You Can Take It With You

by Sueg5123

Pruit shook his head in exasperation and obvious condescension. "Disruption, Mac. Dis. Ruption. I told your predecessor that I wanted disruption to the media status quo at ACN. So if you're going to work out—if you don't want your next promotion to be to the position of president emeritus—you need to get on board."

4. Collision

Chapter 4

Collision

"I should go," Millie dropped the books she held on the edge of the desk with a louder than intended thwack.

"No. Stay." Mac motioned back to the room. Then, her eyes traveled back to Will.

"What's happening, Will?"

He licked his lips, unprepared for this confrontation with this audience.

"There's been so much going on—so much weighing you down—and I know Pruit is being a real dick. I just wanted to ask Millie—so I could know what you're dealing with, figure out how I can absorb some of the shocks for you—" He struggled to phrase this so she would accept it. "Mac, I respect the work boundaries, I really do, but there are times when things transcend—"

She put up a hand, quelling his anxious ramble.

"I come back from a meeting with Lucas and find my husband in my office, pumping my assistant for information—"

"I want to help!" he blurted. "I know what you're up against and I won't let you do this by yourself."

"You won't?"

She strode to her desk and opened a drawer. "You're right. I ought to be able to rely on your help." There was a protracted pause while she bent to her bottom desk drawer and placed a handful of envelopes on the desktop. "Here's a problem you can help me resolve."

Millie was vibrating with discomfort now, shifting her weight and giving Mac a desperate look.

Will picked up an envelope, withdrew the card and read. He looked up wordlessly, then reached for another. Did the same. Finally, swallowing, "Mac—how long has this—why haven't you—"He cast an anxious glance at Millie.

"She knows. She opened one by mistake."

Well. That went a long way to explaining Millie's earlier recalcitrance. Not to mention the strange asides from Mac recently.

"Here." Mac extended the most recent envelope and, after he'd taken it from her, leaned against the top of the desk. "This is the best one. It arrived less than two weeks ago. Tell me what you think."

Shit.

A photo of him with Nina Howard.

But, wait—

Now he was truly flummoxed. "I—I—this isn't-you can't believe—"

"I don't." She eased into the chair. "I'm not playing jealous wife, Will, though somebody surely intended that I should. I don't believe you're having trysts with Nina Howard. I'm not angry—well, not with you. Someone has been putting on a show at your expense for my detriment." She gestured to the small stack of envelopes.

"These—communiques—have been trickling in at the rate of one every two weeks. Haven't they?" She looked to Millie, who nodded on cue. "It occurred to me immediately that if they were intended as extortion, the notes would have gone to you, not me. The only value in sending them to me is as psy-ops. Trying to mess with my head. And, then—" she crossed her arms, "I had to ask myself, who benefits from that?

"Now, I don't think Nina is above torture for the pleasure of it. She would pull the wings off a fly if it suited her. But Nina is a smart girl and there really isn't a pay-off in this for her. I think she would want a pay-off…"

"My god, Mac, why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to see where it was going." She sighed and made a gesture of dismissal. "Besides, there was no way to bring it up without it sounding accusatory. I knew it wouldn't be a thing unless I made it a thing."

Millie cleared her throat. "I'll just take this—" she reached out to seize a book, any book, "outside."

"Wait—one more thing, Millie. You both need to hear this." She held out her hand to Will. "This is my best friend and most trusted partner. Even in this office."

Millie smiled, ducked her head in acknowledgement, and bolted for the door.

"You heard that part, too?"

"Afraid so. Now, shall we carry on with the forensics?"

"Nina."

An exhumation not at the top of her list.

"She did call me a few weeks ago. Called. I was having lunch with Pruit and his sidekick and didn't want to talk to her then, but I called her back later. I never met her anywhere, and I have no idea where this picture came from. She wanted to tell me that a third party was snooping around, asking a lot of questions about your time as an embed."

"Mining for adverse information, I'm sure." Her lips formed a grim smile. Nina was still a tender subject. "Just please tell me you didn't give her any money."

"Of course, I didn't. She never asked for it. Although if she had—if I could be sure it would help bury whatever it is that someone is trying to dig up—well, financial surveillance be damned. But she just wanted us to know people were inquiring, wanted us to be on our guard."

At this Mac, snorted and picked up the photograph.

"It was a phone call, Mac. I can't explain that photograph—maybe it's an old one, put to new purposes." He sought to soften the impact of it. "I can't for the life of me remember—well, anyway, it's hardly in flagrante delicto."

"It looks decidedly in flagrante to me."

"She was trying to help. By calling. She didn't have to do that."

"Yes. Well. Don't expect me to name our child after her." She slid the picture across to him. "This has been Photo-shopped, and amateurishly at that. I'm surprised you didn't notice you have only three fingers in that picture."

He blinked and bent nearer to scrutinize it.

The phone buzzed and Mac tapped the button. "Please take a message, Millie, I'll be a few more minutes."

"It's Andrea Wells. I told her you were in conference but she insisted that I interrupt. She said it pertains to the FCC hearings and data compression."

"Tell her I'll be there when I get there."

Will hoisted his eyebrows in mild surprise. Mac wasn't normally brusque to co-workers.

She gave a slight shrug. "I've found you don't get treated like the president of the news division until you act like the president of the news division. One of those kernels of wisdom I'm sure Charlie would have passed along if there had been time. Where were we?"

"We were just getting to who might be responsible for this," indicating the photograph. Then, taking his cue from her expression, he added, "You've figured this out, haven't you?"

A slow blink and wordless nod.

"Pruit?" Will ground out the name, already pre-disposed to take this situation into his own hands.

She opened her mouth to speak but seemed to think better of it. She reached across and squeezed his hand. "Let me take care of this, Will." There would be plenty of time to deal with petty workplace bullying tactics.

oooo

By the time Mac finally made it to Andrea's office, which was surprisingly large and well-appointed for the latter's relative junior position, the urgency had dissipated somewhat. Andrea wanted Mac to help her craft an arresting description of ACN Digital's data compression technology; unsurprisingly, Bree had proven an inarticulate boor when it came to communication with actual people, and Lucas was anxious to put the correct amount of spin on de-bundling during the FCC hearings. Mac abandoned any attempt to wordsmith what Andrea had already prepared (with Bree's input) and instead dictated relevant phrases and a killer summation. With detachment and slight annoyance, Mac watched Andrea struggle to jot it all down.

Later, Mac watched News Night from Control. Jim handled the broadcast with aplomb, and she still felt great pride in the show, even though she herself was rarely involved in the day-to-day anymore. She resented the Day 93 graphic inserted into the upper right corner of the screen, denoting the number of days since Andrew Murdoch had gone missing. That was Lucas Pruit's contribution to the broadcast, and she felt it trivialized News Night and reduced Murdoch's life to an inane abacas. She had been a little disappointed that Will hadn't protested inclusion of the counter, because he might have the clout to change Pruit's mind, but forced herself to remember that, even now, the two McAvoys often approached the news from differing perspectives. Mac understood collection of the news; Will understood the presentation. Perhaps Will's acquiescence to the counter was really the right attitude, keeping Drew front-and-center before the public.

She tried to imagine what Charlie's view would have been.

"And—we're out," Herb said, a moment before the closing theme began.

"Good show, everyone."

Jim slipped his headset off and managed a shy smile back at Mac. Praise from her was invariably hard-earned and always well worth it.

She pushed through the frosted glass door and into the studio, where Will had removed his earpiece from his ear and was attempting to pull the cord through his suit jacket.

"Here. Let me help."

"Looking awfully good tonight, Madame President," he murmured as she leaned near. "Got plans?"

She ran a hand to smooth his jacket, then took both his hands and placed them on either side of her swollen abdomen.

"Keep in mind there's a good chance that whatever you suggest may be anti-climactic at this point."

oooo

The next week began auspiciously when Will reached his office on Monday morning and found Jenna waiting anxiously with a message from Leona Lansing.

If you're free, come up.

Once on the 44th floor, he was directed by a Lansing minion down the corridor to the executive conference room. "She has some people with her, but she wants you to join them."

At the head of the conference table, Leona was in close conference with two men in dark suits. A sharply dressed young woman distributed comb-bound packages around the table and then returned to her seat to the right and slightly behind Rebecca Halliday, who shot Will an appraising look.

"Casual Monday?"

He looked down at his jeans and sweater. "No one told me to expect an imperial audience this morning, Rebecca. What's this all about?"

She held up a hand. "We're waiting for two or three others to join us. When they get here—oh, speak of the devil. Or, rather, devils."

Sloan Sabbith and Reese Lansing entered the room together, both sighting Will and immediately heading for him.

"Reese." Will acknowledged the other man with a handshake, a formality predicated upon having not seen or talked to him for the last six months. "I understood you were playing industrial magnate of the Midwest."

Reese Lansing rolled his shoulders. "It's important to have currency and familiarity in all aspects of AWM holdings. Jet engines are an important part of this company. But," he leaned closer, conspiratorially, "I have a feeling exile may be over."

Will turned. "Sloan."

The McAvoys certainly saw her frequently enough—just the previous weekend, in fact. But now, at AWM, after all the unfortunate events of the summer—there was no way her presence here could be serendipitous.

He eyed her. "Are you going to tell me—"

"Everyone, please have a seat," Leona interrupted. "I'll go around the room. Most of you know my son, Reese, who has been overseeing some manufacturing issues for us recently. And I'm sure you recognize Will McAvoy of News Night. Dr. Sloan Sabbith—oh, there you are—also used to grace our bandwidth. She's been on sabbatical in the private sector for the last few months, making a killing for Morgan Stanley in the shekel and ruble markets. Mark Harvey, Rob Snyder, and Carrie Sanders are associates with Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday. I think most of you have met my assistant Barbara Johnson. Richard Henke, Chief Financial Officer for Atlantis World Media. And Rebecca Halliday, also of Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday." She paused. "Rebecca?"

At this, the attorney quietly took charge of the gathering.

"This meeting will address the re-acquisition of the cable broadcast entity known as Atlantis Cable News from Intuitive Media, Corp. Because the contents of this meeting are extremely sensitive and have the potential to affect market prices, those of you without standing in this matter and those of you who do not enjoy attorney-client privilege are asked to sign the non-disclosure agreement you see before you."

Rebecca's pause made it apparent she was waiting for this action before proceeding. When Will glanced around, Sloan had already signed hers and the faces around the table looked at him expectantly. He scribbled his name and set the document to the side, more intrigued than ever.

Rebecca opened the comb-bound presentation package in front of her, turning past introductory pages and tables of contents to the color chart.

"Richard, can you bring us up to date?"

The CFO cleared his throat and hunched over his pages. "At the time of the divestment in May last, AWM was rebounding from a brief period of financial uncertainty that contributed to illiquidity at a crucial hour. A stock buy-back was necessary to maintain autonomy and avert a hostile take-over, but the immediate need for cash resulted in having to put the cable news division on the block. Intuitive Media was at that time shopping for an outlet and thereby became our financial white knight."

He wilted under Leona's withering glare, clear testament of her opinion comparing Pruit to anything chivalrous.

"A financial white knight is an entity that acts to thwart a hostile take-over," Sloan offered in explanation. She didn't want to hijack the CFO's opening statement, but it seemed apparent that a few in the room, Will among them, might not be familiar with the term as it applied to corporate finances. "In a scenario with a white knight, management and practices typically are permitted to remain in place at the target company, and investors receive better compensation for their shares."

"Stop with that phrase, white knight. It's really making me crazy," Leona barked. "Go on, Richard."

Richard resumed. "We could have optioned real estate, or Atlantis Radio, National Theatricals or any of a dozen other assets, but timing and the sudden availability of a buyer made ACN the obvious choice to sell. The chart you see before you is a snapshot of quarter-end price-per-share in March, June, and September. You'll note a small speculative uptick after the acquisition by Intuitive Media and then, a few months later, a slight decline, but on the whole a stable valuation. What I'm saying is that, financially-speaking, ACN remains a very desirable asset."

Leona made a dismissive wave. "We all know that. It's only important to say it aloud because we have a board and shareholders who expect that we act in their fiduciary interests. Not out of vengeance, not out of pride. This is wholly a business decision."

"In the meantime," the CFO continued, "we have identified and gradually pruned assets to amass sufficient capital for a re-acquisition bid, should that prove possible."

Will knew he had been brought in merely as a spectator but he couldn't help his expression of polite disbelief.

"What's that, Will?" Leona asked from the head of the table.

"It's not my place—but…" He couldn't help himself. "Unless you're planning your own hostile take-over of Pruit's little empire, what would make him want to sell, having just bought it? I mean, it's been only six months—the letterhead stationery has hardly been updated. And even if he decided to sell it, wouldn't he be inclined to ask an astronomical price, knowing that you wanted it so badly?"

"Rebecca, can you answer Will's question?"

Rebecca ran her palm down the center of her presentation book, creasing the unruly pages into place.

"The documents transferring ACN from AWM to Intuitive Media contained what we call a shotgun exit clause, which requires the owner, in this case Pruit's Intuitive Media, Corp., to offer first-refusal of any future sale to Atlantis World Media, and at a pre-approved price-per-share."

"But he still has to want to sell," Will persisted. "I'm not talking out of school when I say that I've seen utterly nothing to make me think he wants to sell his stake in cable news. He was strutting like Bill Paley and David Sarnoff combined at the Upfront last week."

Rebecca exchanged a glance with Leona and Reese before turning back to Will. "We believe we have found a compelling argument that will change Mr. Pruit's mind and make him—amenable—to an offer."

"What? A horse's head on his Serta mattress?"

Rebecca smiled, evidently relishing the image freshly conjured, but it was Reese who responded.

"Patent law. Actually, Sloan Sabbith had to remind me that many of the processes we employ at AWM are proprietary. Unique to us. And that they have capital value, apart from their end products. Also, we have intellectual property attorneys, like Mark here," he nodded at one of the men across the table, "who help us apply for patent protection for our unique processes."

Reese leaned back in his chair and rolled a pen in his fingers. "Ever hear of Lossy Compression?" At Will's blank look, he pressed on. "Me, either. Sampat had to explain it all to me. Then I had to send him back here to New York to explain it all to Greenway, Fullerton, and Halliday—"

"Not to Halliday," Rebecca said under her breath as she closed her binder.

"Especially to Halliday. You spent three days deposing the kid. Anyway, Lossy Compression has to do with how multimedia data—audio and video—are compressed for transmission. Saves bandwidth, makes it more efficient. Essential to streaming technology. Turns out, one of AWM's subsidiaries created a proprietary algorithm for data compression."

"Pruit is infringing on a patent held by AWM?"

Reese leaned forward. "Yeah. Could it get any better?"

oooo

Also on Monday morning, a score of floors below the AWM conference room, MacKenzie realized she could no longer postpone the show-down, that she had to clear the air about the communiques, as she euphemistically termed them. But before she could extricate herself from the stack of phone messages and emails needing her immediate attention, Millie buzzed to announce Andrea Wells was waiting.

Kismet.

"MacKenzie." Relief passed over Andrea Wells' face as she strode in. "I know you're busy, but Lucas is after me about the numbers for the packetized stream transport. He needs the analysis for the FCC's new—"

"You brought your draft?"

Andrea passed over a legal pad, the top sheets filled with blocky print, scratched through in places, and the pages curling with repeated readings. Mac gave a cursory read then looked up.

"You know, Andrea, I hadn't noticed until recently that you have a distinctive way of writing numerals. Rather European, actually. The slash through the 7 and the pronounced upswing on the 1."

Andrea had just begun to register concern when Mac placed a green Uniball on the desk.

"I assume you did it for him."

There was a long pause in which the other woman appeared to consider argument and denial. Finally, she met Mac's eyes.

"How long have you known?"

"The photograph. Catty little letters would come from a woman, but the picture was a man's touch."

Andrea looked nervous and guilty. "Are you firing me?"

"Truthfully, I don't think I can. I think you work directly for Lucas, so you're protected—from me, anyway." She tossed the pad back across the desk. "But under the circumstances, I'm sure you'll understand that I'm too busy right now to help with your—project."

Andrea retrieved the pad and beat a hasty retreat, pausing with her hand on the doorknob, but not actually daring to turn around. "I'm sorry."

After she'd gone, Mac quietly added, "I am, too."

oooo

Several days of eerie calm prevailed at ACN, owing largely to Lucas Pruit's trip to Washington, D.C., to attend hearings held by the Federal Communications Commission. But while he schmoozed with government officials, he still found time to toss email thunderbolts back to New York.

"Are Keefer and Hirsch angling for an award or the unemployment line?"

He was obviously referring to Right Now's continuing probe of bureaucratic arrogance and possible malfeasance at the government agency tasked with regulating interstate communications.

She emailed back. "This is investigatory journalism. The public has a right to know."

"I hope you haven't put them up to this," his response seethed. " There's no fucking need to antagonize a regulatory agency on the eve of new compression standards. We'll have to meet those standards, and the FCC controls and renews licenses. So, I'm telling you that there will be ramifications to anyone who may have greenlighted this investigation on my air."

Mac decided that, despite Pruit's threat, or perhaps even because of it, she would wait until their usual meeting on Friday morning to revisit the matter with him. In the meantime, however, she felt obliged to call Don.

"Your story on the FCC—I need you to take a few days off."

"Mac, you're asking us to stop?"

"I'm asking for a pause."

"Because of the hearings, right? Pruit is trying to polish apples with the FCC—"

"Regardless, Don, we're going to freeze and hold the story where it is for a few days, until I can talk this through with him."

"A few days are all he needs," Don grumbled.

"Don—"

"Okay, okay."

As she put the phone back into the cradle, her eyes flicked to a new email from Pruit. With a weary sigh, she clicked on it.

"Send someone up to my office to man the phones. Fucking Andrea quit."

oooo

Thursday morning, Will guided Mac down the steps fronting the doctor's office, temporarily masking his feelings under solicitous concern for the wet pavement. Their car was at the curb, but rather than open the door for her, he motioned for the driver to roll down the window.

"Give us thirty minutes. We're going to get a cup of coffee." He inclined his head to indicate the diner on the corner.

Mac thought better of remonstrating with him. She could remind him that he was missing the first run-down and that she had a phone conference scheduled with union reps, but all that seemed suddenly of lesser concern than his peace of mind.

Which he obviously no longer possessed.

It was between breakfast and lunch, so the diner was mostly empty, but Will went to the back anyway. Taking her coat, he settled her into the booth, and then ordered coffee for them both, decaf for her, hi-test for him.

"Will," she began.

He slid forward on his elbows, arms parallel to the table. "Seizures, Kenz. A few minutes ago a doctor was talking to me about seizures. About mortality rates. About fucking surgery—"

The coffees arrived and the waitress produced a smart phone.

"I'm a big fan, Mr. McAvoy, and I wondered if I—"

"Why don't you let me take it of you both together?" Mac offered brightly, relieved for the interruption. She took several as Will tried to fake a smile for the camera.

After the waitress departed, Will resumed. "Surgery, Mac—"

"A C-section," she clarified, "not uncommon. And it is just a possibility, anyway. Just a way to defuse the situation if the symptoms escalate."

He dropped his head to stare into his untouched coffee. "I'm not taking this well."

She smiled sadly. "You're taking it about as well as I thought you would."

"Nothing can happen to you."

"Nothing's going to."

"You don't know that, Kenz. You don't know that." He pushed back in his seat so violently that the coffee sloshed over the saucer and onto the table. "Ten minutes ago a doctor was telling me—"

"Worst case scenarios. All worst case scenarios."

"This job can't be helping. God damn Pruit."

"Doctor Stone said PE isn't behaviorally affected." She reached for his hand. "I'm being looked after very well, medically. And you take good care of me in every other way." She hesitated. "But I think you have finally convinced me it's time for me to up sticks. I can't bail enough water to offset the new leaks created every day by my boss and his cohorts. I have been undermined at every juncture. Andrea Wells quit the other day—"

"Andrea quit? Why?"

MacKenzie made a face. "I confronted her about the poison pen notes. She wrote them but Pruit put her up to it."

"Well. No surprise there." Will ground his teeth, wishing Elliot hadn't been around to restrain him the previous week at the Upfront.

"But it confirms that he and I will never be able to work together. I am unwilling to deliver what it is he wants, and he will use any means to undercut me." She looked profoundly unhappy. "Charlie deserved a better successor. He was able to work with Lucas, so he must be a reasonable man. I just haven't been able to find the common ground. So—I'm planning to call Lucas this afternoon. He'll probably do handsprings across the National Mall."

Mention of Pruit reignited Will's anger. "He isn't a reasonable man, and working with him virtually killed Charlie." Will leaned forward, adopting an unusually beseeching tone. "Mac, give it another day. Wait 24 hours."

"You think I'll change my mind?" She tilted her head, mildly surprised. "Billy, I thought this was what you wanted, I thought you would applaud my resignation."

"Please. I can't explain right now. Just one more day. Who knows what another day might bring?"

oooo

Will returned to his office to find Jim waiting for him, probably about the fact that he had missed the first run-down meeting that morning.

"Sorry—it couldn't be helped. What'd I miss?"

"I put it on your desk. A block is the Metro-North Commuter derailment in The Bronx. Four dead, 12 injured. You'll have Joseph Lhota, chairman of the MTA."

Will nodded approval.

"We're still sorting B and C blocks. Mostly international. Rocket attack in Aleppo—suicide bombing in Baqubah—protests in the Ukraine. And, Will—"

"Hmmm?"

Jim stopped fiddling with the stiff business card in his hand and flipped it to Will.

"This guy. He called me Monday. Wanted to talk to me about my time with CNN. At first, I assumed it was some clumsy attempt to entice me to another network. But, er—it became obvious very quickly that I wasn't who he was really after."

Will stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"Is Mac thinking about leaving ACN? I mean, I know she's had a shitty transition, the change in ownership and then everything with Charlie—and, of course, working that closely with Pruit has to suck, big-time—"

Will stared at the business card.

Bram Flynn. Partnerships in Creativity.

"You think this guy is some headhunter?"

"I don't know what he is, exactly, except that talking to him began to make my spidey sense tingle—um, give me the creeps—"

"He asked about MacKenzie?"

"He wanted to know about our time embedded. Afghanistan. Iraq. Pakistan. Really focused on what we were doing for CNN." Jim paused because Will's thinking suddenly seemed very loud. "Hey, you don't think—"

Will grabbed his cell phone and hit familiar keys, #5.

"It's time to bring in the pros."

oooo

FCC hearings.

De-bundling ACN and moving it to a premium cable tier.

A slashed budget for international news-gathering and increasing reliance upon freelancers.

Andrea Wells.

Don and Elliot sitting in chairs outside Pruit's office, waiting to make their case for the FCC expose.

All these things were on MacKenzie's agenda for her weekly Friday morning session with Pruit.

But he fired the first round.

"You took down the Murdoch day count. I told you I wanted it there and you took it down."

"It's journalistic self-aggrandizement." She dumped her armful of folders, spreadsheets, and folio on his desk, breaching the unspoken protocol that one never touched one's boss' desk. "We need to talk, Lucas. About Murdoch, about Andrea Wells—"

"No, I need to talk. What you need to do is listen, Mc-Cubed. This is commercial television, not some PBS polemic. You are so holy and ethical—patron saint of journalism. No time to court viewers, no stomach for shifting revenues, no interest in disruptive innovation. Extraordinary intrepidity, that's what that guy said about you this week. Well, don't send your friends to me to burnish your C.V."

Mac was confused by his last remark but sufficiently angered to ignore it and plunge in directly.

"The only disruption that has been brought to ACN is the disruption you brought with you, Lucas. Your disruptive technologies—the over-reliance on crowd-sourcing, the elevation of the banal, the Tweetdecks and Storifys and Topsys—they aren't a boon to a newsroom, they're a bane. You've lowered our standards. Thrown away our professional integrity to shore up audience good will. Tried to raise your own profile by standing on the back of a journalist who's been kidnapped and probably subjected to unspeakable experiences."

Pruit sat there coolly appraising her. Finally, he observed, "Emotional today, aren't we?"

Then, Providence, in a rare jesting moment, intervened with a knock at the office door.

Tamara, who had been temporarily dispatched from the newsroom to perform some of the functions Andrea had previously performed, looked timidly around the door. "There are some people out here who want to see you—"

Pruit exhaled loudly and rolled his eyes. "You'd think someone around this fucking place—"

A man pushed into the room. "Lucas Pruit? Of Intuitive Media, Corp.?" He held out an envelope.

"Give it to her," Pruit said, indicating Mac. "She'll take care of whatever it is."

"No, sir. I must deliver this to Lucas Pruit." As Pruit accepted the papers, the man continued. "I am Federal Marshal John Fredericks and I am serving you with a preliminary injunction related to patent infringement, the—"

"What the fu—"

"—details of which are contained herein. You are hereby enjoined to immediately discontinue and halt all transmission, broadcast, or other data manipulation that infringes said patent. Do you have any questions regarding this service?"

Pruit squinted at the document in his hand but made no attempt to open it.

"Good morning, Lucas," purred Leona Lansing, having crept in behind the federal marshal. Rebecca Halliday and Reese flanked her, and Tamara, Will McAvoy, Elliot Hirsch, and Don Keefer formed a back rank.

For a brief moment, Pruit's jaw worked without sound issuing forth.

"Is this your best shot, Leona? You and your runt pup?" he sneered at Reese, who swaggered forward.

"Intuitive Media's time is up. You can fight us or we can all come to a mutually beneficial understanding."

"You want ACN Digital for yourselves."

"You're not understanding this, Lucas. There is no ACN Digital—this injunction shuts it down. What I want—" Here Reese paused, smiled. "What I want right now is just to take away something you wanted. Just because I can."

"So ACN goes forward into the past?"

"ACN goes forward, that much is true." Reese crossed his arms. "But we're willing to consider allowing you a restricted license to use our data compression method in exchange for returning ACN. You'll just take your ones and zeroes and go."

Pruit trained hard eyes back upon MacKenzie. "You—somehow you—"

"I didn't know about this—"

"Put me in, coach," Don whispered to Will. "Mortal wounds only, no bruising."

Will held up his hand, signaling to wait.

"You've worked against me from the start—countered my directions, conspired with others in the newsroom, challenged all my decisions—"

"You know that isn't—"

He was reversing everything, making himself the injured party.

"—Guileful, treacherous, spiteful, lying—"

"That's it." Will pushed forward.

"—Stupid cunt—"

Will slammed his fist into Pruit's face.

Mac and Rebecca were startled by the movement, but Reese brought his hand up to his mouth to conceal his grin. "A small blow for integrity, on behalf of your newsroom, Pruit."

Behind him, Elliot and Don exchanged wide-eyed glances.

"He who troubles his own house, Lucas," Leona said, unperturbed by Pruit staggering to lean back against his desk, his hand clasped ineffectually over his bloody nose. "Rebecca here will be handling the fine points of the transition. The only thing left to discuss now is when you can vacate your offices in my building. Say, close of business today?" She turned to go, pausing to nod at MacKenzie and add, over her shoulder to Reese, "Give that woman anything she wants."

Reese consulted his watch. "Isn't it time for someone around here to do the news?"

"Let's go commit journalism, people," Don announced, leading Tamara and Elliot from the office.

oooo

Even with a small army of lawyers, jettisoning Pruit and reversing seven months of journalistic atrophy took longer than the Lansings had made it sound. Rebecca's best estimate was 45 days for actual control of ACN to be restored to the Lansings. Defacto interim control remained with Intuitive Media, although Pruit kept his surliness confined to snarky asides and generally ceded game, set, and match to Mac.

To MacKenzie, it seemed a Pyrrhic victory.

She had championed integrity and ethics in a vicious confrontation with Lucas, but she was nagged by a slight feeling of disloyalty. She had to remind herself that Pruit had shown no loyalty whatsoever to her, or to ACN itself. She was particularly disturbed that Will had found it necessary to resort to violence to subdue Pruit's vitriol. Lucas had briefly mewled about assault in the minutes afterward, but Rebecca had coldly dissuaded him.

Three days after the confrontation, Millie shepherded Will and Lonny Church into MacKenzie's office. After an effusive reunion between Mac and Lonny, Will got down to business.

"Mac, Jim came to me the other week and told me he'd been approached by someone asking a lot of questions about you. Specifically, about your time embedded with the troops in Afghanistan, Iraq, wherever. Nina Howard said much the same in that phone call last month, though I discounted it at first, thinking she was still singing the same old extortion song."

She looked puzzled. "Now that you mention it, Lucas made a curious remark, too—about someone burnishing my C.V., my curriculum vitae. I didn't know what he was talking about. Then, of course, the rest of the conversation turned to worms, so I never got to go back to it."

"Anyway, I asked Blue North to check this out, as a security concern. I knew you were under the gun with our illustrious owner and suspected this might be another battery of dirty tricks. Lonny?"

"This guy, Bram Flynn—" Church passed the well-routed business card to her, "—met with me this morning. Very upfront. Made no attempt to hide his inquiries. Very focused on your time overseas. He seemed real contrite for having caused alarm in contacting other people. He wants to meet with you directly whenever it can be arranged."

"But what's it about?"

"Flynn is in development—"

"Real estate?"

Will grinned. "No. Television. Evidently, he's doing research before pitching a TV show. Your exploits, a la Homeland."

"Me? That's ridiculous." She looked back to Lonny. "Is this for real? You sent him packing, I hope?"

Church shrugged. "Mac, I think you need to meet with him. He didn't want to talk numbers with me, obviously, but he kept saying there was a generous consultancy fee. No official involvement. Your name won't be used unless you want it to be and, obviously, things will be heavily fictionalized."

"No amount of money—"

"Mac." Will leaned forward. "I agree with Lonny. Meet with the man. Hear him out. You can always earmark the money for the Committee to Protect Journalists or Wounded Warriors."

oooo

The Christmas holidays proved a typically slow news cycle, allowing down time for News Night and the other broadcasts. Even MacKenzie found herself a bit under-employed that week, as many of the fiscal and other decisions were being deferred until the corporate realignment. Moreover, Lucas had made himself deliberately unavailable to her, seemingly part of his strategy to obfuscate and retard the transfer process. Mac found herself grateful to not have to deal with him directly, even as she hated the open-endedness and inability to finally resolve matters.

One of the matters requiring resolution of some sort was ACN Digital. Lacking clear and overt guidance from Lucas about the boundaries, Mac decided to simply put Digital on hiatus pending clear direction. Bree and his cohorts would enjoy a five week paid holiday, and there would be one fewer thorn in her side during the transition. When propriety afforded discussion with Leona or Reese, she intended to inquire about poaching Neal back from AWM's aircraft engine subsidiary.

It seemed important, very important, to mark the end of a very trying period, so when Tess and Jenna broached the topic of an office New Year's celebration, a less glamorous and decidedly more plebian version of the one Leona would doubtless host on the 45th floor, Mac gave immediate assent. To her, the party carried a secondary meaning, that of a temporary farewell as she commenced the pre-natal maternity leave that she and Will had agreed upon months earlier. Maggie, visiting New York for New Year's Eve, and Sloan joined the festivities as well, making the night a welcome reunion and truly an Auld Lang Syne moment.

In the middle of celebratory noise, Kendra held up a phone. "Mac, there's a call for you."

"Thanks, I'll take it in in Will's office."

"This is MacKenzie McHale. You're on speaker phone with me and Will McAvoy."

"Mr. McAvoy, Ms. McHale—we haven't met properly, but my name is David Bradley and I'm—"

"—Publisher of The Atlantic."

They could detect his amused huff. "Yes. The very same. Anyway, I wanted to reach out to you, as I know this has been a conflicted period for Atlantis Media and there's been some recent confusion about whether young Pruit or Leona Lansing—"

"It will be the Lansings. There are legal and financial matters to be ironed out, but ACN is returning to AWM."

"Ah." He didn't express further opinion. "I wanted to relay to you, and I trust you will pass this on to Mrs. Lansing, that I have troubling news about your man Murdoch."

Will's and Mac's eyes locked.

"Today, U.S Special Forces raided the Jihadist camp in Syria where ACN journalist Andrew Murdoch and three others were believed held. Nine Jihadists were killed and two Americans." He sighed heavily. "There were no captives. Murdoch and the others had been moved before the raid. This was the final option, in a manner of speaking. The military wouldn't insert troops into harm's way in a raid such as this unless they had compelling evidence that Murdoch and the others were there and in imminent peril."

Will recovered first. "What happens now?"

Bradley gave a thoughtful pause before speaking. "We haven't exhausted all non-official means yet. We're still talking with the Jordanian government. They believed they had a line on him, that they might be able to extract him with money and the release of a certain high value prisoner—"

"The deal fell through?"

"It was rendered OBE by the raid."

"Order of the British Empire?"

"Overcome By Events. That's the calculated risk of such an operation—" his voice trailed off.

Will kept his eyes on MacKenzie, watched as the arm that held the phone began to slowly dip.

"Thank you for advising us, Mr. Bradley. And thank you for all you tried to do," Will said.

"It seems pitifully little right now. Please convey to Mrs. Lansing and your entire team my deepest regret that this turned to a blind lead. We all hope for brighter news in the new year."

Two steps outside Will's office, Mac began to sink.

Will rushed to support her. Thinking of her fragility and their child in utero, he moved his hand over her face. "Don't you go anywhere, Kenz. Stay right here with me." He cast a panicked look to Sloan, who remembered the collapse of another news president barely six months prior.

Sloan called out, "Call 9-1-1."

"On it," Gary and Tess answered in unison, each independently determining that urgency trumped redundancy.

Mac's eyes blinked open at the exchange. "Don't want—spoil the party—"

"We're going to check this out, Kenz. We're going to be careful." Will spoke softly but firmly. He tossed his cell phone to Jim. "Dr. Stone."

"Roger that."

By the time EMTs arrived, Jim had contacted the doctor, who agreed with the precautions and promised to meet them at the hospital.

The lead EMT, self-identified as Bill (which Mac was inclined to think was a good omen), affixed the blood pressure cuff. "Not that bad. Still in the range." After completing the measurement, he looped the stethoscope around his neck and waved over the stretcher. "I know you're not going to like this, but it's protocol and we're going to give you a ride downstairs." He looked at Will. "You called your OB? I think it's about time little momma here had this baby."

"Doctor's meeting us there."

"Then let's go."

MacKenzie looked pale but still visibly annoyed at having to ride the gurney. Will, palpably worried, nonetheless found time to look over his shoulder to Jim.

"Find Leona and tell her I'll call her from the hospital." He made a weak smile. "Oh, and, uh—happy new year."

oooo

Will not only called Leona an hour later, as he waited, but called Jim as well, feeling obliged to pass on the information from David Bradley's call about Murdoch. That news, grim as it was, paled slightly alongside the urgency of MacKenzie being hurried off in an ambulance. News division presidents departing by ambulance was still a deep emotional sore spot. Fortunately, he was able to offset the impact somewhat with an optimistic update on Mac.

"Dr. Stone doesn't want me to worry, but they've started something to induce labor and something else called a magnesium sulfate drip to guard against problems…" Running a hand through his hair, he saw Sloan arrive. "Sloan's here. And Don."

"I think most of us will be there in a little while," Jim said. "Maggie and I are just nailing down loose ends here, crafting some copy about Murdoch to use when the Pentagon gives us confirmation. Dayside will probably get to break it."

"Mac's going to hate that she shut down the party."

"Like—doesn't she have anything else to worry about right now?"

oooo

In the early hours of the morning, as confetti blew through the emptying avenues surrounding Times Square, the waiting room of St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital filled with ACN well-wishers, having moved their new year's celebration to a new setting. Sloan monopolized the television with Bloomberg tickers. Maggie, Jim, and Gary played Old Maid with a pinochle deck, since none of them knew how to play pinochle, and Jenna, who had had actually had a real date on New Year's Eve, joined them late with two flat boxes of Krispy Kreme doughnuts she had gingerly maneuvered through fifteen blocks of jostling crowds.

Will kept appearing at intervals with updates and occasional bursts of pure blather. He had rarely seemed so garrulous, a symptom of either his anxiety or his fatigue. By the time Leona Lansing arrived, nigh onto 4am and fresh from her own party, Will had been spirited back to Maternity.

It was another two hours before Mac, visibly exhausted, nonetheless smiled and reached out a hand. "Billy. Come meet your daughter."