two of LA's finest sitting right here?"

Brill answered, "I'm afraid the lieutenant and I are no longer with the department, Danny."

Sam's eyes opened wide. "What?"

"Don't look so surprised, Sam," Monahan said, "the captain sure wasn't."

"And you think he might help us, unofficially?" Asten asked.

"Well, let's say I think he'll turn a blind eye for as long as he can to whatever we do, and whatever resources we might tap within the department."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt us?" Danny said.

"Something like that," Monahan agreed.

"And exactly what are we going to do?" Sam asked. "We don't even know if Quince is okay."

"He's okay, Sam," Monahan said, "They're gonna take real good care of him, don't you worry. At least until they don't need him anymore..."

That thought sent a shiver through Danny's spine.


Quincy tossed again, unable to find sleep. The motel bed was adequate enough, but the coroner found he couldn't rest knowing he was surrounded by federal agents. He rubbed his burning stomach, wishing that he at least had a glass of milk nearby; but when he'd asked for some earlier, the fed standing watch over his room had told him to just drink water. Quincy hadn't bothered to try and explain to him why water couldn't substitute for milk.

He turned on his side, pulling his knees up, holding his stomach in pain. It was going to be a long night.


Michael Quincy's neighbors on Sycamore Lane didn't notice as two unmarked government cars pulled up outside his house at 2am. Eight men emptied into the street and quietly entered the house through the front door. After securing the premise, they methodically and painstakingly went through every inch of the property, looking for anything of interest, placing such items in plastic bags which then went into a central container on the kitchen table. By daybreak the house had been searched, printed, completely cleaned and reset, awaiting the arrival of the man who didn't live there, but could occupy the premise without arousing any suspicion.

The agents climbed back into their cars and were gone before the newspaper boy cut across lawns on his bike, tossing copies of the Las Vegas Sun Times on the doorsteps of the quiet suburb that bartenders, dancers and casino workers called home.


Quincy started awake and pulled away from the tall man shaking his shoulder.

"Sorry doc, didn't meant to startle you."

"Yeah, I'm sure you didn't," Quincy said crankily.

The large agent placed a styrofoam cup on the nightstand. "Here's some coffee."

"Thanks," Quincy muttered as he sat up, rubbing his tired eyes. He picked up the cup and sipped at the hot liquid, knowing full well his stomach was going to object. "Do I have time to take a shower?"

"I'm afraid not, doc. We've got to get on the road."

Quincy took another sip from the cup. "Is someone at least going to explain to me where it is we're going and what it is I'm supposed to do when we get there?"

"Yes. You'll be briefed when the time comes, Dr. Quincy." He headed for the door. "You've got five minutes until we leave."

The man closed the door, but Quincy knew he was standing only a few feet from it. He looked over at the telephone, and he wondered. The medical examiner set his cup down, picked up the receiver and waited: but there was no dial tone.

"Figures," Quincy mumbled as he set the receiver back into its cradle.

There was no way for him to contact Monahan or Asten or anyone back in LA. He was truly on his own, having to trust that the men around him, weren't going to get him killed. A sharp pain rolled through his stomach. He didn't trust them at all.