Chapter Six: Escalating Stakes

Commander Norm Holleran trudged into his office, doing his best to hide the aching, bone-deep exhaustion. Hours, days, weeks, months, and still there was no end in sight. Castor Troy was still on the loose and Parker…

Grimacing, Norm flipped his office lights on and moved to the growing stack of paperwork towering on his desk. It would need to be dealt with. Soon. Idly, the commander browsed through the stack, pulling several more important papers out. When he was done thinning out the critical forms, he smirked and hefted the remainder off his desk, heading back out to the dispatcher desk.

When he reached the desk, he thumped the paperwork down in front of his curious subordinate. "Winnie, inform Sergeant Roenick that I need all of this done by Friday. And if he needs help, he can recruit all his fellow Sergeants except Lane."

A mischievous smile spread across Winnie's face, mirrored by the twinkle in Holleran's eyes. "Yes, sir."

Satisfied with his discrete punishment for the Sergeant who'd hung a fellow SRU team out to dry, Commander Holleran returned to his office. Enough was enough; it was time to bring the Castor Troy case to its ultimate conclusion. He was sick and tired of that devil ripping apart his city. A knock on the door brought the commander to a halt, frowning at the interruption.

"Enter."

The silver-haired man who entered drew a touch of surprise from the officer, along with a raised brow.

"Dr. Toth," Holleran greeted, shaking the psychologist's hand. "What can I do for you, sir?"

The doctor offered a thin, razor-sharp smile. "A mutual friend of ours got in touch, Commander."

The commander's jaw tightened, furrows appearing on his forehead. "How bad?" he asked, soft and wary.

Toth returned that solemn regard. "Our mutual friend suggests that you keep your newest Sergeant and his team on a shorter leash. Perhaps keep them away from wars they have no business being part of."

Holleran stilled, absorbing the report. "What happened?" he demanded.

A sad, mournful shake of the head. "I'm afraid, Commander, for all that our mutual friend may appreciate me more than he once did, far too much has passed between us for trust."

After a moment, Commander Holleran inclined his head in thanks. "I'll take it from here," he murmured.

"Of course; a pleasure to see you again, Commander, though I wish it were under better circumstances." Dr. Toth turned, pausing at the door to look back. "Good luck." With that, he was gone.

As soon as the doctor was gone, Holleran dug out his phone, flipping through the contacts to one simply marked Unknown. Rather than call the number, he sent a brief text message.

GOLDEN ARROW.

Message sent, the commander went to his closet, digging through the contents. A lightweight bulletproof vest sailed through the air, landing on his desk; the extra magazines and a sturdy, but discrete gun belt followed more sedately. Leaving his stash littered on the desk, Holleran shifted his search to the desk drawers; a low huff of approval accompanied his triumphant tug at a hefty black binder packed with notes and bulging at the seams. A quick snatch at his topmost, shallow drawer netted him a pen for the binder, both items joining the already cluttered desk top. The officer flipped through the thick book, scowl growing at the contents.

Partway through, his phone rang, the dulcet tones of the Mission Impossible theme shattering the still air as it poured from tiny speakers. Holleran snatched the device up, thumbing the answer button as he brought it up to his ear. "Norm here."

"It's good to hear your voice, Norm." Warm, smooth, with just a hint of elegant. "You received my message, I trust?"

"You are having entirely too much fun with the fancy," Holleran accused, shifting to lean against his desk, a smile playing at his mouth.

No laugh, no responding, knowing chuckle; a chill went up his back. "We have a problem, Norman."

"How bad?"

A pause, weighing what to say and how to say it. "Your men tried to execute a warrant last night, Norman. They…interrupted…an exchange between my men and Troy's." A breath, hesitation before dropping the bomb. "The warrant was signed by Brenda Kastor."

The curse was instant – instinct and air hissed against his teeth in a snarl. "You're sure?"

"I am." Another pause. "I reached out to a number of interested parties on this matter; they've confirmed my suspicions."

Dark eyes sharpened. "And what suspicions would those be?"

"Brenda has a brother. Two, in fact."

Ice, straight down his back, as the pieces fell into place. The horrible truth. The implications… "I'm calling Pirra on this…"

"No." Firm, unyielding. "We know. She will not expect that. Nor will she expect our contingency plan."

True. Holleran didn't like it, but he had little choice. She'd done her work too well for them to have any real wiggle room now. Forcing himself to calm down, he inquired, "The usual spot?"

"Naturally. I'll be in touch, Norm."

The phone clicked off. For several seconds, the commander stared at his desk, unseeing as the facts soaked in. Fury stirred, rising to a rapid boil. Enough. It was time to end this. Time to bring his people home.

It wasn't that simple of course. In fact, it took a good day and a half to set up his plan, confirm his suspicions, and arrange for a new contingency. Circumstances might have forced his hand, but he would no longer allow them to dictate his response. He would no longer allow them to hurt his people.

A pre-arranged message was sent, the reply narrowly regarded, even as the commander nodded approval. The tall, lean commander left his office and headed for the atrium, stopping at the dispatcher desk.

"Winnie, I'm heading out for awhile."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged.

So much he wanted to say, but that would risk everything, so he merely tipped his chin and left. Head high, shoulders back, jaw set. It was time.

One way or another, the nightmare would be over soon.

Ed avoided Wordy's concerned gaze as he geared up, donning his bullet-proof vest, but leaving his equipment vest for when they got an actual call. In a very real way, he was still…numb. He'd never realized before just how cruel hope could be. The knife it twisted in your chest, the elation that turned to naught but crushing, punishing despair. The shame it left behind as the consequences of your actions sank in.

"Ed?"

"Yeah, Word?"

"You okay?" Genuine worry backed by honest concern.

The words came, rising automatically, only to run square into an observation Greg had made a lifetime ago.

"You may want to do the math one day on all the 'I'm fine's."

His stomach wrenched, nausea bubbling. His voice sounded distant. Echoing. "No, Wordy, I'm not." Blue slid closed, wresting with the truth. "I'm really not."

A part of Ed had always known Team One couldn't last forever. Sooner or later, they would all have to move on. Promotion, transfer, retirement. Any – or all – of the above. It was just… Never, not in a million, billion years would he have dreamed it would be because Greg fell off the wagon. He'd dreaded the fallout if one of them died, but Greg slipping back into alcohol after so many years? The possibility had been so remote as to be laughable.

Until…until it hadn't been. The images flew through his mind yet again; charging into the locker room to see Greg and Holleran squaring off. The bottles he'd found in Greg's locker; the additional bottles Wordy had found in their friend's bedroom – though the rest of the apartment had been clean. His…promotion…

Dear Lord, that part hurt. Always, when he'd thought of that distant, far-off day when – if – he got promoted to Sergeant, Greg had been there. In the background, firm and supportive as always, reassuring him that he was ready, that he'd learned all he needed to. Maybe…maybe not on the team any more, but still there. Pride fairly glowing as he watched his team leader soar.

Instead, he'd been shoved into the role without so much as a warning. No hint, no clue, no chance to keep his friend from falling. There'd been no opportunity to prepare, to brace himself for the consequences of taking on Greg's chevrons, standing in his place. Only the pain and agony of a best friend lost while he floundered in uncharted, stormy waters. Playing politics with so-called colleagues quick to take advantage of the brand-new Team One Sergeant. Struggling to keep his shattered, heart-broken team afloat and knit them back together. An impossible task without their cornerstone, their guiding light, their leader. Without Greg…they weren't whole.

They hadn't given Greg their free will – they'd given him their souls. Or…at least part of them. And he had given his soul back to them; though Ed instinctively knew that the links weren't between souls, it was so close as made no nevermind. Was it really any wonder that Greg had broken under the weight of that responsibility? The keeping of their souls…it was more than any human could bear. The question was, how did they reverse that? How did they reclaim their souls without hurting each other – or Greg – any more than they already had?

He didn't know. The only thing Ed was sure of was that Team One couldn't last much longer without their center. Without Greg. Aching blue lifted to grieving gray, both men understanding without words. There were no words that could describe what it felt like to go through every day without a piece of yourself. Nothing to express what that loss had done – was doing – to them.

Only pain and grief and longing for it to end. For their boss, their best friend, their brother by spirit to come home.

Constable Winnie Camden kept her head down, careful not to look at the increasingly woebegone looks on the faces of her favorite team. Really, she was an SRU dispatcher, not Team One, but that had never seemed to make much of a difference to Sergeant Parker and his guys. She worked with Team One, so she was Team One, official designations notwithstanding.

Sighing, the dispatcher carefully hefted up the massive stack of paperwork slated for Sergeant Roenick. She'd left it to sit on the upper counter of the dispatcher desk for the past day, but she needed to move it before the stack got in someone's way or got knocked over. A loose paper slipped free as she lifted the huge pile; Winnie muttered furiously under her breath, but finished moving the stack before bending to scoop up the fallen paper. It had landed facedown, so she turned it over, rolling her eyes when it proved to be upside down. A second turn brought the sheet to a readable orientation; Winnie smiled, then the words sank in and she gasped, eyes widening as she lifted a hand to her mouth.

Quickly, she stuffed the paper out of sight and sat back down at her desk. Just in time; Ed and Wordy peeked out of the briefing room, concern shining. Winnie smiled back at them, heart thudding in her chest. When they withdrew, she pulled the sheet of paper out again, dark eyes going wider and wider. Two signatures adorned the bottom, awaiting only one more to be official. Gently, Winnie brushed the middle with her fingers, the implications…mind boggling. As was the date…

Did he know? she wondered. Did he know what their commander had in store for him? In that instant, Winnie realized the paper in her hands changed everything. It wasn't the answer to everything that had happened, but now… Now she had hope.

The phone rang and Winnie snapped to attention, quietly hiding the paper again. "Police Strategic Response Unit."

"Yeah," the man on the phone drawled. "You, ah, you might wanna toddle on down to Metro General. Pick up that commander of yours."

The line went dead, leaving Winnie staring at her screen in utter horror. Then she slammed the alarm.

Ed hit the Emergency Room doors at a dead run, his team right on his heels. Inside, a white-coated doctor waited, expression grave. His silver hair, neat mustache, and keen brown eyes were familiar, but the Sergeant wasn't interested in solving that particular mystery. "How is he?" he demanded, coming to a halt in front of the doctor.

"Sergeant Lane?" the other man questioned.

"Yeah, that's me," Ed confirmed, impatience gleaming.

"Dr. Mark Sloan, Sergeant. Your commander is extremely lucky he was wearing a vest." He let that hang, then elaborated, "Four bullets, three in center mass and one that hit right at the edge of the armor. That's our biggest problem at the moment."

"Wh…what do you mean?"

The doctor gestured for the group to follow him and led them deeper into the hospital, well away from curious, prying eyes. "The center mass rounds gave his system a shock, but, as I said, the vest took them."

Ed nodded, well aware his teammates were hanging on every word, their expressions just on the edge of panic – like his.

"The final round…" The doctor sighed heavily. "It hit right at the edge, went through, then ricocheted off the back piece of armor."

"Going deeper into his body," Lou concluded grimly.

"Precisely." Turning to them, Sloan's scowl deepened. "At the moment, Commander Holleran is in surgery; fortunately, he's in excellent health otherwise, so I expect him to pull through once we get the bullet out and repair most of the internal damage."

"What else is there?" Jules questioned shrewdly. "You could've had a nurse come tell us all this."

A brief huff. "My patient was extremely agitated when he came to and I informed him we didn't have his phone. He gave me an address and was very insistent that I ensure that a Sergeant Lane and his team were the only ones to receive that address."

Team One traded swift glances, then Ed turned to the doctor, arching a brow. "Where are we goin', Doc?"

Dr. Sloan offered a note card he'd scrawled the address on. "I apologize for my writing…" he began.

Ed passed the card to Lou without even glancing at it. "No problem…Spike here is worse."

"Hey!"

"Lou's used to translating," the Sergeant finished smoothly. "Anything else you can tell us, Doctor?"

Sloan considered, thoughtful as he rubbed his mustache. "Nothing more about your commander, I'm afraid," he replied, words slow. "The man who brought him in… I wouldn't have expected it of him, to be honest."

"You know him?" Jules pressed instantly.

The doctor shook his head. "No, but I know the type, Constable. He had that look, if you know what I mean. Usually on the wrong side of the law, not dragging in a cop who's bleeding to death."

Team One traded swift, unnerved glances, then Wordy leaned forward and asked, "What did he look like?"

The elder man frowned, closing his eyes briefly as if to summon up the memory of the scene. "Oh, about my height, I'd say, just a touch shorter than me; dark hair, brown eyes." Blue opened again and the doctor sketched a 'C' shape on his face, starting right at the corner of his eye. "A scar like so, just a thin line. Not much of an accent that I could hear." At the surprise the officers couldn't hide, Sloan graced them with a smile. "My son is a detective; most of the family is, actually. I'm a bit of a black sheep, but I get along."

"I'll say," Spike muttered; the doctor had just given them a better description than most active duty cops would.

"Got it!" Lou hissed.

Ed turned, letting a steely glint shine as he regarded his team. "Okay, let's move."

Three trucks swooped in from every direction, sirens wailing indignation and outrage. Team One hit the ground running, rage taut, but masked by professionalism. Weapons were checked, Wordy and Lou retrieving shields; given who'd likely brought their commander in, odds were that Holleran had gotten shot in some sort of gang hit gone wrong. Though none of them had been able to figure out why Scarface would save a cop.

When the team was ready, Ed ordered, "Okay, move in, guys; Jules, Spike, stay low."

"Copy," the pair chorused.

After a moment, Jules asked, "Spike, any idea which tombstone we're looking for?" In addition to the address of what had turned out to be a cemetery, Holleran's relayed instructions had included a name, which Team One suspected was a particular grave marker within the grounds.

Over the comm, the bomb tech made a frustrated noise. "It's an old cemetery, guys, with lousy records. No luck on the name Dr. Sloan gave us."

"Spike, I got a lock on the phone," Lou called.

"Great work, buddy," Spike enthused.

"Lou," Ed growled, order implicit.

"South, Boss," Lou replied at once. "Spike, head northwest; Wordy, northeast."

The groups moved in a three-way pincer move, swooping in with deadly grace and silence, weapons up. Wordy and Lou kept their shields up and ready, but the maneuver was all but wasted – there was no one there. No bodies, no gang members lying in wait – nothing. Only the wind stirring the grass around a lonely stretch of tombstones, whistling just a little as it played through aged marble and brass vases filled with flowers, most of the plants faded and wilted.

Then Ed saw it. Ricochet marks right at the edge of a taller tombstone. Blood, in a good-sized puddle, just beyond it; he could almost see Holleran diving for cover, bullets keeping his head down until he could be flanked. The commander turning to face his attacker, staggering as the nearly lethal shots struck, collapsing as that last bullet penetrated his armor.

The image evaporated. "Gun," Ed called, crouching next to the standard issue Glock right by the blood. Almost certainly Holleran's. Cautious, the Sergeant lifted the weapon, inspecting it. He sniffed at the barrel, then popped the magazine to confirm his suspicions. "Six rounds fired," he reported.

"I've got his phone," Lou informed his teammates, scooping up the device in question.

"Guys…"

Ed looked up, Jules and Wordy turned, and Lou paused in the middle of opening their commander's phone. Spike was standing in a small bushy area right next to one of the nearby tombstones. No, Ed realized, the tombstone; the name on the smooth marble was the exact name Dr. Sloan had given them. Right down to the inscription and the dates.

The bomb tech crouched, grabbing hold of something in the brush. When he straightened, Ed's breath caught. A bundle of files and folders, painstakingly wrapped in saran and hidden in the middle of a cemetery. A dead drop – literally. Holleran had come here, Holleran had known exactly where those files were. He'd been ambushed, but his attackers had not known about the files.

Emotion burned within Ed's chest. Files, dead drop, Holleran. Something was missing, why was an SRU commander checking a dead drop used by an undercover? Unless…

"Guys…"

All heads turned to a paling Lou. He held up Holleran's phone, skin going a milky chocolate hue.

"Brenda Kastor is Castor Troy's sister."

Author note: So. Tomorrow is Halloween. Not as much fun this year because of the pandemic, but still. Halloween. So in between gorging on candy and doing what trick or treating we can this year, please drop by for this year's Magical Flashpoint Halloween story!

Happy 2020 Halloween!