Cop in bed with the Mob (Open)

Boss Joseph "Joey" Brownstone
Height 6'3"
Weight 210 pounds
Medium build with smooth body. Physically fit with piercing ice blue eyes, thin lips, squared jaw and smooth facial cheeks. Bristling sandy hair. No tattoos or piercings.

"Where is that slut?!" I barked from my bed.

My guards, outside the room, look at one another and then at their watches. My whore was late. Laying on my bed with a bottle of whiskey at the end table, wearing shorts, and she was running an hour late, so I started the party without her. There was a knock on the door, "What?" I yelled, annoyed.

My guard, Dylan, sticks his head inside, "Boss, she's here...." trailing off.

"And?"

"Boss, she's shit faced" he says reluctantly.

Sitting up and rubbing my eyes, I wrap a bathrobe around my body and shuffle out there to deal with her. Damn slut. Pixie was her name. She was a model, found her in the clubs and she fell hard for me. But, she couldn't handle the coke and the alcohol. I watched for months as it ate away at her. She lost her looks, she began an addict, sucking and fucking everyone that would give her a dollar or a fix. She was sitting in the living room babbling incoherently. When she looked up at me with those hollow eyes, she didn't recognize me. Still she tried to crawl to me, begging for some more. I didn't step back. I growled and kicked her away. Garbage. She wouldn't make anything out what she become.

"Dylan?"

"Boss?"

"Take her to the rehab center on Dragoon Lane. Make sure she doesn't leave. I don't want to see her face here again," stabbing a finger at her.

The boys grabbed her and hauled her out, kicking and screaming. Damn shame. She had the body of a pornstar, all natural, now she looked 70.

Going to the large bay windows of my place I could look out upon the city. Neighborhoods, projects, infrastructure, social services, soup kitchens, public transportation...all of it, I had a hand in. Following my father, Joey, he built an empire through fear and intimidation. Unlike other families that blackmailed and murdered, our family, my family now, forced out the crime families, forced out the bad drugs, the gangs, the murderers. We made it so people, old ladies, could walk home in safety. We used force, we killed, we stole, but we only took from the bad guys. The gangs.

The only problem was, we were bad guys ourselves. At least in the eyes of the police, and the District Attorneys. We've been at war for years. When I took control of the family, I wanted to stop meaningless bloodshed and help people. We didn't fight the cops, yet they weren't our friends. I had to get people from the inside to help me. I need a mole in the police.

My boys had staked out several candidates, most of them were new. New ones were like Play-dough, easy to mold and easily seduced. They were wide eyed, eager. When you instill in them that they can make more money working for me, they could be easily swayed.

I had to be careful. Last mole we had nearly gave it up. She was a bright eyed, young, talented girl with a wicked tongue. She got in too deep. She started making friends with the gangs. Then they took her one night during a party. We found her in the warehouse district at the water front. They killed her, not before they fucked the living shit out of her, in her uniform, came all over her face, body, her badge, inside of her, humiliating her before they executed her. For that, I swore revenge. We found the hoodlums, all twelve of them. I watched as my boys forced them to their knees, made them cry and beg for mercy. So they could feel like how she felt, then we gunned them down, starting with the knees and working our way up.

I may be a crime boss, but I had a grudging respect for the people who wore the badge. They do their job, we do ours.

One of my boys, Edgar, came up to me with several of the new candidates that they talked to about working for us and asked for me to see them again. Sitting down on a plush leather chair, I took the photos and looked them over. All were good looking. "Nice..." whispering.

Young, impressionable, and vulnerable...that's what these officers looked like. They were like little toys to me. Looking at the array of them on the papers, blonde, brunettes, redheads, and all the others in between. They looked more like models, which was a crime in and of itself. How could so many be so good looking? This wasn't a movie.

Anyway, after flipping through the photos I lit a cigar and drew a long puff from it, savoring the flavor. Wasn't Cuban. Cubans were not all that good. The only reason people liked it was it was taboo. Slowly venturing towards the bay windows of the property, I carefully surveyed the area. The view was breathtaking, the weather was clear, and warm. Hundreds of buildings had clawed their way into the sky from the beach front and were adorned largely in white to protect against the warm sun.

"What's on the agenda for today, boss?" asked one of my men.

"Not sure about now," I replied, not taking my eyes off the horizon. "Tonight, I'm going to take in a show. Is Jessica playing tonight at the Bongo?"

"Yes, sir. She is." He responded.

"Good," nodding slightly. "Go ahead and reserve me a seat in the front row."

Hunkered down behind the wheel of her rusted brown Buick sedan, Rose watched several men unload product from the back of an equally shitty red van. It’d pulled in twenty minutes ago. She’s pretty sure they were buying from the Las Arañas at the docks, but that was another problem for a another day. Right now, she just wants more evidence on these mooks-they were pushing heroin damned near every block south of 16th street, hooking high schoolers barely old enough to walk home by themselves. Everyone knew it, and it was her chief’s jurisdiction and he just didn’t give a damn. On the take, probably. A lot of her fellow cops moonlighted for drug lords, she’d come to find out. Things just weren’t the same as they’d been for her granddad when he’d been a police sergeant some fifty years ago-and she’s stuck in the murk and mire of it all.

Rose Moretta was a woman who fit her name well enough, at a glance-long, golden blonde hair framed a rather elegant face-if that face didn’t hold so determined an expression all the time. Her eyes were an interesting tint of green, streaks of subtle amber throughout to make them nearly hazel in certain lighting-fringed in lashes the same golden color as her flaxen hair. At five foot four she hardly came up to many of her fellow police officers' shoulders-but she carried herself well. She always stood, walked, and sat with a straight backed, perfect posture-chin up, eyes focused on where she was heading. The toned limbs of an athlete and the voluptuous curves of a woman, perfectly proportioned hips and bust with a cinched, small waist-a natural hourglass figure.

Yes, Rose was a fitting name for such a woman.

Personality wise however, she’d have been better off named Briar. She’d busted her ass in the academy, worked hard to prove herself, land a job in the same precinct her pop had served, and her granddad before him-the latter dying just before she finished the academy, and the former killed in the line of duty when she was just a baby. No clue on her mother-she’d taken off and left her only child behind-so Rose had had a chip on her shoulder for as long as she could remember, maintained a stubborn will in the face of adversity, held a deep distrust of the world in general-and yet was a die hard believer in the system, in law and order, in justice.

With the way the past two years had gone she’s more disillusioned and pricklier than ever, but she still believed things could get better, that justice would prevail in the end. They’d stuck her on a dead end beat in a mostly empty neighborhood and done their level best to shut her up and discredit her as ‘crazy’-but she’s not leaving, not giving up yet. If she did, it'd be one less cop to keep an eye on things.

The system wasn’t entirely broken in this hellhole of a city...it couldn’t be. And if it was, she would make a change, somehow, someway. She was just too stubborn to pack up and move on. No, she’d grown up walking these neighborhoods and these streets, and she wasn’t giving them up just because her boss was a sexist fuck and on the take.

The off duty rookie shook such thoughts away. She needs a clear head, and thinking about her asshole boss just wasn’t conducive to that, not with the way he made her blood boil. She’s one more write up from corrective action and maybe a visit with the Internal Affairs people-and she didn’t want another interview with them given how it’d gone the last time. So much for whistle blower laws, they were just as bad as her boss.

So here she is off the clock and still in half of her uniform-hadn’t even gone home yet. She’d left her cruiser parked six blocks away where’d she left her civilian car, had peeled out of the top half of her uniform with her badge and nametag, removed her hat, and left it and her shotgun in the cruiser. Now she was wearing just her white undershirt and the pressed cotton blend bottoms to her uniform, the standard issue shoes and her service pistol on her hip-her granddad’s pocket knife in her right pocket, the pearl handle still a brilliant shimmering white after all these years. She still looks like a cop, but at least if she were spotted in her vehicle in an unlucky stroke of luck, it wouldn’t be starkly obvious. It’s not the first time she’s staked the place out after work, but it is the first time she’s seen this much product come in, at least in person. She’s finally got ‘em-evidence of this would have to force the commissioner to do something, specially if photos of it was mysteriously sent in to the local news team-not that they always reported on what she’s tipped them off to, but something this big...well, shit, they’re still news reporters, right?

Eventually, a slew of men climbed into the van and it left. She estimates five or six still inside. Rose sat up a little, hands returning to the steering wheel, tapping her fingers on the peeling, sunbaked leather. She needs evidence before they start REALLY moving the stuff on the streets, get them busted before then.

The dash cam probably wasn’t going to give her much-just some men unloading a van, not exactly a smoking gun. She’d have to get in there, see what’s what...gather photo evidence. Shit, maybe she won’t even bother trying to bust ‘em. Maybe she’d light the shit on fire.

Rose sighed. If only.

She glanced at her watch. It was half past midnight. Her muscles were sore from being in the same position for so long-she stretched her legs out, looked around suspiciously-and finally opened the car door. The interior lights had been disconnected months ago, when this whole thing had started. When she stopped letting red tape and her corrupt superiors dictate what she could and couldn’t do...at least in her free time.

Rose carefully closed the car door, then slipped down the embankment and headed towards the house, ducking through an overgrown hedge that went around half of the drug den, a major security oversight if she’s ever seen one. The cover of the leafy branches let her creep along unseen-until she reached the little rectangle of light that shone through the basement window directly in front of her feet.

She paused and held her breath a moment-and then dropped into a crouch to peek through. Holy shit-she got ‘em alright-there were kilos and kilos of white powder packed into bricks down there, stacked on a low table and being haphazardly covered up with a tarp as she watched. A solid day’s work, apparently-there was a handshake or two, a fist bump-and then all five of the gangers went back up the stairs. The lights went out.

Well. She hadn’t come down here just to gawk some more-she had the digital camera in her pocket. A few pictures, that’s all she needed. Maybe try to overhear something incriminating, record it if possible. Assuming she could get in through here…

Her fingers traced the window frame, running along the rotted wood that was peeling away from the concrete foundation of the house. Flipping open her pocket knife, she wedged it into the top of the glass and pried forward-there was a quiet sound of spongy, water logged wood crumbling, and then the glass was free. Perfect.

It was tight, but she thinks she can make it-crawling through head first, her hands groped blindly in the dark, hips catching for a moment-but with a twist she got them through, dropping into a quiet somersault on the concrete floor, going shock still to listen for any evidence she’d been heard.

Barking laughter up there somewhere.

Loosening her shoulders and tightening her ponytail, she let her eyes adjust to the dark. There was just enough moonlight coming through the now open window to illuminate the unfinished space, and she can make out the table and tarp clear enough. She stepped up to peel back the tarp, exposing thousands and thousands of dollars in straight heroin, enough to push on any number of addicts and the new blood they were cultivating in teenagers. Shaking her head as she lined her camera up, Rose cast a nervous glance to the window, then the door at the top of the stairs. She sucked in a breath and took a snapshot, then a second from the otherside of the table.

Alright. She's gotten this far. Now she had to see what could be done with it.

Walking back over to the window, she frowned as she realized she couldn't reach the lip of it to climb out. Well, fuck. She glanced around. What was she going to do, make a staircase out of drugs? She doesn't want her fingerprints on that shit. There had to be a ladder or something else to stand on, down here.

The laughter upstairs was intense. The men, these pushers, were eager to get their product out. It didn't matter to them where it went. They didn't touch the stuff, knowing the effects it caused on people. All they cared about was what they got in return, a large wad of greenbacks. They were getting themselves drunk off the local hooch, passing the dirty bottle around as they played cards. Their task now waited for the morning where they would break the stuff up into doses and get them out to their sellers. This toxic stuff was coming into the city like a faucet. It had to be stopped.

"Marcos, what are you going to do with your cut?" one of the Las Arañas men asked with a laugh. The air was thick with cheap cigar smoke.

"Same thing I do every time, homie," Marcos laughed, "Get me some of those sweet hoochies on the beach and cut loose!" They all laughed together, boasting, and slamming back the drinks. They felt safe in this isolated area.

That suddenly changed when one of the men called, "Hey! There's someone out there!" The men all grabbed their weapons and came running downstairs. The booze made them paranoid. Spilling out onto the ground floor, their weapons were trained on the corners. They didn't see anything.

"Damn it, Pena!" roared Marcos, "You made me lose that hand!" slapping the younger Pena upside the head. "What's wrong with you?"

Rubbing the sore spot on his bald head, Pena pleaded, "Marcos, I swear, I heard something moving."

"Just rats," Marcos spat at Pena's feet. "Let's get back upstairs and finish that game," his tone now bitter. Before the pushers could go back, however, there was a crash and then a bang. The door to the room suddenly burst open. The pushers raised their weapons, then immediately lowered them when several suits calmly entered the room.

"Madre de Dios" muttered one.

They had every right to fear. It wasn't the cops bursting in. It was worse, men with no rules when it came to enforcement and dealing with enemies. It was Dylan and his men. All were dressed in fine suits, yet holding pistols, a shotgun, and a bat. With his long black hair slicked back, his jaw firm, and his eyes piercing, Dylan smugly walked up to Marcos and ripped the pistol from his grasp, cleared it, and threw it aside. "Surprised to see us?" Dylan whispered to the pusher's cold face. "Yeah? You were expecting a little warning? Well, I wouldn't count on your little snitch over on 24th Street," pointing over his shoulder to the man at the door holding a shotgun in one hand and a scalp in the other. "You be surprised what a man would say when his life is on the line," Dylan smiled. "As for you, rejects, well, our boss is not going to be lenient." He turned to walk back, back towards the stack of bricks covered by the tarp. Ripping it back, showing the bricks. The stomachs of the pushers churned. "You know who we work for?" Dylan asked as his eyes graced the white bricks.

"You're...you're with Brownstone," Pena said nervously from the back of the group, after they laid down their weapons.

"That's right. For a bunch of pushers, you at least got one smart one with you," Dylan replied. It wasn't meant to be a compliment. His tone was flat. He was a man that didn't show mercy to anyone. "You were warned about peddling this stuff. You boss said that you stopped."

"Yeah, listen, man..." Marcos began to speak. As he did so, Dylan calmly walked back around the table. All eyes fell on him as the suit calmly, and powerfully, delivered a right hook to Marcos' left cheek, knocking the man to the ground instantly.

"I'm not your man" Dylan spat as he wiped the blood from his hands with a handkerchief. "I'm not one of your uneducated homies that pushes this product onto children to satisfy your lust for money. You know this stuff is ruining lives?" He asked while standing over Marcos's moaning body.

Another of the pushers spoke up, "It's just a job, ma-...sir."

Dylan's cold eyes slowly turned to this one that bravely spoke up, "Just a job? Well, tell that to the 3 children of a mother that was killed with one of your addicts killed her to get her purse. Tell that to the old man, who served in Korea, it's just a job after another addict shot him to get his wallet to fuel his addiction." The pusher lowered his head in shame. Looking at them, they were all reasonably fit men, tattoos and piercings, sure, but they didn't show the effects of heroine use, the gaunt appearance with pox marks, rotten teeth, twitchy disposition, and worse. They didn't touch the product. "You were warned now to push this stuff. And our boss has been more than lenient with you. Now, he'll want answers. And I'm not going back to my Boss without them. So, the question I'm asking you boys here is, who is going to talk and walk, and who is going die silently?"

The two sides stood there, waiting. Dylan and his men were on a mission. They knew what they were going to do and were going to enjoy it. The pushers, however, their job just ended. They didn't have the loyalty of a family like Dylan.

Brownstone? Fucking Brownstone had people busting this place up? Shit, mother fucking shit. She had the worst goddamned luck of anyone outside of the poor smucks in Vegas, and it’d put her in a bad spot-more specifically, the small closet she’d ducked into as soon as trouble started stirring upstairs.

She listens hard, every word easily heard through the thin wooden door she was hoping wouldn’t draw any attention. These gangers were all but pissing themselves in the face of real fucking bad guys, professionals that didn’t give a damn about much, but apparently-hard drugs was a step too far.

Talk and walk...or die silently. No one speaks, and Rose doesn’t believe talkers would be let go no matter what he says. He was going to kill these men.

Rose hesitated, a cold sweat washing over her as she breathes slowly and carefully through her mouth, deathly still. Fuck, they’re going to start dropping these assholes, and while they might be scum-they were still fucking people, citizens she’s supposed to ‘protect and serve’.

Yeah, serve ‘em to a fucking jail cell. But even dirt bags have rights, and she’s supposed to defend those rights. What the fuck was she supposed to do though, burst through and demand everybody freeze? She’d be shot full of a holes or eating buckshot before she even finished the word ‘Police.’

She needs back up. It’d get her in more deep shit for being here, but she can’t just take on the number of pounding feet that had just come down the stairs. Who was she kidding? She’s fucking dead no matter what she does. There’s no way they won’t check the closet, and she’s a fucking cop in a bad part of town. She’s dead.

Rose bites back on panic, focuses on what she’s come here for in the first place. She’s been recording on the little camera-maybe she can tuck it away, let it keep going. Maybe someone would eventually find it, turn it in. She carefully finds a spot for it without moving anything-setting it down behind an empty box of detergent. There’d at least be evidence of who was responsible for the body count-including one dead cop-down here, if nothing else.

It’s not very comforting, but it’s something.

“Search the place.”

Here it went. For only the second time in her career so far, Rose lowered her hand to her holster and quietly unsnapped the leather strap that held her glock in place. She’s drawn her service weapon exactly once in the field, and that hadn’t exactly ended well for her. It’s different when your blood’s up. Not like the shooting range where you had time to think and time for accuracy. When you’re aiming to make bodies, because that’s the only reason you should draw-to hurt somebody before they hurt you.

There’s no way to get out of this alive, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to just let them murder her. Shit got really bad, she’d bite off and choke on her own tongue-she’d read about that somewhere, once-some Roman senator or some shit. If you gotta go, go on your own terms.

She wrapped both hands around the metal bar over her head. She tested it-it held her weight. Rose curled her abdomen muscles, brought her toned, powerful legs up to her chest, holding her breath.

Someone eventually made their way to the closet. The handled turned-

BANG!

Rose extended her legs and back in an explosive full bodied kick, blasting open the shitty door and knocking the guy back into the wall, the wood splintering beneath the soles of her standard issue boots.

Nobody was expecting that, people drew and Rose did as well with an impressively blared “Freeze!” , but door guy’s buddy was closest and surged for her. Rose stepped into his charge, gun still trained forward on the bulk of the men as she rammed her elbow into the man’s throat, stepping behind him for cover and then shoving him forward into the next guy-but it’s not enough. She knew it’d be bad, and-well, it was bad, even with the Las Aranas taking advantage of the distraction to try and fight for an escape themselves.

Not that she's paying attention to that, she's busy-

The man she’d slammed back with the door had dropped his gun when it happened, taken a nasty hit to his wrist and bounced the back of his skull against the concrete wall-but he was a big man, and it hadn’t downed him. He snapped forward and had a hold of her wrist, a nasty twist that immediately had her dropping it-but there was that quick left hand again, driving the butt of her hand into his solar plexus and then his nose, blood immediately everywhere, splattering across the front of her white undershirt.

The woman was small, but she was mean and she could fight.

She was just one lady, though, one petite woman against a lot of men much bigger than she was, and just as used to if not more comfortable with violence. Having turned to deal with Mr. Broken nose, she was easy to grab from behind, the blonde cursing and spitting as she then kicked the man she’d focused on, right in his already bloodied fucking face, smashing and breaking teeth in.

She tried to elbow the guy who’d grabbed her, but his arm was solid across her middle and around her arms, other arm trying to press against her throat-but she dropped her chin and bit him as hard as she could.

He grunted and snarled in pain, but of the men there he was by far the biggest-he released her arms and middle and yanked her head back by the hair, practically tearing it half out of its braid-and putting her into a sleeper hold. The crazy bitch had managed to take out two of them and was working on the third, her fingers digging into the pressure point of his wrist-but he doesn’t let go, her struggles weakening as as the pressure on her jugular kept blood from flowing to her brain, the fight with the Las Aranas cowards ending behind him.

He only let her go when she was on the verge of passing out, her body slack against him, no more kicking and her hands sliding away from his arm. Shoved her forward on the hard floor where she barely managed to catch herself on her hands, coughing hard and fisting her hands against the stone as she came to her hands and knees-but by then, every gun in the place was trained on her, except the man she'd elbowed in the throat and the one who's face she'd wrecked.

One of the men sneered, a snarl on his lip and a disbelieving tone. “She’s a fucking cop.”

What was a cop doing here? The gang had paid them off...maybe an enforcer? Who wanted some little lady cop for an enforcer? Nevermind how hard she'd fought them. Maybe a girlfriend of one the douchebags?

There was the rack of a shotgun behind this stranger's back. A 12-gauge aimed between the shoulders. She wasn't going anywhere.

"She's a fucking cop!" someone spat.

"Are you sure?" asked another.

"She's got the pants and that's a service pistol," said the first one.

Sore from the hit she gave, Dylan walked over, picked up the pistol, cleared it and pocketed the weapon before grasping the woman by the back of her neck and pulling her up. Looking back at the pushers, "One of yours?" he asked. They all shook their heads. "Well, if you're not with us, and you're not with them, then you're a little rat."

"What are we going to do with her?" asked the man with the shotgun.

There were a lot of things flowing through Dylan's cold mind. This woman had a lot of spunk to be able to fight so many. Maybe not the smartest in the world, but had a lot of fight. This woman wasn't on any of the Boss's lists. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a silver lining for her. Pushing her over to another man, Joey, "Cuff and search her," he ordered.

With a big smile on his face, the man Joey, a mid-aged, thin, lanky man with salt and pepper hair, holstered his pistol as he started to search this girl. He found her cuffs in a back pocket and cuffed her wrists behind her back. That allowed him free rein to search the rest of her. He placed his head on her right shoulder and was all smiles as he began his search, going up the ankles and around the backside, feeling her body through her pants and around the waist. "Oh, what have we got here?" finding the pocket knife. "Naughty, naughty" tapping the handle against her head. When it came to her chest, he quickly cupped and squeezed, snickering. "She's packing allright, Dylan!" he laughed.

The rest of the place was searched. There was some money upstairs, that was it.

"Take her to the car," said Dylan. "We'll take her to see the Boss. No hanky-panky in there, Joey" stabbing a finger at him.

Grasping the cuffs, Joey pushed Rose out. "Let's go, you."

As they were leaving, Dylan went back to the pushers. Since none of them were willing to talk, then it would be the end of them. It wasn't going to be easy. Shooting was to merciful. Instead, they broke out some wire. Grasping Marcos by his neck, Dylan forced him to stand in the center of the room, threw a length of wire over a rafter and had a man tie it to a heavy pipe. Making a noose with the other end, he wrapped it around Marcos' neck before forcing him to stand on a stool. Marcos didn't try to resist or plead. He thought that by not disgracing himself in such a way, he would die a man. His thoughts were cut short when Dylan kicked the stool from underneath. Marcos fell and jerked, the wire cutting into his flesh, straggling him quickly. His thrashed and pawed at the wire to no avail. His friends watched in fear as it took him a full minute to go limp.

Dylan stabbed a finger at another one, "You're next!" One by one, the other pushers were hung from the rafter, their bodies gently swaying with and against each other. It all came down to Pena, the youngest of the bunch. When he stepped onto the ladder, Dylan was about to place the noose around his neck and saw the fear in his eyes. "This is your last chance. Talk and you get to walk out of here."

Pena looked at Pena, his body trembling, hands sweating. He looked at his dead friends beside him and then at the noose just inches from his neck. After a moment, he shook his head. Dylan quickly hung him and left their corpses laying there. The drugs, they were doused in gasoline and set on fire, the smoke rapidly filling the building. Dylan and his men walked out of the building as brown and black smoke billowed out through the windows. Going to his car, he opened the left-rear passenger door to find Rose sitting there, hands bound and unspoiled with an eager Joey. "Let's go!" Dylan ordered and the cars rapidly left the scene.

Rose has been on the wrong end of a gun before, but never this fucking close. She doesn't bother looking back at the shotgun-she knows what that sound is. She also knows it'd tear her half at this range. Hamburger meat. Good thing there wasn't anyone to attend a funeral...

She's not dumb enough to try anything else at this point-though when she's hauled up by the hand on the back of her slender neck, she thinks about it.

She's still half out of breath, gold blonde attractively framing her face in a mussed, fluffed way half out of its braid like that-watching what she was pretty sure were doomed men shake their heads. They looked just as mystified about her presence as she frankly was about Brownstone's men showing up.

"What are we going to do with her?"

Dylan doesn't answer right away, and that makes her nervous. She can't turn her head to look at him, so she glares straight ahead, jaw set.

And then he shoves her over to a hungry looking man old enough to maybe be her father. Dirty fucking perv seemed to think Christmas had come early-and Rose tested the sharpness of her teeth against her tongue, seriously thinking about her options.

There's a red color rising on the back of her neck that had nothing to do with embarrassment, and everything to do with barely concealed rage-especially when he takes the knife. Mother fucker-

She wouldn't demand it back. Wouldn't beg for it either. But dammit if that wasn't a punch in the gut-her granddad hadn't had much to leave her, never kept much if sentimental value-but he'd carried that damned thing all through his service, passed it to her father when he'd retired-and then promised it to her once she graduated.

He hadn't lived to see the day, but she liked to think he knew it somehow. The knife tied her to him, was tradition.

And here's this stupid asshole bopping her in the head with it and smirking. Say nothing...if it doesn't mean anything they can't hold it over her head, torment her with it.

She keeps her teeth clamped together until he finally cops a feel too many-she'd instead instinctively tried to step back and away from his groping hands, but it only drives her back and bound hands into him. "You realize I could grab and pop a testicle right now, right?"

That got a snicker from the others, but to her alarm she felt him stir against her-and she jerked her hips away. His grin only widened when he slipped back around and to the front of her.

Jesus Christ, would biting off her tongue even work? Shit.

Joey gets ordered to take her out to the car and Rose tries to jerk away when he moves to haul her out of there-but no dice. He slapped her ass as soon as they were out on the lawn.

"Fuckwit, you better hope your boss murders me, you keep this shit up."

With her hands cuffed behind her and her future so uncertain, she's not sure why she's bothering with threats-but damn if it didn't feel better to growl at him-even if his smile widened yet further.

She kept to one side of the backseat and seethed, still trying to figure out how she'd fucked up this bad. She can put on a mean face all she wants-part of her was fucking terrified. Dying wasn't all that frightening-but being tortured first was.

But she's made if tougher stuff than to beg or cry, and so she keeps her gaze straight ahead, her green eyes hard and determined. Until she catches sight of the smoke, that was. Holy shit-she briefly lost focus, ducking her head to peer at the house, lips parted in surprise. They had just lit god only knew how many hundreds of thousands of dollars in hard drugs on fire in there, just like she had secretly wanted to do herself.

That hadn't been talk in there, apparently-they really didn't approve of the stuff.

...there went her camera, though. This little group weren't the full brunt of the gang, and now she didn't have a damned thing on them. Well, shit. But at least that shit wasn't going out to the streets, confused as she was by their actions.

Men filed out and Dylan opened the car door, seemed to be checking that everything was on the up and up with her and the handsy knife stealing asshole Joey. She doesn't say anything-just that vaguely surprised look to her eyes-and suspicion-before she turns the amber flecked green gaze forward again, lips pressed together.

The ride back was long and tense. Dylan didn't call his boss as that kind of information could be tracked. Instead, they went on a round-about way back to the Boss, to throw off any pursuit.

Sitting beside her, Dylan glanced over every so often to check up on their new guest. She was remaining tight lipped. Perhaps it was for the best. He hated to deal with begging. Looking her over, he had a crude smile on his face as he liked what he saw, blonde hair in a pony tail, nice figure, good chest, hips, backside. Joey cackled that they were soft. They hadn't asked her name. It didn't matter. Not yet. They'll get something out of her eventually. Across from her, Joey continued to play with the pocket knife he found in her pocket.

Having accomplished their mission, Dylan was satisfied. He just didn't show it. He was a cold-hearted man. Killed many people, many with his own hands. It didn't bother him. They were just more bad people out of the way. With this in mind, he wondered how the Boss would feel having an uninvited guest over. He was still looking for a snitch, but he was more into redheads than blondes.

Arriving at the headquarters, Dylan grasped her forearm, "You scream, you get cut," flicking his eyes over to a smiling Joey. Taking her out of the car, Dylan pushed her along inside the multi-story, high-end apartment style building. The front door was guarded by more men in suits and had cameras monitoring them. Inside showed what money could bring. A fountain of water, surrounded by cut stone that flowed towards the front door before splitting and cutting back and then around about 100 feet. The floors were of smooth white marble and the columns of obsidian black that glistened in the light from a large chandelier. People were around them, going about their lives. Wealthy men in suits with their dates or wives, also dressed in the finest attire.

Summoning the elevator, three filed inside. The ride up was quiet until, just before their floor, Dylan says, "You better not disappoint, or else I'll give you to Joey." Perhaps that was enough to shake her up.

Stepping off the elevator, they were at a grand floor that was all one apartment. "Mr. Brownstone," Dylan called, "We have a guest. I was in the dining area at the time and step out in a white button up shirt and tie, black slacks and shoes. A dinner party had just ended and now was evening drinks. Coming into the living room where the light shined off my spiked, sandy brown hair, I expected to see a pusher or some flunky on her knees begging for mercy. Instead, I see a blonde hair woman in a white shirt and police pants and shoes. "We found her at the pusher's place. We thought she was one of their flunkies. Turns out, she wasn't."

I smiled, "Dylan...Dylan...is that anyway to treat our guest? Get her a seat." In a flash she was moved over to a leather seat, though her hands were still cuffed. Going over to my wet bar, I pop the top on a bottle of Scotch and pour myself some into a crystal glass. "You thirst? You look like it" I chuckle. Deciding for her, I pour her a glass. Both in hand, I carefully approach, showing off myself for her to see. A man of power, strength, and integrity. With a nod Joey undid her cuffs and stepped back. Handing her over a glass I held my own up to my lips, "You know who I am?"

They’re looking her over like she’s a piece of meat, and as much as pretended to ignore it, her heart was racing like a rabbit’s in her chest. She has no idea why they’re taking her to see their boss. No idea why she was still alive. No idea why they had burned the drugs. They were criminals with the mob. It didn’t make sense.

She’s on edge and a mixture of angry, confused, and scared-and Joey was fucking around with her granddad’s knife, and all she can think is how much she’d like to stab him with it-which was the most violent a thought she’s ever had, and one she’d normally repress pretty hard-but he was a fucking creep.

That, and maybe the fight for survival had gotten her blood up. Shit, she’s got some blood across the front of her from where she’d broken that guy’s nose. She realized she was glaring hard at Joey’s hands and the pearl handled pocket knife. Her eyes rose to his-and fixed him with a solid look, no fear just firm and unshakable hatred. And then she looked away and out the window.

And then they were there. Brownstone still living the high life, seemingly untouchable in his ivory tower. Ruthless, cold, and while seemingly benefiting from no small amount of nepotism-had done plenty to further his family’s cause. He was big guns. Really big guns, and nobody Rose had ever expected to come into contact with.

"You scream, you get cut,"

Rose gave a curt nod. Unlike Joey, Dylan’s demeanor inspires no small amount of trepidation and dread. Joey might be a creep, but Dylan seemed like the type to snap your neck without so much as blinking. Smarter, colder, and a hell of a lot more threatening. They escorted her across the marble tiles and through the various guests-no one seeming to notice what was clearly a forced march for the young policewoman.

"You better not disappoint, or else I'll give you to Joey."

Disappoint how? Jesus, what the hell did they want? She’s a fucking nobody who shouldn’t have been in that house in the first place, not the fucking mayor. Her eyes flickered to Joey and narrowed on him before she was shoved forward and off the elevator. She tested her teeth again. Maybe she wouldn’t try to kill herself on her own tongue right away. Maybe she’d try for Joey’s jugular first.

Die a little happy, for what it’s worth-hateful final act or not.

Rose keeps her silence and that perfect posture as she was ‘introduced’-and then the man spoke, all snake oil salesman charm with a hint of civilized glamour. She feels vaguely mocked, but mostly-she’s more out of sorts than ever-somebody pushes her into a leather chair and suddenly she really is a ‘guest’. What the hell. Was this a joke? A game?

Was she dreaming?

And then he addresses her directly rather than spouting more rhetoric, and at least it’s not a threat-yet. “...Mr. Brownstone, I’d assume.” She holds the glass tightly, but doesn’t take a sip despite having watched him pour it. The cop was watching him like he was something dangerous, those intelligent, amber flecked green eyes alert and determined, willful. Fuck if she wasn’t uneasy as hell though.

“Officer Moretta. Rose Moretta.” What the hell, might as well tell him who she is before he offs her. Why the fuck not. They know she’s a fucking cop, no sense stubbornly denying it-she’s not stupid. She glances down at the scotch and her stomach turns. Whatever game this was, she doesn’t like it.

“I don’t know why I’m here and not bleeding out in that flop house.” She says flatly, cutting to the chase as she tosses back half of the glass because fuck-she did need a drink. Least wash the blood out of her mouth from biting that guy.

The words were politer than ‘What do you want?’, but definitely not as refined as he was acting. She turned the glass in her hands, refusing to tilt her head back to keep eye contact, him standing over her like that.

I chuckle at her comment. "That's no way to talk to your host, now is it?" sitting beside her and crossing my ankles. "I thought you looked familiar. It was that meth house that went south, wasn't it? Your partners abandoned you." It may sound like intensely personal information, but I got people on the inside that would feed me this information. What Officer Moretta didn't know was, that meth house was going to be kicked over in a few days time. Their meth was poisoning the neighborhood, not only with their product but with their toxic fumes.

"I know a little about you," I spoke up. "I know what you're about. You and I seem to be on the same page, as it were," taking another sip. My piercing blue eyes stared at hers and then down her figure. "You, as an officer, want to clean up the streets. As do I."

There was a brief pause between us as I glanced over at Dylan and Joey, silently excusing them from the room. They would still be around. When they were out of earshot, I continued, "The reason why you're a live is quite simple; I need someone new in the police force. Someone that can give me information about the other gangs that are operating in this city." Putting the glass onto my lap and drawing a breath, letting it out slowly in frustration, "Let's face it, this city is rotten from the ground up," waving my free hand to the sky. "Politicians, city workers, police, everyone. It's a vicious circle we have going on here. It comes from the drug money. These groups have paid of every one and their poison is ruining lives." That's when my gaze turns back to her with intensity, "That's where I come in, Officer Moretta. I've dedicated myself into ridding the streets of this, one block at a time."

She still seemed nervous and unsure, holding her drink without taking a sip. However passionate I was about fixing this city, it would only come if I had help on the inside. At this moment, this officer by the balls, figuratively speaking. There was going to be the offer of being the inside. With this comes a generous package, money, protection, and the chance to be on the front lines clearing the streets. The more I looked at Officer Moretta, the more my mouth watered. Normally I was into redheads. Though this blonde had a fine figure and her attitude, challenging the likes of Dylan and his men, showed that she had a great deal of spunk. She wasn't like the other flunkies that grace me with their ass in the air and their hand out.

Of course, Officer Moretta could reject the offer. But, where would she go? Certainly couldn't just let her walk out of here. She was on the beat and a seemingly honest cop with a chip on her shoulder. First thing she'll do, run back and bring her good cops back to arrest us. The only way out, as Dylan usually threatens, talk and walk or die silently.

"I thought you looked familiar. It was that meth house that went south, wasn't it? Your partners abandoned you."

The officer’s eyes flicked to his face, clearly surprised. The bust. She’d given chase to some shady fuck, some dealer-and found herself in a full blown shootout with a bunch of meth chemists and pushers in what turned out to be a giant methlab warehouse. Rose remembered the incident as clear as it’d happened yesterday. She’d been pinned down by gunfire and shot, bled everywhere-and she managed to hold them off alone, desperately calling for back up-the longest forty five minutes of her life. She’d nearly been a dead cop.

And then her chief had come down so hard on her she still got red in the face every time she thought about it, in the hospital no less. It’d been the upbraiding of her life. It’d all gone downhill from there, and then she learned exactly what kind of man and what kind of show he was running. She’d been the catalyst in shutting that operation down, and he’d been punishing her for it ever since.

“...was just doing my job. It was shut down, and that was enough.” She’s not bitter about the lack of accolades or praise. That hadn’t been why she had chased down the perp or why she’d tried so hard to hold out for help to arrive. Forty five minutes…

And the corruption revealed after-she wasn’t real hip on the cops in her precinct, that was for sure.

He had her attention, at least-the amber flecked, green eyes were focused on his, face a little more open-however slightly. He was talking to her as a person, and that was better than a piece of meat, at least-until his eyes cut down her figure.

Men.

” I need someone new in the police force.”

Rose’s eyes flared wide, a flicker of temper before she looked away, finishing her drink. “I ain’t a dirty cop.” She said heatedly and without hesitation. Which probably meant she was about to be a dead one. The scotch burned her throat going down.

He kept talking and Rose wondered who the hell else had gotten this speech-and who would get it after her, once she was disposed of.

"That's where I come in, Officer Moretta. I've dedicated myself into ridding the streets of this, one block at a time."

“I’m sure you’re quite the humanitarian.” She muttered sarcastically, glaring down at her empty glass. So this was the hill she dies on. Great. And then she remembers how his men had burned the drugs, what Dylan had said before hand about the gang crossing the line.

Rose hesitates, glancing back at him. “You’re really fucking serious? About working to do something?” She has no illusions of his decency, not really- he’s a crook and there was profit to be had for him in taking out the competition. At the same time, his men had burned the drugs rather than push them themselves. “...I wasn’t on duty, in that house.” She admits slowly, gaze drifting back to her empty glass. “The higher ups in my department are in bed with them, pretty sure. I was there to gather evidence, try to take it further. I got in deep shit blowing the lid off that meth operation...turns out the boss was taking a cut, I guess.”

She fidgets. “So I’m not exactly working within the law, is what I’m saying.” What was she doing? She’s not really considering this. She’s not a dirty cop. But dying here on ‘principle’ wouldn’t do jack shit to help the city, to stop the out of control corruption. Maybe there’s an angle she can use, here. Maybe.

“Look. I get I’m not walking out of here without some kind of a deal, alright? I’m not stupid. I get you’re the head honcho. But I’m still a cop. I come from a long line of cops. Things weren’t ever this bad for them-not like they are now.” She reached up to the collar of her shirt, pulled it sideways-exposing a pretty collar bone, silky smooth skin, a strip of white silk that had to be her bra strap-and then a nasty, angry bunched up scar, a clear and obvious bullet wound. “This is what I have to show for my efforts within the police force. I got shot in that bust, was left to hold them off with three clips and a lot of cussing for almost an hour. And after the bust, after everything was confiscated and people put in prison and all that good stuff-the chief came to the hospital to tear me a new one for ‘bringing the feds down’ on that warehouse.”

She released the shirt. Rose kept her gaze steady on him, her chin up, posture remaining perfect.

“If you’re really working for what I’m working for, maybe we can work together. But I don’t want your money. I don’t want a slice of...whatever you typically pay people off with. I’d much rather die than be your dog, okay? That’s...I gotta be able to live with myself, I do walk out here.”

She’s talking to him evenly and as an equal-but it was a sight better than her hissing disrespect and fury shown to his men earlier. Despite the power imbalance, she was not cowering in her corner of the couch, a simpering, silly woman-she was meeting his eyes and keeping steady, standing firmly by her beliefs. Rose Moretta was a tough customer.

So what would it take to get her working for him? What would it take to get her working under him, if he was still thinking along those lines. She didn’t seem to be open to anything of that nature-it simply wasn’t on offer.

I listened to her intently and as she showed her scar, it meant that her moral character wasn't going to be tainted in such a way. Officers. Normally one of them would be so eager as to accept a slice of something. It wasn't that their moral character was corrupted. It was what came with joining a gang. Police officers aren't paid nearly enough, which makes them so vulnerable. Under normal circumstances, this would be the part where the officer would ask for the money and I hand over $5,000 in crisp $100 bills. Most officers never saw that amount of money at once if their lives. That was chump change compared to what I had. Most of these moles would just pass the information and not care how it compromised anyone. Some would sell out their own partners for a bit of green.


Instead, Officer Moretta was playing the game in her favor, trying to be on the same level. Not grovelling, but also not walking away. She was trying to set a level for herself by showing she wasn't afraid, at least on the outside. Her body was rigid, her eyes shivered as she stared at me. Officer Moretta knew what would happen if she refused, my men would have their way with her, first Joey and then Dylan.

"It would appear that we're on the same page at least, Officer Moretta," I smiled while standing up, both hands running down my shirt. "What you may not understand, however, is how I plan on winning this war. You see, the other gangs rule by fear and by money," holding out a hand to her. "Why don't you come with me. I want to show you something at my window." The way he carried his voice, it was warm and inviting and the hand held out to her, was as if he was offering her to dance. It was just the two of them in this room. He wasn't carrying a weapon, at least as far as she could see. Instead, he wanted to be a proper host and show what he was capable of and win her conviction by showing his at the same time.

Rose hesitates. He's smiling and at ease, warm-but it doesn't entirely fool her. He might picture himself as a benevolent leader, but the fact is she'd been hauled here at gunpoint and threats of rape. He's a crime lord. Maybe he hadn't had a choice given his father, but the fact stood.

She accepts the hand anyway, moves to stand. He's much taller than she is, but she tries not to notice. Her own hand was delicately boned in comparison to his larger one, soft-save for a rougher patch where it'd chafed against the butt of her gun, indications of fistfights across her knuckles.

"So long as you don't push me out of it..." She says with dark humor. Rose Moretta definitely was not your average woman-her spine must be made of titanium, her guts steel.

She would follow him where he led her, watchful and unforgetting of the danger she's in, that he himself posed-but if he was civil, so would she be.

"I wouldn't. I don't want your lovely body to splatter on the concrete," I replied. It was meant to be a jest. Taking her hand, boney yet with soft skin. She stood up, walked around the coffee table, and towards the back, past the dining room and towards another room with floor to ceiling windows. Venturing carefully up to them, my hand continued to lightly hold Officer Moretta's until we were within inches of them. Our hands lowered, but continued to touch as I quickly pointed towards the city.

This high up we could see for the miles the concrete jungle stretched, from horizon to horizon. It was aglow with countless colorful lights, most stationary from buildings and long lines of yellow, white, and red from traffic. In the black sky, there were flashes in the faint distance as aircraft orbited the nearby airport. "What you see here is the battlefield, the city," I said calmly, almost in a whisper. "I grew up here. In fact, I grew up just a few blocks from here. I watched my neighborhood fall to drug kingpins and ruffians and vowed to take it back. What these gangs have going on is, fear and intimidation. They want everything and will do everything that can to keep others in line to protect themselves." My gaze suddenly turned to her, "That's no way for anyone to live, Officer Moretta," the tone suddenly serious.

"When you look out there, you see millions of people trying to carry on with their lives. Some have more, some have less. These gangs stake their claims and take everything. What I decided instead was to take back and give." Pointing off to the bottom right, there, across the city, was a large building with a facade that said, "Holly's House". It was a soup kitchen. "That use to be a pusher's house. We took it from him, kicked him out, and used it to give food to the needy." Then I pointed off to the left, just a block away, there was a half-way house. Unlike the rundown ones run by the City, this was beautifully built of brick, bright paint, and well kept. "All this you see here, these few blocks, are my territory," placing my free hand quickly over my heart. "I've worked for years getting the strength to take on these gangs. And we're taking back the streets, one block at a time."

There were skyscrapers that dwarfed his apartment building. A simple point in that direction, what's where most of them live." The thembeing his opponents. Those buildings were a lot of national banks, business, fronts for the peddlers. At their base were the sub-businesses that they needed and gave to the people to gain their silence. Strip clubs, pawn shops, gold exchange...all of them that took more than they gave. Most of the people that lived there had no choice.

Those miles that separated us from them, it gave the feeling it would take years to maintain a campaign to go that far. Each block was going to be a battlefield. The gangs weren't going to go down as easily as they did in that slum where we found Officer Moretta. No. There was going to be blood. I wanted her to know that she was going to be crucial in this fight. Her information, her inside knowledge, was going to help us, spare lives.

“Yes. Such a shame.” Rose sardonically responded to the ‘lovely body’ comment. Christ.

They stepped up to the windows and there it was, their ‘great’ city. The lights and the concrete and the misery sprawled out before them, a solemn vision of what had once been a safe place for families and the working class to live.

Her eyes focus on the glass itself and his reflection as he stared out at it, his voice barely above a whisper. He’d grown up here too. Like her, he wasn’t abandoning it. He says all the right things and seemed sincere, but Rose isn’t so sure. Her granddad always said that if the devil looked like the devil, no one would be fooled by him.

But what were the police really doing? They should be the foundation for change, and instead they were part of the problem. Her own department was rife with corruption-that’s why she was on a shitty beat out where nothing happened-she’d tried to do her job and do it right, and they first tried to let her die on it rather than help-and then they’d punished her for it.

Her hand lifts, fingertips against the cool glass a minute. If he looked over at her admittedly beautiful face, he’d find her with a softer, unguarded expression, those green eyes troubled and concerned-compassionate. She lowered her hand and shook the thoughts away, determination bleeding back into her features as she turned to face him, half in shadow and half illuminated by the lights of his city.

Of their city.

“So you need my help.” She said simply, fingers drifting to where he now knew the bullet scar was. “Or someone’s help, anyway.”

Quiet, a moment. “This isn’t about saving my own skin-I’m just not getting anywhere, alone. I grew up here too. My father and grandfather served here. I’m...not leaving it to other people. If you’re working to take down some of these scumbags, I’m willing to help you do it. But...”

Business, and she briefly isn’t sure where she stood with him. He might opt to throw her out the window, he might not. There were other cops, easier cops, after all.

I listened to her every word. When she trailed off with 'but...' I thought I was losing her, that she was showing reluctance. It was a tall order to have her turn to a mole, to betray her team. Didn't matter that so many were corrupt. It was still her team. Some of them may still be good. Perhaps she thought, by accepting my offer, that they would be in danger of being targets.

“Yes,” I said softly, not taking my eyes off the city. “I need your help, Officer Moretta. This city needs your help. You swore an oath to protect and serve. There are many ways of doing it. I wasn’t good in making patriotic speeches or pleading to the hearts of people. A quick glance at her, her fingers tracing over the site of her scar, showed that I was getting through. “I’m not asking you do anything that I’m not willing to do myself. I’m not looking for muscle or a hitman. All I need is information. Information about movements and names. The rest, we can take care of,” silently referring to Dylan waiting patiently outside.

"I know that you have many friends on the Force that may still be as honorable as you. That may not have taken sides. Rest assured that I won't be going after them. My men are only going after those that are threats to the innocent people walking the streets. If your information shows that one of your officers is...dirty, I'm going to give them two options," pulling my hand back from her own and slowly extending two fingers. It wasn't the 'talk and walk or die silently' deal that was commonly used. Instead, it was to be turned over to the Feds or exile, pack up and leave the city-never to return. It was tame, rather generous for my taste. I didn't want the option of a bad seed somehow coming back to the city. Exile or jail was too tame for these beasts. It was already difficult to trust the Feds either. What I didn't say was-there was to be no killing. On the contrary, there was to be blood. Some of these people were so dirty, so cruel, so...evil, that there was no hope in salvation. These were to be people that, if I had the option, would crucify in the public parks for all to see, with their crimes written out on cards hanging on their chests, or nailed to them. Out there, they would slowly die, slowly and painfully. That was the only good way for them. I've thought about that way many times. Worked for the Romans. But, wouldn't work in this 'sophisticated' society. Those goons hanging in the slum would suffice until the next action.

Lowering my hand low, it suddenly traced itself across her back to her far hip. I didn't draw her in. I wanted her to show that my word was honest. I wasn't going to keep her in line with threats and she wasn't going to be taking my money. She wanted to remain honest, but be more of an anti-hero, at least in my eyes. Perhaps that was better. She had a personal involvement which would ensure that the information being given is more accurate and she wasn't going to be intimidated by the other gangs if they got her scent. That's when I reached into my pant pocket for a small business card. Nothing flashy or unique. Just a simple 3.5x2 white postcard with a phone number written on the back in black ink by hand. "That's the number for Dylan. If you're in danger, call him and he'll get to you," handing it over. As her fingers reached to touch the card, I held on to it for one more second so that her eyes would look towards me once more.

Rose eyes the two fingers a moment. Walk and talk, or stay silent and die had been what was offered to the men in that flop house. Those weren’t good enough. “No dead cops.” She says. “No dead anybody, when it can be helped. You’re right. I did take an oath to protect and serve. The system’s failing us, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with free reign. Give people the chance to either leave town or turn themselves into the feds, once the fighting is done. I’d say the local cops but...well, we know the jails are made of tin here.” White teeth worry at her lower lip a moment. “I can’t...I can’t provide information in good conscience if I know it’s going to get people killed after they’ve been disarmed.”

His fingers touch at her back, then her hip-light and unpressuring, not trying to move her-but it’s bold, and it makes her intimately aware just how much larger he was than her. He’s probably used to being able to do whatever he wants. Maybe this would be where he’d make a proposition, but Rose wasn’t about to sell her body on top of these pieces of her soul.

This deal was blackening part of it, she had no illusions about that. But so long as she wasn’t taking his money, so long as she kept her intentions halfway decent, as good as they could be in these trying times-she’d be able to live with herself.

He doesn’t try anything. Good.

“And like I said-I don’t want your money. Just what I said about body counts and...maybe two other requests.” He produces a business card, a phone number in black ink. Dylan’s apparently. She moves to take the business card but he holds on to it. Rose’s green eyes lift to his piercing blue ones. A moment, then two. One of her eyes was in shadow, while the other caught the lights of the city, those flecks of amber more apparent in the glow. Her voice quiets.

“One...the threats gotta stop. I’ll watch my back either way, but I want it known I’m untouchable. So long as I uphold my end, I don’t want to have to worry. That’d make me feel better, and I’ll be less distracted by thoughts of being raped or dying horribly-not that’d I’d go easy. And lastly...”

They were both still holding the card. As serious as she’d been about her two requests, unrelenting-now she falters a little on the third, breaking eye contact, focusing instead on the buttons of his dress shirt, then away and into the darkened room, a fetching bit of color rising to her face-and a bit of begrudging, grumpy expression.

“Lastly...your man Joey. He...he took a pearl handled pocket knife from me, back at the flop house. I-” Dammit. “I want it back.” That was it. After a longer moment, she finally added a muttered- “Please.”

Listening to her requests, I had to admire that she was adament of her people not getting hurt. These were promises that I couldn't keep. Try as they might, my people were more brutal and rash than calculating, at least when executing my orders. Brutality was done to carry a message, such as what happened in the flop house. Soon those bodies left hanging from the rafters would be found by the rest of the gang. Some would be rattled. Some. Not all. Their bosses were the ones that would be feeling it. When the time came, and they were caught, they would hang right up there with the rest of their men. No amount of money, or blood, or privilege would spare them the wire tie.

Her body, it shifted at my touch. Wasn't trying to scare or intimidate her. I was trying to have an intimate moment. Not to seduce her into being one of my flunkies. We hadn't gone over what I needed. Nothing special. Having someone on the Force at the patrolman level would give us, perhaps, better information than others. I would request that she keep her ears to the ground against her fellow officers, look for those that seem to be living large than they should, their associates, and if there's any such movements. That would come later. Right now, I think she had enough excitement for one night. Perhaps it would be best if she just went back to her house, or her apartment, and sleep on it.

That brief moment between us, when she reached up and took hold of the card with two fingers, I felt something. Not exactly sure what it was. It was something that went through my body, jerked the heart, and causes my fingers to twitch as I touched her opposite hip. She had the scent of sweat and trembling. She was nervous. Maybe she wouldn't admit to fear. I could smell that she was strong but also scared, scared that she wouldn't leave if she refused. That would be the truth.

When she laid down the last of her concessions, I let go of the card with a toothless smile. "Of course." My hand slipped away from her back, rose, and snapped once. Footsteps behind us on polished marble floor. Turned my head slightly to the right, looking over Officer Moretta's crown. There was Dylan, hands at his side, back rigid. "Have the knife returned to Officer Moretta when she leaves her tonight, Dylan."

"Sir," Dylan nodded slightly, turned, and walked out.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that anymore," slowly stepping away from her. I'll agree to your terms, Officer Moretta. I think that you're one of the few people left in this city that have an clout left in them, to be honest. In exchange, I request any information you. Afterwards, I'll have my driver return you to your place of residence, unless you want to have some more Scotch?"

That wasn’t going to happen. Rose didn’t want them knowing where she lived, or at least-didn’t want to give up the location of her apartment that easily. She’d get dropped off at her patrol car-she’d need it for work in a day anyway.

“Fuck it.” Rose says with a shrug, pursing her lips. “This night didn’t end the way I thought it would, might as well have a drink and get down to business. If your man can bring me a map, I’ll mark down what I already know.”

~*~

It turned out Rose Moretta knew a lot of things, things that, had she been found out, might have gotten her killed outright already, either by her corrupt superiors or the gangers themselves. The rookie cop had been poking around in places she shouldn’t have been, and done so undetected until tonight.

They may have tried to tie her down with protocol, red tape and bum orders, but the stubborn young woman hadn’t given up.

She held the short lowball glass in her off hand while her left marked various points, adding meticulous, somewhat chicken scratch notes in others. Her loosened blonde braid draped over her shoulder, looking casual and somehow professional at the same time, that white undershirt and uniform pants, the empty holster and weapon belt.

She knew a few supply lines, she knew names, she knew who was buying what and what the buy sell cycle seemed to be. The policewoman had called in a lot of information on the anonymous tip hotline-but it never seemed to go anywhere.

Rose drained her half forgotten glass of scotch and mused over the notes, finally clicking the pen closed. “Been snooping around Las Anarcas warehouses for three and a half months. They’re prolific pushers that have yet to be toppled. The Triads and the Kozi’s became moot points just before that, which was a lot of work wasted, let me tell you.”

Sucked on an ice chip a moment, a bit sour.

“They killed a lot and absorbed a lot more. Recruiting tactics remain effective.”

Impressive. Most impressive. Officer Moretta carefully laid out everything that we were lacking. Names, locations, numbers...all that was needed. If we can organize a large scale attack, we can take a big chunk out of the gang's actions, weaken their stranglehold on the city and open them. They would see a serious reduction in their revenue and their people would lose confidence in their leaders. This is what was needed to give us that edge.

Placing both fists on the edge of the table and carefully leaning over the map with all of her lines and writings, a thin smile came to my lips.

“They killed a lot and absorbed a lot more. Recruiting tactics remain effective.”

"That's how they work," I replied. The loss of red means nothing to them. All they care about is the loss of green," rubbing my right thumb and index finger together. Gang members are not family. They're just cogs in the machine. Gangs could lose fifty people a week and still retain their strength. They prey on the weak, runaways, drifters, immigrants-both legal and illegal. They go after those that are cut off from their friends and family, pretend to give them somewhere to live, someone that cares for them, a little bit of money and they they're hooked. In real life, if one dies, they're thrown out with the trash, buried in a Potter's Field.

I was taking it all in. All this information, numbers...it would require a large scale attack to be able to take them all down. It had to be quick and precise. If we only went after one target, the others would likely close up and move.

For a moment, the memory of Officer Moretta slipped from my conscience as I pondered all of this, this treasure trove of information. A sudden motion was caught by the corner of my eye that I straightened myself up. Officer Moretta was near me, suckling on the piece of ice, her hair low and comfortable now. She looked remarkably different with such a simple move, more casual than being uptight and pensive. She had given me what I wanted. Now I had to honor my side of the deal.

"Joey!" snapping my fingers. My rough but loyal lackey darted into the room, his wicked smile stamped on his lips expected to get handsy with the officer. "Joey, you took something that belongs to this lady. She'd like it back," holding out my right hand across the table towards him. For a moment, he froze, unsure what was happening. Slowly he reached into his breast pocket and removed the pearl handled knife, walked over, and placed it into my hand. "Thank you, Joey. Get a car ready. You and Dylan be ready to take Officer Moretta to her house or wherever she like to go."

"...yes, boss.." Joey whispered in defeat. This kind of attention, this 'affection' towards the officer was telling him that she wasn't to be touched. Any kind of violation, intentional or not, would lead to harsh punishment.

Holding the knife in my hands, fingers slowly going over the fine polished, glistening surface, quite remarkable piece. "My apologies for my boys. They're dedicated, but a bit short on manners," extending the knife to her with a widening smile.

"As I found out." Rose said sardonically, watching him run his fingers over the knife. She waits. It was bad enough she'd asked for it.

And then he holds it out, and some part of her relaxes further, a slight curve finally coming to her lips-the first near smile seen all night. "Thanks." She took it back and pocketed it, an absent pat to the pocket over it. "But at least they know how to heel."

~*~

She was tired, but that was nothing new. She was usually up late, following leads as best she could. What was new was how sore she was-that’d been a fight, more action than she’d seen in a while. Ugh.

“He offloaded those guns finally, bought me that red car I’d been eyeing.” The nasally voice of Officer Sanders made her skin crawl. Her sugar daddy was one of the scumbags running guns in the industrial district-a whole different problem with international implications.

She shook her head as she buttoned the dark blue uniform up over the clean white undershirt, straightening her badge and nametag on her chest. She might not be taking his money or any perks aside from not getting offed by his own men, but she probably shouldn’t throw stones, either.

But what good had been keeping to the straight and narrow? Fucking none. If she had to get her hands dirty to save some part of the city, then she guessed her soul could take the hit. A glance in the little mirror on the inside of her locker showed her hat was slightly askew-she righted that too, studied her own reflection a moment. Despite throwing her lot in with the Mob, she doesn’t look any different.

“And girl, the necklace he bought me after-”

She closed it with a sigh and left the locker room.

Rose had no sooner stepped out of the locker room when two other cops raced by, heading towards the front of the precinct.

What the hell?

She followed after them with a furrowed brow and drew up short as two of their bigger comrades hauled in a battered, ziptied and gagged ganger, the tattoo beneath his left eye marking him as one of Viggo’s one of the major Meth distributors and the owner of the warehouse she’d busted at the start of her career. With a start, Rose realized it was his second in command.

Scrawled across the man’s bare and bruised chest were the words “It begins.”

Her widened eyes lifted to the Chief, his face turning a blotchy shade of red. He looked up to find her watching him-and blared at all of them. “WELL! Get this man to the medic bay, get on your beats and get to work!”

Rose didn’t need telling twice-she turned and got the hell out of there.

~*~

Sometimes the time ate at her, driving her shitty, half ghost town beat. Nothing happened out here. That’s why her boss had put her on it-keep her out of the way, out of trouble.

It gives her time to think and plan, though. Today it was more thinking than planning as she sat in the overgrown parking lot of a long defunct movie theater, playing with her pocket knife idly in her left hand, wrist resting against the steering wheel.

When Officer Moretta departed, I continued to savor the drink I poured for myself while pondering over the map she made. A vibration on my phone, it was from Dylan informing me they had dropped her off near her cruiser. It was late into the night, yet there was a lot to be done.

There were to be no text messages or phone calls, nothing that could be traced back to me. Instead, there were verbal orders given to a runner to go out to my many lieutenants. Armed with this information, we could begin targeting these pushers, and it started with the meth heads. They were the most dangerous as their product turned people into...freaks. I wasn't expecting a sudden shift in this war. I was just glad to see something positive happen. For too long it was just busting one nest after another. Take out one, they move to a new one. Now, we have names and sources.

It all started with Viggo's second-in-command, Arturo Sanchez. This man was the major pusher of products on the school. And we now knew his safe haven. Like a SWAT team, my men burst into his little hole and broke it up, taking both him, his flunkies, and some $250,000 in cash before torching the place and the product inside. His flunkies were given the once over, the money was distributed to the many soup kitchens and half-way houses. As for Arturo himself, he was...properly interviewed. Dylan ensured that he talked and gave as much information as he could before being deposited at the police station.

That move was two-fold, both to give him to authorities and to tell any of the corrupt cops working there that their time in the land of milk and honey was over.

In the morning, I woke up, showered, ate my breakfast, and was given the daily briefing by Dylan. The man that was ice cold was suspicious of Officer Moretta. "Boss, I mean no disrespect, but can we trust a cop? Almost all of them are dirty in some way. What makes this one different than all the others?"

I appreciated Dylan's candor. I trust subordinates that spoke their mind, and not cower and obey to my whim. Those that cave in were no better than 'Yes Men'. They couldn't be relied upon to give sound advice. When dressing myself in my usual black suit and red tie, I spoke to Dylan, "I think that she and us have the same overall goal. Unlike our City's Finest at the moment that skate along with dirty dollars, Officer Moretta wants to clean the streets. Yet, she bound by her obligations to 'serve and protect' as well as her corrupted brass."

"What's to stop her from going to the brass and spilling her guts to him over what she did last night, the flop house and the goons?" Dylan asked, his tone still cold.

"Because it would be the end of her as well, Dylan," I replied as I fixed my tie while looking at a full mirror. "I got the feeling that her commanders would use any reason they could to get rid of her. If they ever caught wind she so much as spoke to us, they would go to IA and conjure up some excuse that she was 'dirty' and get rid of her. No. I think she's on the up and up. Best we can do now is continue with our plans and flush the city. Tonight, I was the docks swept and cleared. I don't want those places being used again."

TWO DAYS LATER:

Things were...interesting back at the station, to say the least. Her chief seemed to be on the verge of either cardiac arrest or an aneurysm, red in the face and screaming at his underlings if anyone so much as coughed in his vicinity.

Rose skirted around him as much as possible, doing her utmost to be anywhere he wasn’t. Mostly, she found his furious distress ridiculously satisfying, particularly when she compared it to his red faced, furious screaming episode back in her hospital room last year. Shit, she wished she had a picture of the look on his face when the mob had left that bastard on the front step.

She ought to feel guilty over how much she had enjoyed it. She might not be taking mob money, but it should be about cleaning up the streets and cleaning up only-not personal satisfaction at her asshole boss’ ruin.

As she shifted her belt and headed down the hall, she noticed his door was closed, light shining through the fogged glass window. Huh. Late night. She paused a moment, but couldn’t hear anything inside-must be drinking at the desk again. Rose shrugged and continued to the time clock, swiping her keycard-just as a Darlene Ritters flounced in from the side door.

Both women paused, Rose with slightly narrowed eyes, and Darlene with a smirk.

“Officer Ritters.” Rose acknowledged, as courteous as she ever was with the woman-that is to say, irritated as fuck and nearly scowling at her, eyes flat. The two women were about the same height-but while Rose Moretta had perfect posture and walked with squared shoulders, her chin up and eyes forward, independent and immune to bullshit-Darlene Ritters flounced everywhere, conducting herself in a girlish, grating on the nerves but irresistible to men-well, a certain kind of man-manner.

She had the moral backbone of an eclair, and seemed to be a police officer because it let her fuck off all shift so long as she occasionally wrote a ticket and fucked Charlie in payroll-when she wasn’t screwing her criminal sugardaddy, that was.

Rose was decently sure she hated her.

“Hello Rose.” Darlene returned with a cutting smile and a sickly sweet voice. “Another day policing that parking lot?”

Everyone knew she had a shitty beat. She did her job and cruised through like she should, her duty, but it was deliberately a dead end part of town where hardly anyone ever was. Half the time she was parked in the lot of a defunct theater, planning stings and contemplating her life choices.

“Another day on taxpayer time, lying on your back?” Rose fired back-and then strode past the instantly pissy woman, knocking into her shoulder on the way.

“Bitch.” Was hissed somewhere behind her, but hell if Rose gave a damn. She ain’t on the clock, she’s not sticking around on her time.

~*~

Rose pulled into the small lot of the shitty apartment building her granddad and her used to live in, the old brownstone wedged between a defunct sign business and an old, old building that used to hold a bank or something. Her cruiser was one of two cars in the four space lot-the old lady in the place next to hers didn’t drive, the downstairs apartment was empty, and the young guy next to the empty one she’s pretty sure was a drug dealer. He drove a buick, and this car was a lot nicer than his.

She eyes it a minute before shifting into park, throwing open her door and stepping out with a not-so-subtle adjustment of her gun belt. She started towards the back door when the window rolled down, a man with a cigarette in the driver’s seat. He eyed her a minute, then gave a head jerk to the backseat. “C’mon officer, Boss wants to see you.” He started the car despite her making no move to do so, a frown on the blonde woman’s lips.

The fuck? They’d looked up her address? Moretta wasn’t that uncommon of a last name, was it? Shit.

“He don’t like to wait.”

“Yeah, and I don’t like unexpected appointments.” She grumbled. She doesn’t want to go, but...well, what was she supposed to do? Ignore the summons? She’s still in uniform for fuck’s sake, she just wants to wind down-her day off tomorrow, even.

She climbed into the back, grim and determined. “Let’s go, then.”

~*~

Rose had the sense to remove her nametag, but that was it-her uniform top stayed buttoned up over her chest, tucked into the black belt and standard issue pants, gun belt over that-though they took that away from her before she even got into the building. The frisk was a lot less handsy-and while they withdrew and looked at the pearl handled pocket knife, they replaced it without comment.

Good.

She adjusted her hat as she was finally allowed in, blonde hair in it’s usual braid down her back, a contrast to the dark blue-only her silver, shiny badge stood out more.

Two days and it's gone so well. Like an organized army, men stormed stash houses, arrested dealers, flushed out flunkies, and burned a mountain of stuff and confiscated their money. It was dirty money and had to be laundered, discretely dispersed into the infrastructure, the soup kitchens, half-way houses, and getting a lot of these runaways back to their homes. One of these houses raided was a brothel. It was a condemned building and was a thorn in our sides. Police raided it many times, slated to be demolished, but never done. After a few days, these druggies would come right back. Not anymore. We 'liberated' these prostitutes and then burned the building to its foundation.

For these two days, runners were coming to my flat informing me of their progress. It was news to my ears. So many leaders and their men were being taken care of. Most were given the option of turning themselves into authorities or going into exile, taking a bus out of town, never to return. Most took the bus ticket. Virtually none of them wanted to go to the police, out of fear of what prison would do to them. There were a few of these holdouts, die-hards that thought that they were immune and weren't intimidated by our threats. They had friends on the Force and thought that a simple all would settle the matter.

Not anymore.

These were taken out to the middle of the harbor, tied weights to their ankles, and thrown overboard. It sounds like Hollywood, but that's how it was done to these people that wouldn't change. The court system failed. They would be turned loose in a few days or weeks and go right back into being a drain on society. Waste. This is what the drugs did to even the brightest of people.

In two days of operation, I felt that Officer Moretta should be privy to what has been happening and sent a car to pick her up at her apartment. A text message stating, "On our way from the store," informed me that they had picked her up. Good. I waited over by the bay windows overlooking the city as the sun was still high in the sky, the air was clear and crisp with a breeze flowing from the west. You could clearly see the skyscrapers in the distance, those towers that silently taunted us.

My phone buzzed stating they were in front of the building. A short elevator ride up and there was a knock on the door. One of my men opened the door and gently pushed Officer Moretta into my flat. My head turned towards the sound of the door, though I couldn't see it because of a wall. "Come in," I beckoned. "I'm in the dining room. You should come see the view," speaking to the officer while my men stepped out and closed the door behind.

Rose follows the sound of his voice with a slightly miffed expression, adjusting her empty gun belt as she stepped through the doorway. She’s not entirely sure why she’s here. As before, the determined rookie didn’t seem entirely intimidated by him, and certainly not cowed.

“Most folks settle for a phone call.” She says by way of greeting, a curt nod. Despite his invitation to enjoy the view, she keeps her eyes on him instead. The officer is wary, but not entirely closed off. His courtesy allowed for returned politeness, and she extended her right hand for a shake, the sleeve of her uniform buttoned up neatly around her slender wrist.

“You guys have certainly been productive. Glad to see something happen as a result of all that investigation-kinda half figured it was a waste of time-Brass ain't exactly clean either.”