Chapter Five: I Want My Friend Back
After an hour of walking through the tunnels beneath the city streets, Scarface led them to another well-hidden door, opening it to reveal the same type of utilitarian staircase they'd used to escape the gang's headquarters. "Home sweet home," the mobster announced, heading up the stairs, though Ed caught the sardonic tilt to the man's jaw.
At the first landing, their guide turned to them. "Look, I ain't stupid," he began. "You cops ain't stupid either; you won't give up your guns."
"No," Ed growled before his team could speak.
Scarface flipped him off. "Shaddup. Don't be pullin' 'em, see. The lowest level's for all the littles, understand?"
Littles?
"You have kids here?" Wordy demanded, outrage blazing.
" 'Course we do, cop – you think Troy's gonna leave our families alone?"
Ed froze. No. No.
"The bullet went through him and hit his three-year-old son, Ed. The boy died instantly."
Oh, dear gawd, no.
"Stay away from him, Ed. You and the guys; he doesn't tolerate threats and from what I heard back then, he leaves his target for last."
"Why the heck would you bring kids here?" Sam hissed, fury etched in every word.
"To protect them." Rasping, horrified – was that his voice? "Troy…he…he doesn't play by any rules."
A glimmer of respect shone in Scarface's dark eyes; he nodded soberly, pain ghosting across his face. "Family's off-limits," the mobster informed Team One. "We ain't saints, but we got standards, too. You don't touch family – they ain't involved."
"But Troy goes after kids?" Jules' voice rang with disbelief and dismay.
In response, Scarface pulled out his phone, flicking through the apps before opening one and turning the phone for them to see. Ed's breath rasped against his teeth at the image on the screen – a terrified little boy with a bullet hole in his heart. The mobster flicked the phone, scrolling to the next image – a infant girl just as dead as the boy. And the next…and the next… Eleven photos in all, each…horrifying. Hatred boiled in Ed's gut, hate unlike anything he'd ever felt before – even Morgana Le Fay and Moffet had more morals than this…monster. This devil, this demon in human skin.
"We paid them back for that," Scarface murmured. "Never saw the Boss that mad, you know?"
"He blamed himself." Ed knew it, like he knew his own name, like he knew his boss, his best friend, his brother in all but blood.
Scarface sneered. "He blamed them, cop. He ain't no cop, ain't no bleedin' heart hero. We got all of Troy's lieutenants and served 'em up for fish food."
"Then Troy came after you tonight," Lou put in, subdued and still reeling.
"He ain't as smart as the Boss, cop. You keep those guns where they are; the littles don't need more scarin'."
Numb, the Sergeant followed Scarface up the next flight of steps, feeling his teammates shift and jostle on the steps behind him. Then Jules was beside him; the negotiator kept her voice low, pitched for his ears alone. "Ed…why send us after Elias?"
Confusion turned to her, too burdened to reply.
Her ponytail whipped. "If Troy goes after kids, he's ten times worse than Elias. And Elias has been keeping him busy. Why send us after the only man in the city standing between Troy and king of the underworld?"
A frown. "Maybe she doesn't know?" But how could she not? Detective Archer's son had been murdered. At three. And that had been years ago, during Troy's first reign of terror. Even halfway down a bottle, Greg had been warning him to stay away – or had Greg been playing him?
"Even if she doesn't know about the kids, she should know about the cops," Sam put in from the other side. At Ed's puzzled expression, the sniper snorted. "Come on, don't tell me you haven't heard the old timers swapping horror stories."
He had – and he'd kept Holleran's tales to himself. Troy was dangerous – ruthless and psychotic all at once. So why send his team after the lesser threat? And…and if he was right, why, why, why? Why the lies, why the disappearing act, why leave them behind? They were stronger together – Greg knew that.
"Mistah Tony!" a young, childish voice cried.
Ahead of them, Scarface chuckled and crouched down in front of a little girl with blond hair, light blue eyes, and a smile wider than her tiny face. "Hello, Miss Jane. Have you and your sister been good?"
The preschooler nodded solemnly. "We went with our nurse, Miss Layla, and didn't cry at all, Mistuh Tony. Daddy promised us a pony ride when he gets to our new home."
"He did, did he?"
Just then, the little girl noticed Team One and promptly hid behind Scarface, trembling with fear. "No," she wailed, "Don't go, Mistuh Tony! Don't let them take you away!"
Ed swallowed hard, nausea rolling. Without thinking, he crouched, just as Scarface had, and did his best to meet the terrified blonde's eyes. "Hey," he soothed, "We're not taking your friend away, promise."
Blue regarded him with great suspicion.
"Really," Ed insisted. "Your friend here – he offered to get me and my friends out of trouble if we helped your folks get away from the bad guys."
"It's true, Miss Jane," Scarface agreed – to Ed's everlasting shock. "Mister Eli invoked parley with them."
The child favored all of them with a scowl. "The right of parley," she announced, suddenly sounding like a prim schoolmarm, "is an ancient tradition of the Pirate's Code. It doesn't count for cops."
Ed winced, feeling like he'd just had a strip of hide taken off.
Scarface chuckled. "Very true, Miss Jane," he concurred, then he leaned closer and winked. "That's why Mister Eli is the boss around here – he's smart enough to make Parley work with cops." In one smooth movement, the mobster scooped the youngster up and straightened. "Come on, Miss Jane; let's find Miss Layla and your sister."
"But I want to see Mistuh Eli!" Jane protested.
"Another day, Miss Jane," Scarface soothed, heading up to the next landing where a door was cracked open just enough for a small child to get through. "Mister Eli needs to take care of our new home and make sure the bad men didn't follow us here."
The girl stuck out her lower lip, letting it tremble. "They're right behind you," she sulked.
Scarface tisked. "That's not very nice, Miss Jane," he scolded. "I'd trust a cop before I'd trust one of the bad men. Cops don't eat little munchkins who don't finish their peas."
"Peas are gross!" Jane declared, thoroughly distracted.
Ed and Wordy traded glances, both fathers struggling not to snicker, though Ed felt another pang in his gut – the little girl really believed cops were bad. Behind them, their teammates wisely kept quiet, deferring to their more experienced – in the ways of young children – colleagues.
When the group reached the landing, Scarface turned, only to nod thanks as Ed gestured his team to a halt. The mobster disappeared inside the doorway, returning a few minutes later empty-handed, expression sheepish. "Eh, ah…sorry about that…"
The Sergeant understood – ordinarily, Scarface would prefer being boiled in oil to apologizing to a group of cops, but since he and his team were – technically – Elias's guests, the mobster was trying to be a good host. Even if it meant being nice to cops.
"Don't worry about it," Ed replied gruffly. "My daughter's about a year old." He eyed the man narrowly. "So…Tony…"
Scarface fidgeted, still uncomfortable. "Anthony, actually," he admitted.
"And Eli is Elias?" Spike hazarded.
Another fidget, then the mobster scowled. "What's it to you?"
"Just curious," Ed countered before pointedly eyeing the next staircase. As interesting as it was to see how the criminal side of life lived, he wanted to meet Elias. And maybe…just maybe…get his best friend back.
On the safe house's ground floor, Scarface left them with Bennet and headed off to report to his boss. Team One automatically shifted to guard each other's backs, unnerved by the stares from Elias's people. The safe house was a bustle of activity, mobsters flowing in and out, reorganizing rapidly enough to impress an army general. Reports and gossip were just as swift and the officers watched as Bennet alternated between keeping an eye on them and handing out orders to a select group that appeared to be his crew.
Mentally, Ed worked through the command structure he was seeing. Elias at the top of course, then Scarface. If he was right, then there were several chiefs below Scarface, answering to both the top men equally and running their various crews. Tight and efficient, though Ed wasn't sure how tenable it was long term. Without loyalty, the chiefs would always be jostling for a larger piece of the pie – their crew, likewise.
Except… If he was right… Muggles, Squibs, Squib-borns – Greg had taken a disparate group of police officers and turned them into a family. Into one of the best SRU teams in the city. After that, how hard could wrangling a group of criminals be? Oh, his friend would undoubtedly demur and insist that Team One was far easier to handle, but still.
Blue eyes flicked around, judging the determination he saw on almost every face. These people had just been driven out of their home, their headquarters, and they were still raring to go. He hadn't heard even one whisper against Elias, no, all the conversations he'd eavesdropped on had to do with how to get their new headquarters up and running so they could take the fight to Troy. Loyalty – Elias's people had it in spades. How the heck did Greg do that? Still…still be himself while pretending to be an Italian mob boss?
Behind the Sergeant, he could feel his teammates' eyes on his back, all of them wary and afraid; none of them had seen what he'd seen in that split second. None of them understood why he'd agreed to help a gang of criminals, why he'd only asked to meet their leader before accepting the offered truce. Sure, they'd been in a bad spot, but Ed knew his team; they could've gotten out with a little patience and maybe a touch of magical luck. Uncertainty lashed at him – what if he was wrong?
But no, he wasn't – it was Greg, he knew it in his bones. And now…now Greg could come home. He could have his spot back, everything would be normal again. No more fighting with the other Sergeants and jostling to get his team back to the top. He could go back to team leader, with Wordy as their ever stalwart backup team leader. Whatever reason Greg had for lying, for slipping off to go undercover, they could deal. Put things right.
"All right, cop, Boss is ready for you."
Ed straightened, turning towards Scarface. His teammates shifted, ready to follow, trusting their leader.
Only for Scarface to shake his head. "Just you, cop. No one else."
"Ed," Wordy protested, reaching out and grabbing his Sergeant's shoulder. "Let's just go; that's too much."
Nothing was too much for Greg; Ed shrugged his best friend's hand away. "You got it," he replied, determinedly ignoring his teammates' incredulous glares. Glancing over his shoulder, the Sergeant remarked, "Be right back, guys." Horror, dismay, fear, but they'd deal. Once they had the Boss back, it would all be better. It had to be.
Without any hesitation, Ed followed the mobster into the crowd, head high and shoulders back. Just another day on the job. Scarface wound through the assembly, pausing every so often to make sure he hadn't left the officer behind, an amused, sardonic gleam in dark eyes. Ed ignored that; Scarface had no idea. Once a cop, always a cop; Greg was no criminal, he was one of the best cops in the city. And once they were back together, once Team One was whole again, they'd show Castor Troy what for.
The mobster headed up a staircase, Ed on his heels; as the pair ascended, the ruckus began to die down. Less noise, less people – good; Greg hadn't done well with loud situations ever since that long ago airport escort and a certain grenade Sam had jumped on. The Sergeant restrained a smile, imagining the look on his friend's face. Or did Greg already know he was here? No, he had to know – unless his friend made a habit of shooting bad guys right before they could kill cops…in the middle of a wild, insane shootout.
Ahead of them, a voice rose. "Check the south escape; it was only put in yesterday, so make sure we didn't strain the setting concrete."
"Yes, Boss," another replied.
"Head count?"
"All the families are accounted for, Boss; seven confirmed dead before we evacuated, but we still got people coming in."
"All right, keep a tab and let me know once you have the final numbers."
"Yes, sir."
A brief pause, then, "Timmons, get in touch with your contacts; let's see what scurrying the Ra-Kacharz can pick up after tonight."
"Understood, Boss."
"Good. Dismissed, all of you; I have a guest."
Ed swallowed hard at the clatter from the room ahead, the mobsters dispersing to their various tasks. Soon…soon.
I want my friend back.
If only to himself, he was honest enough to admit that was the real reason he was so firmly convinced of what he'd seen. If Greg was here, undercover, then he wasn't halfway down a bottle, drunk as a skunk and refusing to get better. He'd hurt them, yes, but this – this was fixable. Recoverable. At the corner of his eye, he saw Scarface leer at his hesitation. Firming his stance and setting his jaw, Ed Lane walked into the room to meet Carl Elias.
Hazel eyes swung to him, hidden behind wire frames. Elias wore a soft looking button down shirt – washed out blue – and a pair of dark brown slacks. Partially bald, stocky, with an expression far more suited to…
Greg. He'd never been more sure of anything in his life. Hazel hardened, shifting to pure topaz; Greg suddenly close enough to touch and…
His back hit the wall, forcing the breath from his lungs. Burning fury, a stranger's coldness, staring him in the face and snarling outrage. Words…focus on the words…
"…dare call me that again, cop!"
But…
Another slam; his head rang with the force of impact. "Call me by that name, again, cop, and I'll make being drawn and quartered look like a picnic!"
Ed flinched violently, remembering. The goblins had done that to Moffet's body, demanding vengeance after they'd taken down all of the psychopathic wizard's dark magic-tech labs. As Goblin-Friend, Greg's presence had been required – he'd tagged along out of sheer obstinate refusal to let his best friend face that nightmare alone. A nightmare that had spawned weeks of nighttime misery as his imagination went wild.
"Get him out of my sight, Anthony. Take him back to his pathetic team of SWAT rejects and get them the heck out of my safe house!"
No one said anything to him all the way back to the barn. He didn't speak through the debrief, numbly signing the transcript with his name and badge number. The world was a blur, his movements on autopilot. He called Sophie, not sure what he said, only that she agreed to let him stay late at the barn.
Agony raged through him as he changed into his sweats, leaving his uniform out on the bench. Grief and shock and why, why, WHY!? The yell erupted, right along with his fist as he struck the punching bag, sending it swinging wildly. Pain engulfed him, breath coming in pants, movements sharp, just on the edge of control. It wasn't right, it wasn't fair – why hadn't it been Greg, why had it been someone who had all of his looks, but none of his soul?
Tears streamed down his face, unnoticed as he battered the punching bag, the howls ripping free. So perfect, it had been so perfect – and wrong. How? How had he gotten it so wrong, why had he risked his team? Another roar, another furious haymaker, sending the bag spinning once more.
Please, Greg; I want my friend back…
When the tears turned to sobs, he sank down on the mat, vaguely ashamed, but it hurt too much to care…
"Who's Greg?"
"Hmmm?" Elias inquired, turning his head just enough to eye his second.
Anthony shrugged. "That cop; he called you 'Greg'."
"Ah. That…" Elias grimaced, rubbing a hand over his head. "Sergeant Gregory Parker, Police Strategic Response Unit."
"That unit," Anthony breathed, earning a nod.
"My…younger brother." A smirk twitched. "By two minutes."
Anthony considered the information. "So…why would he think you're Greg?"
Another twitch of the jaw. "We don't discuss each other much, Anthony. No calls, no birthday greetings, no Christmas cards." A pause. "However…I'm well aware of what my brother has been up to of late."
He felt his second's burning curiosity and allowed another grimace.
"Vodka, mostly. Probably quite a bit of beer, possibly tequila for a bit of…spice…on occasion. He was suspended from duty several months ago."
"And who was that?"
Elias shrugged. "Obviously, one of my brother's former teammates." He considered a moment, then tilted his head. "Don't worry about my alcoholic of a twin, Anthony, or his former team. Find out how Castor found us."
"Yessir."
Shaking. Still shaking. Grief and loss and an ache in his soul that just wouldn't go away. So much for the tough as nails SRU cop who could take everything life threw at him without blinking. And while Wordy would always be his best friend, he just wasn't enough. He needed Greg. They all did. To have him back, if only for that one precious instant…
Misery sent chills cascading down his spine, but he choked back the tears. No need to ruin the rest of his reputation, after all. The phone vibrated in his grasp as he dialed, the display on the landline blurring. Ringing…good. Greg was gone; he had nothing left to give.
"H'll'?"
"Greg." Sorrow, anguish, and a silent plea. Stop, Greg. Please stop…I want my friend back.
"Edd'e? Y'u 'k'y?"
Blurring…moisture against his face, chin and shoulders bowing under a load too heavy to carry. "Greg. Tell me you're undercover," Ed begged. "Tell me you lied to us and went undercover." Trembling, shaking… Please, I want my friend back. "Please, Greg…"
"Ed?"
A choked sob, breaking past his defenses. "Tell me you saved my life and slammed me against the wall 'cause I was stupid and almost broke your cover," he pleaded. "Tell me…tell me you're doing all that, not drowning yourself in every bottle you get near."
"Eddie…" Soft, familiar, aching right along with him. "Let it out, buddy. I won't tell anyone."
"Promise?" Ed choked.
A low, sorrowful chuckle. "I'm with you, Ed. To the end. Now talk to me, Ed. What happened tonight?"
Bit by bit, he told his boss what had happened. The warrant call, going in – the attack that had started right as they got too far in to pull out. The shootout, the truce, meeting Carl Elias. All of it, good and bad; he even told Greg about little Jane and her fear of cops.
When he was done, his friend's silence was thoughtful. Processing, weighing what he'd heard and how to react. "What was the name of your contact, Eddie?"
"Brenda Kastor," Ed replied, startled at the other man's sharp breath. "Greg?"
"Nothing, Eddie, just banged my elbow."
The Sergeant winced. "Why they call that thing the funny bone…"
"Copy that," Greg agreed fervently. Then amusement trickled in. "The Pirate's Code, Ed?"
Looking back at it, he laughed. "Spike got it before I did," the sniper admitted sheepishly.
"All we need is Jack Sparrow and the Black Pearl," his former boss joked.
"No skeletons, Boss," Ed retorted.
"So…this… Carl Elias, right?"
"Yeah, that's right."
"He looked like me, Eddie?"
"Spitting image, Greg. I…" He gulped, pain surging. "Boss…please, tell me he's you."
"Now, Eddie, you know me," Greg chided. "Do you honestly think I could go undercover like this all by myself? I'm not Roy, you know."
"No," Ed admitted. "Not by yourself, Boss." Hope faded. "You'd need an anchor."
After all, wasn't that how the 'team sense' had come about in the first place? Greg, needing an anchor, reaching out to find six, ready and waiting. The team – it was too closely connected for Greg to pull a solo act like this one. It was one thing to trick subjects in the middle of a call, pulling snow jobs and short term con jobs, pretending to be anything from security to a jealous ex, but long term? There was a reason they were SRU, not Intelligence Services.
Could Greg pull an undercover gig off? Sure, he could, but not alone. Not without someone to connect to, to remind him of who he really was, keep him from drowning in his own invented persona. Not…not without jeopardizing every scrap of progress he'd made since he'd gone cold turkey for a little orphan girl who'd just lost her mother.
Realization was a hammer blow, right to the ribs. Elias…he wasn't Greg; he couldn't be. And that meant…that meant Greg really was in rehab because he'd buried himself in a bottle, again, and turned his back on everything he'd worked for. Turned his back on them. He'd…he'd risked his team for a wild goose chase, a chance that he never should've taken.
"Eddie, Eddie, I'd have done it, too."
What? "Greg?"
Soft, affectionate. "Come on, Eddie; someone who looks just like a friend of mine? You had to take that chance. Besides, you guys all had your Auror badges, right?"
"Yeah," Ed managed. "But that would've busted the Statute."
Greg chuckled. "I seem to remember telling Brian that given a choice between keeping the Statute and saving lives…"
"We'd save lives every time," Ed finished, emotions settling. "Copy that, Boss."
A soft hiss from the other end; the sniper froze in horror. "Anytime, Eddie," Greg replied cheerfully, audibly taking a swig of his drink. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I've made my stash wait long enough."
"Greg, please," Ed pleaded. "Stop it. We miss you, Boss. Even…" His throat tightened. "Even if you never come back to the SRU, you don't have to keep doing this. Please."
"It's a good try, Ed," Greg acknowledged. "I salute you." He could practically see Greg saluting the phone before swallowing another gulp of that poison.
"Fine," the Sergeant snarled, rage slamming sorrow aside as emotion boiled over and self-control evaporated. "Be that way!" He slammed the phone down, uncaring of whether Greg could get his side away in time. He deserved what he got.
Panting, Ed stared at the landline, feeling the anger drain away. It was tempting, so very tempting, to give up on Greg, but he couldn't. Give up on his family? Never, not ever. No matter how much it hurt.
Please, Aslan…I want my brother back…
There was no response save the ghost quiet whisper of the air conditioning. And the anguish of hope seen and lost again…