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Starting Over
(sequel to Vigilante Angel)
by F.A. Behrend

Disclaimer:  The characters of Frank Donovan, Jake Shaw, Alex Cross, Monica Davis, Cody and Paul Bloom were created by and are owned by Shane Salenrno and Don Wilson.  No infringements intended.  All other characters are owned by the author.

Rated - NC-17 - adult themes

(Feedback welcomed via email to fran@completetrav.com or on the Message Board)

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            The motorcycle roared down the street, taking the corners too fast and kicking up dust in the morning light.  It was a Kawasaki Ninja, an older model 1500, painted red and black.  The rider pushed the bike to its limits, coming to a halt, sideways, the back tire sliding out, in front of the old firestation.  The driver climbed off the bike, long legs clad in jeans and motorcycle boots, and removed a black helmet.  She shook out long blonde hair and looked up at the building.  Lord, she thought, what on earth possessed me to do this?  She stripped off driving gloves and stuffed them into the helmet, then took a deep lungful of the clear morning air to calm her nerves.

            She looked up at the building.  It was three stories of red brick, with white granite accents around the windows and doors.  It sat in the middle of a neighborhood that had undergone decline and rebirth.  Not unlike myself, she thought.  She turned slowly, scouting the area.  All around there were bodegas and bakeries with small apartments above them.  There was a Starbucks on the corner and a vacant lot across the street that had been turned into a community garden.  The last of the season’s flowers and vegetables ran riot along a fence line that divided the garden from a neighboring group of store front businesses.  A woman in a floppy garden hat was working in the crisp of the morning air, howing a line of vegetables and she raised a hand in greeting.  “Good morning,” she called out, “beautiful day, isn’t it?”

            She did not return the woman’s greeting.  Beautiful day for an execution, she thought.  She swallowed hard.  I can do this, she told herself.  I survived getting blown up, jumping off a building and rehab.  I’ve been through worse.  I can do this.  She kept repeating this mantra as she stuck the helmet under her arm, walked over to the front door and took hold of the brass handle.  The brass was cold and her hands were shaking.  I can do this.

            She opened the door and stepped inside.  She was inside a glass enclosed cage and a buzzer was blasting away.  The door in front of her would not open.  Jake stood up from behind a desk, gave her a wave, touched something on the desk and the buzzing stopped.  The door in front of her gave a hiss and a click and slid open.  “Sorry about that,” he said, “post 9/11 security.”

            “Bullet proof?” she asked, gesturing back at the cage.

            “Yep.  Come on in.  Frank told us to expect you.”

            The center of the building was a large open space, extending up two floors to a bank of fluorescent lights imbedded in the ceiling.  This open space contained a multitude of desks, all with phones and computers.  There were filing cabinets along one wall and doorways that led off in the other three directions.  An open stairway to the left led to a second floor.  At the height of the second floor the open area was surrounded by a walkway and a railing.  There were glass enclosed offices on that level that ringed the outer walls of the building.

            A large clock at the end of the room said ten minutes to eight.  “I didn’t want to be late,” she said, “do I clock in...or what?  I’m a little new at this.”

            Jake laughed, “no, we don’t clock in.  This is not exactly a 9 to 5 kind of job.  We’ve got a desk ready for you.  Why don’t you drop your stuff and I’ll give you the tour.”

            A desk, she thought, oh God, saddled to a desk.  When Jake led her to it, she could see that she already had a computer, nice flat panel monitor, a phone and unbelievably, a pile of files stacked up on it.  She looked at the pile in surprise. 

            “Frank’s idea,” he said by way of explanation, “he thought you should review some of our past operations to get a feel for how we do things.”

            “Good idea,” she nodded, and then thought, on the whole, maybe root canal would have been easier.  She put her helmet on the chair.

            “Toby’s our computer guy,” Jake gestured to a cubbyhole in the corner bristling with monitors and overflowing with cable clutter where a small young man sat earnestly pecking at a keyboard.  “He’ll get you set up with passwords and give you the computer tour. That’s Alex,” he pointed to a young woman at one of the desks.  She was on the phone, but raised a hand in greeting and gave her a sketch of a smile.  “She does our forensic accounting, follows the money trail.  Most everyone else is out on assignment right now.”

            “Where’s Frank?”

            “Downtown, with the brass hats.  He’s getting our next big assignment.  I don’t expect to see him before 10 or so.  That’s his office up there,” he pointed to one of the glass enclosed spaces.  “That’s a place you don’t want to have to go.  Our profiler is up there too.  A lot of that is storage, but up on the third floor is the crib.”

            “Crib?”

            “Dorm.  Lockers, showers, the works.  Most of us keep a few changes of clothes here.  We never know when we’ll get an all nighter and have to crash for a few hours.  Oh, and the shower room is unisex, so holler and let yourself be known unless you like surprises.”

            She smiled and nodded, “I’ll remember that.”

            He led her around the big room.  “The kitchen is over here, fully equipped, and the rule is, clean up after yourself.”  Next to the kitchen he showed her a large room, enclosed by a heavy mesh grating with a serious looking lock on the door.  “This is the weapons locker.”  He took keys from his pocket and opened the door.  Along one wall were cases, also with locks, containing a variety of armaments, from small arms all the way up to assault rifles.  Along the opposite wall were smaller cabinets, all with labels.  He pointed, “that’s where we keep the electronics.  You can check out anything you’ll need.  We have a range in the basement if you need some practice with any of these.”  He tossed her the bunch of keys.  “These are yours.  Complete set.  Everything in the building except the offices.”

            “Wow,” she said as she looked down the long rows of guns, “you guys get to play with some nice toys.”

            Jake shook his head.  “It’s not ‘you guys.’  It’s ‘us.’  You’re part of this now.”

            “Well, I think that remains to be seen.  I’m sort of on...probation.”

            “We all were, to start with.  And by the way, I never did get a chance to thank you for saving my life.’

            She shrugged, “anybody would have...”

            “No, that’s where you’re wrong.  Most people would have just walked away, they would have said, it’s not my problem and they would have simply left.  You didn’t.  You had information and you acted on it to save lives.  Whether you want  to believe it or not, you’re already part of this team.” He paused but she made no comment and he continued, “I don’t know if Frank told you, but we all came into this sort of through the back door.  Me, I’m a thrill junkie.  I like the action, the danger.  It took most of folks here quite a while before they would trust me, before they learned that I’ve got good instincts and I don’t actually have a death wish.”  She smiled a little.  “You’ve already got my trust, the rest of the crew might not be so easy...”

            “Especially Frank?”

            “Especially Frank.  Don’t give up.  Being part of something was new for me too, and believe me, it’s worth it.”

            “Thanks,”  she said.  She pocketed the keys he had given her, and they completed the tour of the building.  There was a motor pool and a gym, and the shooting range in the basement.  When they were done, she found a cup of coffee and then she went to her desk. 

            Toby set her up with computer access and she looked at the stack of files in front of her.  The clock on the wall said almost nine.  So far, so good, she thought as she sat down and took off her jacket, I haven’t killed anyone or lost my mind, yet. 

            Then she opened the first few folders.  They were all outlines of operations that had been conducted within the past year.   They listed objectives, personnel and equipment requirements, projected timetables and even projected and finalized budgets.  All neat, organized, orderly, and...stifling.  Every folder was the same.  An objective was outlined, methods for achieving that objective were listed, each with a list of pros and cons.  A finalized plan was presented, with proper authorizing signatures, mostly Frank’s, and after it was implemented, a review of the operation was inserted into the file, documenting either success or failure. 

            After 20 minutes she decided that manila was one of the most revolting colors in the universe.  She looked at the paperwork in front of her and found that her heart was pounding and she was sweating.  She closed all the files and restacked them in the center of the desk.  This is going to kill me, she thought, it’s like dying from a million paper cuts.  She would rather face a room full of crazed PCP popping junkies, all armed to the teeth, than look at one more folder.  The little voice in her head said, just go, you’ve still got a good head start, he’ll never find you.  No, said the other voice, give it a chance, it isn’t all paperwork. 

            She got up and took her coffee, now cold, back to the kitchen and dumped it in the sink.  A sign over the sink said “Keep It Clean!” so she rinsed the cup, dried it and put it back on the rack.  She went up to the third floor, looked over the cots and lockers and then went into the shower room.  She stood at the sink and turned on the cold water, splashing her face.  When she turned off the water she saw that her hands were shaking.  I will not panic, she told herself firmly, I can do this. 

            She looked up and saw Alex standing in the doorway.  “Are you OK?”

            “Yes, of course,” she replied, just a little too firmly. 

            Alex gave her a steady look.  She was tall and graceful, with red hair,  gray eyes and a warm contralto voice.  “I’ll bet this is just about the hardest thing you’ve ever done.”

            “Yes,” she admitted, clutching the edge of the sink,  “it just about is.”

            “My guess is,” she said, moving into the room, “that you’ve always worked alone.”

            “That’s a good guess.”

            “You’re going to have to get over that.  We work as a team here.  I don’t want anyone watching my back who isn’t fully committed to that.”  She crossed her arms and faced her, waiting for a reply.

            “Look, Alex” she said, taking a handful of paper towels and drying her hands and face, “I really appreciate your candor.  I could tell you that I’ll try my best, but ‘trying’ won’t cut it.  ‘Doing’ is the only thing that really counts, and I can do this.”  She tossed the towels in the wastebasket and left the room, left Alex standing there, looking after her as she went down the stairs.

            She went to the weapons locker and used her keys.  There, she removed a couple of semi-automatics and a rifle and gave them the once over.  Needs cleaning, she thought, and took them to the basement.  There she set up targets, found the ear protectors, loaded the guns and blasted away.  Her hands were steady.  Amazing, she thought, the clarity that comes from the barrel of a loaded gun.  When she finished shooting, she took the weapons to a long metal table and began to strip and clean them.

            It was after 11 when Frank came in, carrying a thick folder under his arm.  He glanced around the room and saw her helmet sitting next to her desk and all the folders still piled neatly in the center of the blotter.  He looked at Jake, who simply shrugged.  Alex did not look up.  “She’s downstairs, shooting things,” she told him. 

            “Did you tell her I wanted her to review those files?”

            “We did,” said Alex.

            “And?”

            “She did, for about 20 minutes.  Then she took off downstairs.”

            “I see,” he said and put the heavy material he was holding down on the corner of Alex’s desk.  “Ask Toby to set up a projector.  We need to start this assignment.  15 minutes.  Get everyone together.”

            He went down the stairs and was met by the odor of cordite before he even got to the bottom.  She was sitting at the long table, with an M16 laid out in front of her, both hands flat on the table.  She had on a tank top and there was a dark stain of sweat running down the back.  She had been down here in the stuffy basement for quite some time.  She reached over and hit a small timer and then began to rapidly take the gun apart.  When it was stripped down to its smallest component she hit the timer again.  He glanced at the sweep hand on his watch and raised an eyebrow, very respectable time.  Next, she reset the timer, took a breath and hit the button.  Her hands moved in a blur, one part after another was reassembled and she hit the timer again.  The reassembled gun lay on the table in front of her.  She checked the timer for the last time and nodded to herself.

            “Well,” he said and she jumped about a foot off her chair.

            “Shit,” she said, “don’t do that when I’ve got a gun around.  I could’ve killed you.”

            He ignored that.  “I know you can field-strip a weapon.  The real question is, can you follow orders.”

            She had gun oil streaked across one cheek, and she wiped it hastily away and stood up.  “I followed your orders.  I reviewed the files.”  She hadn’t seen him since she had worked on the rehabilitation of her leg.  The bullet wound she had suffered had been deep and healing was long and slow.  He had suffered a badly sprained knee in the same incident and they had both grunted through the exercises together for a few weeks.  Then he had gone back to his office and to a normal life, while she had been left alone to complete the workouts. 

            Now he stood at the bottom of the stairs, sleeves rolled up, arms folded across his chest, not smiling.  “We’ve got work to do.  Get cleaned up and come upstairs.”  He turned and started back up.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And cut the ‘sir’ crap,”  he said over his shoulder.

            “Yes, s...”  she cleared her throat.  “Yes.  Right away.”

            They sat around a long table that had been placed in the center of the open area.  Everyone had a slim folder in front of them.  Toby dimmed the lights and Frank directed their attention to the image from the slide projector.  “Ladies and gentlemen, meet our next target.”  An black and white picture came up on the screen, a middle aged male, Hispanic, balding, with a goatee, laughing, at the center of a larger group of people.

            She looked at the image in surprise and burst out, “Carlos Ortega!  Are you nuts?!”  The room went dead quiet.  There was not a sound, save for the soft whir of the fan inside the projector. “I mean, he’s only the head of the biggest drug cartel in this hemisphere.  I wouldn’t take him on and everyone knows I’m certifiable.” 

            No one said a word.  Jake looked at his folder.  Alex shifted uncomfortably in her chair.  Frank said quietly, “nevertheless, he is our target.  Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

            “Uhm, no.  Sorry.”  She sat back in her seat and opened her folder.  Manila, what a horrible color, she thought.  Frank went on with background on Ortega while she flipped through the pages in front of her.  She already was aware of most of what he was saying and paid scant attention.  She had looked into this man’s background many times and decide he was just too big and too well insulated to pursue.  The last page in her folder was a list of known associates, she scanned it, and stopped on a name she recognized.  Well, I’ll be, she thought.  She sat studying the name. 

            Frank’s voice broke in, “anything you’d like to share with us?”

            “No,”  she said, looking up, “not at this time.”

            “Whenever you’d like to contribute, we will certainly welcome constructive comments.”

            “No,” she said again, “nothing to add.”

            They started to discuss options and possible ways in which Ortega’s organization could be infiltrated.  Most of what they were proposing would take months, if not years to set up and bare fruit, and they arrived at no definite conclusions.  She stared at the clock.  The discussion had been going on for over an hour and she was becoming restless.  She shifted in her chair, and finally Frank tossed his folder on the table.  “Are we boring you, by any chance?”

            She looked up at him.  This is bullshit, she thought, you don’t get a guy like Ortega by holding discussions and meetings.  “Actually,” she said, standing up and stretching, “you are.”  Without another word, she went to her desk, picked up her jacket and helmet and went out the door.  Seconds later the motorcycle revved up, the piercing whine penetrating all the way into the building.  They all listened in disbelief as the sound receded down the block.

            “Damn,” said Jake.

            Frank stared at the doorway, hands on his hips, clenching his jaw and trying not to swear.

            That was Monday.  Frank fumed and slammed doors.  He tracked her car, her motorcycle, her credit cards and he staked out her apartment.  He left messages on her answering machine and her cell phone.  He had found nothing, zip, zilch, nada.  By Thursday he had given up.  She had vanished.  Jake tried to mollify him, “she’ll show up, I’m sure of it.  She’s not a quitter.”  He said it over and over, half in an effort to convince himself and half trying to convince Frank and Alex. 

            On Friday she came back.  A little black Jeep pulled up in front of the building and parked.  She sat at the wheel for a few minutes, gathering her courage, before stepping into the street and then up to the door.  One more deep breath and she went inside.  The motorcycle boots were gone.  Today she was wearing beige linen slacks with crisp pleats down the legs, a white silk blouse open at the neck and a dark blue linen blazer.  Her hair was worn long and sleek, a soft gold comma curving under her chin and large dark glasses hiding her eyes.  Jake buzzed her in, open-mouthed in astonishment.  She was holding a thin leather portfolio. “Is he in?” she asked. 

            Jake nodded at the stairs and she went up.  His office door was open and he was on the phone, back to the door.  She knocked softly and he turned around.  “I’ll call you back,” he said into the phone and hung up.  He stood and took a deep breath,  “come in and sit down,”  he said, his voice level, his eyes dark, and his anger barely contained.

            Before he could say another word she stepped into the office and began, “This will be quick. First, I want to apologize.  When I walked out of here on Monday, that was just incredibly rude.  It was disrespectful to you and to everyone and I am truly sorry.  You don’t deserve that kind of treatment.”  He tried to interrupt the flow of her words, but she held up her hand and went on.  “Second, I know you went to considerable trouble for me, called in favors, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful.  But we both know, this just won’t work, so...whatever you need to do, lock me up, throw away the key, whatever, I won’t fight it.  I thought I could do it...be part of a team...but I think I’m too much of a loner.  I have been for too long, so...well...just do what you need to do to me.”

            “Is there anything else?”

            She nodded, “just this.”  She put the leather portfolio on his desk.

            “And that is...?”

            “A way to get into Carlos Ortega’s organization.”  She stood and waited.

            He went over to the door and took hold of the knob and then he slammed it so hard that the entire building rattled.  She jumped.  He came over and stood next to her and said quietly in her ear, breathing hard, his fists clenched into angry balls.  “When I say ‘sit’ I mean SIT.  Now sit down!”  He pointed to a chair in front of his desk and she sat.  He leaned over her, grabbing the arms of the chair.  “Now I have a few things to say.  First, apology accepted.  We’ll deal with your lack of manners later.  Second, around here, I’m the one who determines who stays and who goes, not you.  That is not your decision.  So, until further notice, you are a member of this team, is that clear!?”  He stepped back.
            “Yes, sir.”  She swallowed hard.

            “And third...oh for God’s sake, if I’m going to chew you out,  at least let me look in your eyes while I’m doing it.  Take off those damn glasses .”

            She reached up and removed the dark glasses, to reveal a considerable black eye, several days old.  The purple bruising had already changed to a yellowish green.  She folded the sunglasses and sat quietly with her hands in her lap.  Her behavior had been outrageous, unconscionable, and  she had no idea what to expect from him.  She sat very still, with her heart pounding.

            He sat down suddenly on the front edge of his desk and just looked at her, speechless.  He gestured at her face.  “Am I going to read about this on some police report somewhere?”

            “No, sir.”

            “What does the other guy look like?”

            “Worse.”

            He just shook his head and ran his hands through his hair.  They were both quiet.           Downstairs, Jake and Alex sat at their desks anxiously watching the door of Frank’s office.  Alex fished in her handbag and took out a five dollar bill.  She laid it on the desk.  “It’s too quiet up there,” she said.  “Five buck says he kills her outright.”

            Jake reached in his pocket and took out cash also, “Nah,” he said, “five says he’s sleeping with her by the end of the month.”

            “No way!  That’s oil and water!  Gasoline and a lit match!”

            “Exactly,”  he said with a grin, “have you seen the way the sparks fly when they get into the same room?  Mark my words, those two are an ‘item’.”

            Up in the office Frank poured them both a cup of coffee from the pot he kept  there.  Then he sat down behind his desk and said, “OK. I want it all.  Everything.  Everywhere you went, everything you did, and everyone you spoke to from Monday until right this minute.”  He jabbed a finger in the air at her.  “And if I find that you are holding anything back, anything at all, trust me, I will bury you so deep you’ll never see daylight.”

            She nodded, sipped coffee, cleared her throat and began.  “When I was looking through the file on Ortega last Monday I saw a name I recognized in the list of known associates.”

            “What name?”

            “Phillip Reyes.”

            “And just who is Phillip Reyes?”

            “A low-life.  He use to be a mechanic, a crew chief, on a race team.  He drank a lot, got a driver killed and got himself banned from the circuit.”

            “And how do you know him?”

            “I used to drive.”

            “Race cars?”  He raised an eyebrow and she nodded.  “What kind of race cars?” 

            She shrugged, “just about anything that went fast and had wheels.  Road rallies, SCCA, Busch league and Formula One.”

            “You drove a Formula One race car.”  She nodded.  “You drove in races.”  She nodded again.  “How many races?”

            “Two.”

            “How many did you win?”

            “Two.”

            He shook his head again, as if trying to clear his thoughts.  “Let’s get back to Reyes.  Tell me about him.”

            “Like I said, he got himself banned from racing.  But he still knows a lot of people on the circuit.  There’s this bar, just a dump really, a dive.  I knew he used to hang out there.  That’s where I went when I left here on Monday.”

            “Why did you go there?”

            “I thought about making contact with him.  Spread the word around that I wanted to get back into racing, that I was driving again and I needed a ride.”

            “Why.”

            She paused and sipped her coffee.  “There are two things that Carlos Ortega loves, fast cars and beautiful women.”

            He laughed, “the same could be said for about 95% of the men on the planet.”

            “True,” she nodded, “but with Ortega it’s an obsession.  He’s been trying for years to buy his way into racing, but nobody will have him.  His money’s too dirty.”

            “So you went looking for this Reyes character.  Did you find him?”

            “I did.  That’s how I got this.”  She gestured at her face.

            “Go on.”

            “I left here and went to the bar I told you about.  The bartender said that Reyes still hangs out there.  Sometimes he comes in alone, sometimes with friends, so I waited.  He showed up about 9 o’clock.  We talked, hung out,” she shrugged, “played a little 8-ball.  I told him I wanted to get back to racing and I needed a ride.  He made an obscene suggestion...” she stopped and took a deep breath, “...so I corrected his manners.  We talked some more.  He made another suggestion, so I corrected him again...harder...with a pool cue.  He landed one good punch.  His friends took him home.”

            “What’s his condition?  Did you kill him?”

            “Of course not.  That wasn’t the point.  I needed him to spread the word.”  She sipped more coffee.  “He’s got a probable concussion, possible broken collar bone, possible broken right forearm.”

            He raised an eyebrow, “you do some kind of damage.”

            “Like I said.  He was rude.”

            “All right, you made contact with Reyes.  Then what.”

            She cleared her throat, he’s not going to like this part, she thought.  “I went home, got cleaned up, packed a bag and went to the airport.”

            He leaned forward, elbows on desk, “airport?”  His voice was level.  “You went to the airport?  And then where did you go?”

            “When I got to the airport, I called a friend of mine.  Asked if I could visit for a few days.  He said ‘fine.’  He’s...let’s say...wealthy.  He sent his Gulfstream for me.”

            “And where did his Gulfstream take you.”

            Here it comes, she thought.  She swallowed hard and then she said,  “Brazil.”

            He blinked at her.  “Brazil.”  She nodded.  “You went to Brazil on Monday.”

            “Actually, by then it was Tuesday morning.”

            “You left the country.  How could you do that?  I have your passport.”  Then he sat back and laughed.  “Of course.  You have another passport.  Of course.  How silly of me to think that you would simply turn over your passport.”  He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the little blue booklet.  “This one is for Dani Prescott.  That’s the name you were using when you were living in LA.”

            She took a similar blue booklet from the inside pocket of her blazer and laid it on the desk in front of him.  He flipped open the cover.  The name on this passport read “Jennifer Lake,” her birth name.  She said, ‘you might as well just keep calling me Dani, that’s the name I’m used to.  I haven’t used my birth name in a long time.”

            He shook his head, still laughing,  “you are unbelievable.  I’m going to have to start making a list, a list of all the procedures...protocols...laws...that you have bent, violated and broken.”  His voice rose until he was shouting and he slammed his fist down on the desk.

            Downstairs, Jake and Alex both looked up.” At least they’re both still alive,” she said.  “I was beginning to get worried.  It was too quiet up there.” They went back to their work.

            He sat glaring at her, not quite believing what she had told him.  “I came back,” she said quietly, “I wasn’t running away.”

            “OK,” he said after a few minutes.  “Who did you see in Brazil, where did you go?”

            “To Rio.  I have a friend there.  He’s the father of someone I met in college.  Do you remember when I told you that I was working for a PI in Los Angeles?”

            “Yes, Dan Prescott.”

            She nodded, “he and his wife encouraged me to finish school.  I took some time off and went back full time to study.  I was living in the dorms and I had a room mate. Her name was Victoria Garcia.  She was from Brazil.  On Tuesday, I went to see her father, Ramon Garcia.”

            “You know Ramon Garcia?”  She nodded.  “He is one of the leading citizens of his country, industrialist, entrepreneur, philanthropist...”

            “...and he owns a Formula One race team. I asked him to loan me...us...the use of his car, his team,  for a short time.”  He stared at her, speechless.  She pointed to the leather portfolio that still sat on his desk.  “it’s all outlined in there.  An operation to bring down Carlos Ortega.”

            He leaned back in his chair, scrubbed his hands over his face and thought, I am really going to have to begin to drink heavily.  After a few minutes of silence, he opened the folder and began to read.  It was a report, laid out exactly as all of the files he had given her on Monday.  It listed the objective, the method she had planned to use, pros and cons, personnel and equipment requirements, timetable, budget, the works.  It was excellent, clear and concise.  Finally, he tossed the folder back on the desk and said, “tell me about Ramon Garcia.  Why do you think he’ll go along with this?”

            “I met his daughter, Victoria, when I was in school.  We were roommates.  She was a lot more sophisticated than I was, and I think she looked at me like I was some kind of special project.  She was one of the nicest people I have ever known.”  She stopped talking and looked at her hands, and smiled at the memory.  “She wasn’t the least bit snobby.  I mean, her family had all the money in the world and she was just plain nice.  We got to be good friends.  At the end of the year, we were packing up and I was getting ready to go back to LA.  I needed to make some money so I could finish up the following year and get my degree.  She invited me to go home with her, stay for the summer.  I told her I couldn’t possibly, I needed to go back to Dan and work.  But she told me that she had already talked to her family, if I came home with her, they would help with expenses for the next semester.  It was an offer I could hardly refuse.  Dan and Harriet gave their blessing, so I got on a plane and went to Brazil.”

            “And you met her father?”

            “Yes.  He’s a wonderful man.”  She saw the look on his face.  “It’s not what you think.”  Her eyes had gone cold and she was angry.  “He’s old enough to be my father.   He’s my friend, and in many ways he has been my teacher, but we have never had any kind of...relationship...that was not completely legitimate.  I would never, could never, do anything like that to his family, or to myself.”

            “Sorry,” he said, “but it isn’t often that a relationship between an older, wealthy man and a beautiful young woman is purely platonic.”

            “Well, OK.  Anyway, he taught me...everything.  Languages, art, music, everything.”  She shook her head.  “I could see where Victoria got her impulse to ‘improve’ me.  He taught me how to wear clothes, how to walk, how to talk, how to dance...and how to drive.”

            “How did that happen?”

            “He has a testing and development facility just outside Rio.  He took me there one day when they were getting ready to try some new settings on one of his cars.  He actually offered to let me take a turn behind the wheel.  Let me tell you,”  she looked at him and smiled broadly, “you have never, absolutely never, felt anything like the thrill of piloting an honest to God race car around a track.”

            He smiled back, “I can only dream.”

            “So...I fell in love with it, and apparently I had a knack for it, so he taught me to drive.  When one of his second tier drivers came up with a sprain, he actually let me drive a couple of races for him.”

            “Now let me ask you, why would a man in his position be willing to let us ‘borrow’ a million dollar race car?”

            She got very quiet and sat in the chair looking at her hands.  When she looked up there were tears in her eyes.  “Ramon has a very personal stake in seeing to it that Carlos Ortega faces justice.”

            “And just why is that?”

            “At  the end of the summer that I was there Victoria didn’t come back to school in the states with me.  She had fallen in love and she was getting married.  He was a great guy and Ramon was thrilled.  He was looking forward to having a son-in-law, grandchildren.”  She stopped and wiped her eyes.  “Paulo was his name.  He was a lawyer...”

            “Was?”

            She nodded, then continued, “he was a very progressive young man, very bright, with a very bright future.  He was disgusted with the corruption that the drug trade had brought to his country, and so he decided to do something about it.  He ran for office.  Ortega took exception to this and decided to send a message, to Paulo, and to anyone else that might want to follow in his footsteps.  Paulo and Victoria had been married for about a year and a half.  They had a child, an infant girl named Regina.  They were coming home one night when Paulo and Virginia were kidnapped.  Ortega took them both.”  She stopped at that point in her story and Frank got up to get her some water.  She drank and then went on, “Ortega had Victoria raped and tortured right in front of Paulo.  He had Paulo tortured and killed while Victoria watched.  Three days later, Ortega dumped Victoria on Ramon’s doorstep.  She lived, but she’s never been the same.  She’s in an institution, catatonic.  Ramon is raising his granddaughter.”

            Frank was silent.  He got up and got a box of tissues for her and she wiped her eyes.  He paced back and forth.  “So his motive is revenge.  But with that big an emotional investment, your friend Ramon may not be thinking too clearly.  It may not be a good situation for my people.”

            She shook her head, “his motive isn’t revenge.  It’s justice.  That can only be accomplished through proper channels, through legitimate law enforcement.  If he had wanted Ortega dead, he could have had him killed and on one would have thought twice about it.  Everyone knew what Ortega had done, and if Ramon had decided on revenge, he would never have been blamed or prosecuted.  But revenge like that would have made a mockery of everything that he, and Paulo, stood for.  He’ll help us because it’s the right thing to do.”

            Frank sat down at his desk.  He looked at the portfolio.  It was a good plan, an excellent plan, but it would need to be vetted through channels and that might prove to be difficult.  Finally he said, “when did you get back?”

            “Last night, late.”

            He began straightening the things on his desk, things that did not really need straightening, and then he said, “go home.  Get some sleep.  You look like hell.”  Then he looked straight at her, pointed a finger at her,  “but stay where I can get hold of you, and, I mean this, stay out of trouble.  Is that possible?”

            “Yes.  I need a shower, a meal and about 10 hours flat out asleep.”  She rose from the chair.  “Of course you’ll need to check some things out.  There are phone numbers in the folder.”

            She left the building, with Jake and Alex watching as she pulled the little Jeep away from the curb.  Their curiosity was killing them, but they would just have to wait until Frank let them in on what was happening.

            He sat down at his desk and briefly reviewed the information she had given him, and then he asked Jake and Alex to join him.  They sat quietly in his office waiting for him to begin.  “She’s given us a plan, a doorway into Ortega’s organization.”

            “Wow!” said Jake.

            “What’s the catch?” said Alex.

            “I don’t know if there is a catch.  That’s why you’re here.  I want to go over it with you.  I want to poke as many holes in it as possible.  If this is a legitimate, workable plan, then, ladies and gentlemen, we can do some very good work with it.” 

            He outlined what she had put together.  It was a multi-phase operation.  First, the Garcia Racing Team would begin to have some problems.  There would be several breakdowns of the car, some minor accidents on the track, and at least one driver would have a very public disagreement with Ramon Garcia.  Investors in the race team would begin to pull out, leaving Garcia with a need for both a new driver and new money.  Dani would step in as the driver, but her past association with Garcia would be kept quiet.  At that point the race team would begin trolling the waters for investment capital, capital that would eventually come from Ortega.

            Frank trusted Alex and Jake. They were professionals, with good instincts.  He was beginning to think that his own instincts were slipping.  He very badly wanted Dani to succeed, to settle down and become the outstanding cop he thought she could be, and he was wondering if these feelings were becoming too personal.  He had spent the time she was gone in a haze of distraction, barely able to concentrate on anything else.  Why, he kept asking himself, did she have to be so bloody independent?  It seemed that she wanted to come in from the cold, her return here today when she could have so easily run, was proof of that.  But if she could not learn to operate as an integral part of a team then her presence here was positively dangerous.  Personal feelings aside, he couldn’t risk lives just because he wanted to be near her.

            Jake tossed the portfolio back onto Frank’s desk and said, “she’s done a hell of a job.”

            “Tell me where it can go wrong.”

            Alex replied first, “this entire project really depends on her and her alone, her contact with Garcia and her ability to pull Ortega in.  How do we know we can trust her?  What’s her relationship with Garcia?  I know you’ve done background checks on her, but just how stable is she?  Is she some kind of thrill junkie?  What are her motives for doing this?  Can she learn to be part of a team...”

            Before she could continue, Jake broke in, “now hold it a minute.  It seems to me that you had exactly the same concerns about me when I landed here.  It’s  a learning process for all of us.  We have to trust her abilities, and she has to learn to trust us as well.  That has to start some place.”
            “Yes, I know,” Alex replied, “when you got here, we worked together on some small, low level projects.  I saw what you could do, so when it came to the larger operations, I knew by then that you wouldn’t be getting any of us killed.  With this plan, we end up jumping in, both feet, with someone leading the way that none of us has ever worked with before.  I don’t like it.”

            “So,” said Frank, “you like the plan, but not...”

            “...how it came to us.  Look at how this happened.  She pops up on the radar out of nowhere and suddenly miracles begin to happen.  We take some major scores.  We track her and things go wrong, very wrong and you and Jake nearly get killed.”

            “Now hold on just a minute,” Jake was beginning to get angry.  “We found a leak,  and if you’ll remember, she was the one who nearly got killed.  If it hadn’t been for her, Frank and I, and a lot of other people as well, would just be grease spots on the pavement.”

            “I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here,”  Alex leaned forward in her chair and trying to sound reasonable.  “Think about it.  Isn’t this exactly how we would go about infiltrating an organization?  Feed in a couple of small successful operations, then plant a major score to take out the whole crew?  And isn’t that just what happened here?”  Jake and Frank were silent, thinking.  She sat back again, “I just want to know why she wants in so badly.  Why does she want to be inside this unit?”

            Frank had been listening intently.  “Well,” he said, “I’ve been through her background six ways to next Tuesday, and she checks out.  There is nothing there to indicate any possible connection to any of us directly or to the Bureau itself.  I can’t find anything that would indicate that she’s on some kind of vendetta.  I think her motives are personal.  I think she wants in because she’s tired of being a solo act.”

            Alex laughed, “if she wants to be a part of something, let her go to church and join the choir.”

            All three of them sat for a minute considering their options.  Then Jake said, “bottom line?  Is it a go or not?”

            Frank asked, “does anyone have any other ideas?”  There were none.  “Then we go with it.  This will get us in the back door quicker than anything else we’ve looked at.”

            “True,” said Jake.  “Anything else could take months, or even years, to set up.  Going in as a dealer or a supplier that Ortega could trust would be like trying to do brain surgery with a teaspoon.  This puts us inside, but indirectly.”

            “We can work with the plan Dani has laid out.  It gives us a window into his operations.  Once we’re there, we can begin to look for connections to the illicit activities we know are going on.  We can start to run down the money and see where that takes us.”  Before Alex could protest Frank added, “but we won’t go into this based on blind faith.  We watch her, very carefully.  Remember how good she is.  I don’t want her to know we’re keeping an eye on her.  If there’s anything even remotely off about this, we pull the plug.”

            When she got home, the first thing she did was laundry.  Despite her exhaustion she was too keyed up to sleep.  She cleaned out the fridge, paced the floor, and went shopping.  These activities had never been normal for her.  In the last few years, she had rarely stayed in one place long enough to acquire routine habits, but rehab from a bullet in the leg had required her to maintain something close to a daily schedule.  Now she found that small routine activities calmed and soothed her. 

            She was amazed that Frank hadn’t simple locked her up, called her a fugitive and notified the prosecutors.  The look on his face when she had walked into his office was something she still couldn’t figure out.  At first it was surprise, then there was relief, his eyes almost lit up when he saw her, and then came the anger.  But she had dealt with the anger, she didn’t panic.  She stood her ground, explained what she had done, and then, it seemed like a miracle, he had accepted her explanation!  He was ready to trust her, to give her a chance.

            She went to the window and looked out.  It was early evening and the air was cool.  Summer was almost gone, and in spite of warm days, each night was a little colder than the one before.  Why am I here, she thought, looking out at the city.  I could have run so easily.  She wrapped her arms around herself in the chill night air.  Silly, she thought, it was the look in his eyes.  She had seen, just for a flickering instant, a hint of joy.  It had been a long time since anyone had actually been glad to see her, since anyone had really wanted her around.  But it had been there, she was sure of it. 

            Who are you kidding, said the dark little voice inside her head.  Of course he was glad to see you.  Your plan will probably get him a citation, of course it could get you dead, but what would he care. 

            That’s not it, said the other voice, he really was glad you were OK.  He must have been worried about you, didn’t you see, he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. 

            She smiled, rocked back and forth on her heels and finally said out loud, “if anyone catches me talking to myself, no, arguing with myself  they will think I am absolutely wacko.”  She leaned against the railing and let the cold wind blow over her.  “I will do this,” she said aloud, silencing the dark little voice.  “Jake isn’t sure about me, Alex doesn’t trust me, but it doesn’t matter, I’ll earn their trust.  And Frank, I don’t know if he has feelings for me or not, but I’ll find out.  This is a risk I’m willing to take.  This is worth it.  I think I’ve finally find something worth living for.”

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Redemption