CHAPTER SEVEN

They finished their lunch and left Keenan at the restaurant at his request. "You can't take me back to the club," he said, "then it looks like you chauffeured me. I gotta go back bitching about how you dumped me on the street when you couldn't get me to confess to anything and made me walk back. It looks bad enough that the FBI picked me up anyway."

"Might want to think about taking a night off from the club," Faith suggested, "just in case."

"Yeah," Keenan said ruefully. "Damn. I'm telling you, man, the best tits you've ever seen."

"A shame," Michael said drily.

Before they left, they got the name and last known address of one of the Bulgarians, a lieutenant named Iliev, who when things were going well, would supply the Syndicate with girls. Keenan suggested he might be willing to give the name of the trigger man in exchange for immunity.

Faith groused about that on the drive to the address listed. "It's like they're equals," she said, "like we have to talk to them like we owe them something and not the other way around."

"That's the way things are sometimes," Michael said. "I don't like it any more than you do, but New York, Chicago and L.A. all tried the strong-arm technique. It only made things worse for the little people caught in the crossfire, not to mention it increased gang participation tenfold in affected neighborhoods."

"So what do we do? Legalize drugs and prostitution and just let everyone do what they want?"

"There are some studies that suggest that exact solution," Michael said, "Take it out of the hands of the criminal underground and put it somewhere it can be regulated."

Faith stared at him. "What do you think?"

"I think I can't wait to get out of here," Michael replied. "The last time I was in Atlanta, I stayed in a nice hotel and visited nice places with nice people and great food—outstanding food. Saw a Falcons game and enjoyed some Georgia Peach Pie. I miss that Atlanta."

"Well, Philly has its rough places too, I suppose," Faith allowed.

"All cities do," Michael agreed, "but I don't have to visit them."

"Except when gang leaders are murdered," Faith said.

"That's the job."

They fell silent then. Turk slept in the back seat, and Michael envied the dog's ability to sleep anywhere at any time. He wished he had that kind of freedom.

Well, there was a way. He was a little less than five years away from twenty years, and then he would be fully vested in his pension. He hadn't considered retirement before, not seriously, anyway, but now that he was married, he wondered if advancement was really something he was cut out for. The Boss certainly didn't seem happy. Then again, it was hard to tell with the Boss. For all Michael knew, he wasn't capable of anything other than a scowl.

But did Michael really want to end up like that?

He looked over at Faith, who also rested. His face softened as he regarded the woman he loved as his best friend and at one time as more than a friend. The past two years had been very hard on them. Several times, Michael wondered if their friendship would survive. Even now, he wasn't sure about that. Faith had admitted finally that she was deeply affected by Trammell and West, but she had also admitted that she wouldn't stop hunting West, regardless of the consequences.

And what happened after that? At times, it seemed to Michael that West's existence was the only thing that kept Faith going. What would she do when the only remaining pillar of her existence was torn down, and by her own hands? Would she once more become the woman he knew, as she said she would, or would she be nothing more than a bitter, cynical shell? Michael had seen it happen to others before. Many of them didn't live long enough to grow old.

The problem was that West really was a threat. Michael had dismissed the urgency of his threats before, thinking him nothing more than a garden variety crackpot who was leaving letters behind like many killers did because of a warped and inflated ego that couldn't recognize how utterly foolish he seemed.

Now he knew better. West was still out there killing, and he was almost certainly doing so to torment Faith, exactly as she claimed he was. He had threatened David, he had threatened Michael, and he had threatened Ellie.

Michael's hands tightened around the steering wheel. Ellie had flatly refused to discuss an extended vacation with him. "I am done letting Frank control my life," she had said. "If he really wants to kill me, he can come try it. I have the shotgun, and I'll be more than happy to show him I know how to use it."

The shotgun was Ellie's one concession for her personal safety. It was a short-barreled twenty-gauge Remington, not the most powerful weapon but plenty for close-quarters self-defense and easier to handle than a twelve-gauge model, especially for someone as petite as Ellie.

Not that it would save her if West got the drop on her, as he almost certainly would. It worried Michael to be so far away from her. West, for all his bluster, was a coward. He lured Faith out to him rather than come to her. He wouldn't risk facing Michael. That, he believed, was an empty threat. Michael would admit that he wasn't the detective Faith was, but he was more than a match for most men in a fight, armed or unarmed, and most of his fantasies these days were about catching West alone and forcing him to pick a fight with someone his own size.

He smiled grimly as he imagined driving his fist over and over into West's face, hearing the satisfying crunch of cracking bones as he taught West why threatening and hurting the two most important people in his life was a very, very bad idea.

In moments like this, he could understand why someone would hate enough to kill another the way Mariano and Harris had been killed.

They reached the address a few minutes later. It was a working-class neighborhood, but not nearly as rundown as Hansen or Grant Street. Faith woke just as Michael parked the car, and Turk woke immediately after.

"That the house?" she asked.

"That's it," Michael said. "Let's try to be nice and calm at first. If we can get through this without a fight, that will be better than not."

Faith frowned at him. "I know that," she said, a little testily. "You don't have to tell me."

"I wasn't accusing you," he protested. "Sometimes I talk to calm myself down. You know this."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, grow a pair, will you? That's the job."

Michael glared at her for using his own words against him. "I should have dumped you and partnered with Rosa after all."

"Maybe I'll partner with Rosa," she retorted. "He looks like he could use someone experienced to show him the ropes. If you know what I mean."

Jeffrey Rosa was the newest agent at the field office. He was an attractive young man, and on a few occasions, Faith had caught him looking at her.

"Maybe we should ask David what you mean," Michael jibed.

"And maybe we should tell Ellie about your little infatuation with Chavez," she retorted.

The second-newest agent, Gloria Chavez, was a very attractive young woman, and on a few occasions, Faith had noticed her regarding Michael with a somewhat other-than-professional eye.

They cut the banter as they approached the house. Michael felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle and drew his handgun.

Faith frowned at him. "I thought you said be calm."

"Shh," he said, "listen."

She fell silent. Turk stood in between them, ears up, tail switching slowly back and forth.

He was the first to pinpoint the danger. He barked and sprinted toward the back of the house. Faith and Michael followed him, guns drawn, hearts pounding.

It was moments like these that made Michael think more and more fondly of retirement.

They heard a scream and rounded the corner to see Turk's teeth buried in the forearm of a young man of medium height and build with close-cropped blonde hair and a tattoo of what Michael guessed was the Bulgarian flag on one shoulder. The hand attached to the forearm Turk was wrestling held a handgun.

Faith and Michael leveled their own weapons at the man. "Stand down, Iliev!" Faith shouted.

Iliev looked at her in shock and shouted something in Bulgarian.

"Drop your weapon," Faith warned, "Or I'll tell Turk to bite it off of you.

Iliev glared and tried to point his gun at them, but Turk yanked him to the ground. Iliev lifted his fist to strike Turk, but Michael reached him first, kicking Iliev's gun out of the way and pointing his own weapon at Iliev's nose.

Iliev glared at him, although that might have been a grimace since Turk's teeth were still buried in his arm.

"I think you know what I'm about to ask you," Michael said, "and I think you know the right answer to that question."

Iliev sighed and relaxed. "All right. You got me."

The agents kept their weapons trained on him as Turk released him and backed off. Blood seeped from Iliev's arm. He looked coolly at the wound and asked. "You mind if we go inside so I can clean this up? I'd rather not have to send you fine agents a hospital bill."

"No can do," Michael replied. "We have a first aid kit in the car, and I'm told that Atlanta PD has a fine nursing facility at every one of their precincts."

"And why, may I ask, am I being arrested?" he asked, sneering.

"For assault on an officer with a deadly weapon," Michael replied.

"Your dog attacked me first!"

"I doubt that," Faith said, "but feel free to lodge a formal complaint as long as you're all right with the FBI looking over every square inch of every place you've been for the past ten years to see if we can find a connection with you and the Bulgarian Mafia. I'm sure your employers would appreciate that."

"If you're here to talk about them," Iliev replied, "I'm afraid I can't help you."

"As a matter of fact," Michael replied, "we're here to talk about you."

Iliev looked between the agents, who continued to cover him with their weapons. Turk growled low in his throat, and Iliev decided he didn't want to risk another fight. "All right," he said, "Be careful with my right hand, please." He curled his lip in contempt. "It's bleeding."