Reckless Ambition
Part 9

  As Lilly spoke, Reed stole a look around the kitchen. She was invited along by Mike earlier
  when she sat lunching with him. Mike had received a phone call that Ben wanted to meet him
  at Cassi's house.

  Meeting Ben had been a warm experience. When Mike introduced her, she smiled genuinely.
  "Mr. Stone it is an honor to meet you. I've heard good things about you."

  "From who?"

  "An old colleague of yours, Shambala Green. She has a practice in DC and told me some
  stories. You're legendary!" She laughed easily. Ben grinned at her. She liked the way he
  carried himself.

  "Oh well," he shrugged, "Miss Green was pretty legendary herself."

  Lilly's voice carried her back to the present. She sat between Mike and Ben, both formidable
  men.

  Reed Macy felt very comfortable around powerful men. She had plenty of experience and was
  not easily threatened or intimidated.

"Maastrict! What's the matter, boy?" The sound of the teenage girl's voice made Reed look out
  the window. And fearful tingles played her back almost before she knew why.

  Two girls were standing beside a large dog who had dropped on its haunches at the back end
  of a big rig which had been parked across the street a few minutes earlier.

  Reed knew what breed the dog was...Belgian Malinois.

  One of the best bomb sniffers.

  And behaving exactly as if it was smelling explosives.
 
 

  Mike had seen footage of bomb-sniffing dogs at work and felt his body go cold as if he were
  already dead.

  The kids were still trying to coax the dog up, but it stayed put and looked at them as if to say
  *Where's my reward?*

  *Heaven, maybe.* Mike's heart raced and his mouth was bone-dry. In a thick voice he said,
  "Ben, it's time to take Lilly to see Jack McCoy."

  Lilly said, What's wr...?"

  "Now! And close the door quietly."

  Ben and Lilly rose to leave. Both looked fearful and moved softly.

  Mike picked up a food scrap and headed to the door with Reed at his side. They walked
  briskly but quietly to the rear of the truck.

  "That's a police dog, right?" Mike said.

  "He retired last year. How'd you know?" said the younger girl.

  "We cops can spot each other, man or beast." Mike bent and fed the friendly-looking dog.
  "There's a good boy."

  Reed said, "Are either of your parents cops?"

  "Our dad. He's a vice sarge at the 12th," said the older girl, who was built like a tank but
  looked innocent as her sister.

  Mike said, "Lorne Reynolds?" The girls nodded.

  Reed gazed firmly at the girls and said, "Maastrict, I want you to take your ladies home so
  they can tell their dad how you just went back to work. Quick and quiet as you can." She took
  out her pocket phone and punched 9-1-1 as the girls led Maastrict away.

7:50 PM

  The head of the bomb squad--Paul Cringan--trembled and sweated.

  "Th--that was radio-controlled *and* had a timer. Should've blown both these blocks past the
  stars. Detonator must've been defective. These people should sue the manufacturer." Cringan
  continued to shake even after Macy--who was not in much better shape--patted his shoulder.

  Everyone looked pale. Lorry Reynolds was rage-white. He said to Logan, "Done. I lay a hand
  on these people, they're ground chuck."

  "Take a number, Sarge. Look, time for Macy and I to see McCoy. We just might have the
  key."

  "You let me know!" Reynolds balled a ham-sized fist and smacked it into the hard paw of his
  other hand.

12:02 AM, January 30: District Attorney Adam Schiff rubbed his weary eyes and shook his
  head. For hours he and Jack and Abbie had listened to stories and sifted through evidence.
  Now the time had come for action.

  Arrest warrants would be served on Eugene Masucci and Sam Catchpole in the morning. Jack
  had insisted that Judge Sullivan be arrested also, but Adam wanted to proceed cautiously
  against him.

  Lilly O'Connor, aka Lilly McBride, would have all charges dismissed in exchange for her
  testimony against the accused parties. She had retained Paul Robinette as her attorney. She
  would stay with him overnight, along with her 'guard' Mike Logan. After dawn the three would
  drive to DC, where Shambala Green would put Lilly and Mike up.

  Adam called his chauffeur, told him to be ready in five minutes, then put on his hat and coat.

  "Good night, people."
 

  Madison Holton leaned back in her chair, stretching tiredly, eyes on Caitlin. "So what do you
  think?" She caught the flash of grim humor in Caitlin’s eyes. "Don't say he did it because he
  hates cops. That's obvious."

  Caitlin smirked. "Okay, deep seated childhood trauma. Mommy told him 'that policeman over
  there will get you if you don't behave' one too many times."

  “Falconetti-”

  Madison’s voice held a note of warning, and Caitlin sighed. “Okay, off the top of my head?
  He’s got a rigid sense of right and wrong -- everything is is black and white; there are no gray
  areas. He can justify his actions by telling himself he’s doing this for ‘the good of society.’ His
  everyday life is probably incredibly
  ordinary, and Sullivan has been a godsend for him.” Caitlin shook her head. “We have to be
  careful because more than likely he’ll be willing to martyr himself for his cause.”

  Madison dragged her hands down her face, wishing she was back home, anywhere but here
  dealing with
  this mess. “So I guess this won’t be the only one?”

  “No,” Caitlin said direly. “This won’t be the only one.”
 

  The second death occurred at 5:12 a.m. on January 30.

  Caitlin met Holton and O'Hara at the edge of Central Park, where a mounted officer had been
  ambushed and killed.

  "Well," Madison said with dark irony, "you said there'd be more."

  Caitlin, staring at the covered body in the snow, nodded, old memories rising to swamp her.
  "That's why we have to stop him," she said softly.
  **

  By 8:00 a.m., Hiram Sullivan was on the news, speaking out of both sides of his mouth. On
  one breath, he decried the violent deaths, and in the next, he insinuated that the officers
  deserved it for working with a corrupt department.

  Watching in the dayroom at the 15th precinct with Madison Holton, Caitlin shook her head.
  "The man is not only irresponible, he's insane. He has to realize he's only fueling this guy."

  "Maybe he does," Madison replied. "Maybe that's what he wants."

Hiram Sullivan spoke into the phone. "You've done a fantastic job. To really shake them up, I
  want you to go after a much bigger target--Adam Schiff. I only want him hurt. Not killed."

  The woman, carrying a badge in her coat pocket, replied. "Yes, Your Honor. I'm more than
  happy to oblige."
 

  Caitlin Falconetti glanced down at the conference table and frowned. "Why is Cassi O'Connor's
  case file here?"

  Madison glanced up from her notebook and waved at the file Caitlin had picked up. "The
  investigating officer wanted it included. I guess he assumes it was actually shooting number
  one-"

  "He guessed wrong," Caitlin said wryly, moving the file aside. "It's completely out of profile.
  Look, our two were uniform officers . . . the uniforms make them anonymous. The shooter
  doesn't have to realize they are people beyond the badge. And O'Connor was shot once,
  here." Caitlin tapped her forehead.

  Madison shrugged. "Ours were shot in the face."

  "But with a shotgun," Caitlin argued. "Not a .280. Notice our vics' faces were obliterated. They
  have to remain anonymous to him." Stopping for a breath, Caitlin shook her head. "Send this
  back to the investigating officer. He won't be able to pin O'Connor's death on our guy."

  "Yes, ma'am," Madison said mockingly. "You know who you sound like? Stant-"

  "Hey, Madison." Collin O'Hara strode through the door, a tight, harassed expression on his
  freckled face. "We've got another one."
 

  Force Plodder headquarters, 8:38 AM January 30:

  "I'm getting to be just like you," the Plodder said to the Rocket.

  "You're doing a good job and you know it," replied Deitz. On paper, the Plodder was
  inexperienced at command, having remained a Detective First Grade since 1978. But his many
  years at the 51st had made him the *de facto* commander of his detective squad; lieutenants
  and even captains sought advice from him at times. He was running Force Plodder like an
  experienced high-ranking officer, thought the Rocket, who knew from gut-wrenching experience
  that stress did not respect one's rank or standing.

  Oromocto held his aching head. "So many changes...at least Carol's keeping up okay." Across
  the room, Carol Bonneau was at a computer, recording the Force Plodder schedules and
  personnel turnovers.

  Major Schurz would leave later this morning to resume his duties at Camp Lejeune. Mike
  Logan had already left town; he and Lilly were on their way to an undisclosed safe house.
  Nevertheless, Force Plodder was larger than ever; Lorry Reynolds, furious after his children
  had walked next to a huge bomb, had inducted his entire squad into the Force. The additions
  were welcome, but Plodder was worried.

  "Sometime, somehow, we just might get the mother of all fuckups. We can't expect the other
  side to stay in the dark forever."

  "Can't do this without taking risks," said Deitz as he popped another Tums.

  "Your kidneys'll grow stones if you..." The telephone interrupted, and Carol picked up.

  "Yes?...One second." She looked at Plodder and said, "For you, boss."

  Oromocto listened for a few seconds and said, "My God! Where...What was the weapon?"
  Deitz and Bonneau listened in silent horror.

January 31
  6:02 a.m.

  The morning had not yet danwed and the city was bathed in darkness. Footsteps sounded
  outside District Attorney's Adam Schiff's office but the noise was drowned out by a typewriter.
  The door creaked open slowly, a .38 appeared slowly first, then black-clad figure. The shot
  exploded, making its mark on the figure in the chair.

  Slowly, the figure slipped from the chair, leaving a bloody trail. Ben Stone, who had been
  working there early, laid on the floor, a pool of blood was growing larger under his body. Still
  alive, he tried to yell for help.
****

"I hate leaving you here," Tick murmured against Caitlin's mouth. Upon his arrest, Masucci had
  decided to turn as much evidence as he could to save his own sorry hide. Tick had the
  statements he needed to make an arrest against Joseph Tyrone and was on his way back to
  Georgia to do so. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer and rocked her
  against him for a long moment, his face in her hair. Sighing roughly, he pulled back and grinned
  down at her crookedly.

  Caitlin smiled up at him, rubbing her hand down his arm. "Fifty-three more days, Lamar
  Eugene," she reminded him of their wedding countdown.

  He touched a finger to her chin. "You'd better be home before then."

  "I will be," Caitlin replied. "As soon as we make an arrest on the shootings. Count on it."

  "I am." His boarding call came, and hefting his carry-on, he leaned over and kissed her once
  more. "See you soon, precious."

January 31
  7:11 a.m.

  Because it faced the alley and another building, the apartment was still blessedly dim.
  Stripping off his coat, he dropped it on the chair and stretched out on the couch, not even
  bothering to kick off his shoes.

  Lilly was safely in the hands of the U.S. Marshalls' Protective Services, and he had a couple
  hours till he had to report into Oromocto.
  Mike Logan slipped into an uneasy sleep filled with dreams of a bullet exploding into his
  shoulder, punctuated by a woman's frightened screams and a sobbing child . . .
 

  January 31
  10:54 a.m.

  Sighing softly, Don Cragen shifted in his seat. Reed Macy paced up and down, quietly sipping
  her coffee. The sound of running footsteps made Donnie and Reed look up. Paul Robinette,
  out of breath, skidded to a halt in front of Don.

  "What's happened? How is he?"

  Don shrugged. "We don't know. He's in surgery. That was about," Don said, looking at his
  watch, "about 2 hours ago."

  "He sustained a bullet to his abdomen. The cleaning crew found him about a half hour later."
  Reed spoke up, her face showed no emotion, but Don noticed her eyes reflected the worry in
  her voice.

  Paul looked at the youngish redhead. She looked tired. Her frame was hidden by a flack jacket
  and fatigues. Paul admired her no nonsense attitude and she carroed herself in a professional
  manner.

  She crossed the room. "ATF agent Reed Macy." She shook his hand. "And you are?"

  Paul introduced himself, then silence lapsed. Without another word, the the three of them
  waited on news.

  Reed soon tired of pacing, leaned against the wall. This had been one weird assignment. She
  thought she was here for a routine bombing investigation. Actually, no investigation was
  routine. Finding body parts, pieces of memntos that were disembodied was hard. Waiting at
  the hospital was just as hard. She got an immediate positive feeling from Ben, she hated that
  he got caught up in the recent killings. She knew all this was connected, but where?

January 31
  3:34 p.m.

  Hours passed as Don, Reed and Paul waited on news of Ben's condition. Stomach grumbling,
  Paul realized that he had not eaten since his plane trip. Receiving a message on his cell phone,
  Paul hailed a cab straight to the hospital.

  "I am going to get some coffee, anyone want anything?", asked Paul. Don and Reed shook
  their heads.

  Watching Paul's departing heels, Reed mused the information she received about the bombing.
  She had been in Don's office, interviewing him about the information found at the scene, when
  he answered a phone call. She remembered Don's face turning white as he hesitantly sat in his
  chair. Don invited Reed along when she expressed concern. Now she sat in the plastic chair,
  anxiously staring at the clock.
 

  In an apartment near Gramercy, Nuala Devlin cursed out-loud, as the anchor for the Noon
  news broadcast announced that Ben Stone, EADA, would recover from the assasination
  attempt.

  She was the best assasin the IRA had known, before she had ventured out to free-lance work.
  And she had shot the wrong freaking bloody bloke.

  Running her fingers through her cropped raven hair, she slammed her whiskey bottle against
  the wall, as the phone rang.
 

  West 46th Street, 4:37 PM:

  Stan Oromocto felt a cautious sense of excitement as he finished his conversation with Major
  Schurz. He replaced the handset and picked up the just-printed copies of documents which the
  Major had e-mailed from his base in North Carolina.

  "People, may I have your attention please!" Stan's booming voice brought silence. "Our new
  suspect is Woodrow Franks. He's a known associate of Sam Catchpole. The Major advises
  that he's also a known associate of Dwight Boam, a Southern gentleman who's doing time for
  theft of 200 tons of explosives in '95. Some of these were recovered in that truck Logan and
  Macy came across the other day. And they're the same kind which killed those kids at
  Whitestone."

  Morris LaMotte said, "How can we be sure that Franks was involved in any of this?"

  "Good question. The people who handled the explosives wore gloves. And as we know, gloves
  *never ever* tear."

  "You're saying there's a partial?"

  "A fresh one. Which I faxed to the Major. Woody's an ex-jarhead--got booted for possession of
  stolen property--and the Major found a perfect match."

  Kelson said, "Hope no one goes busting into his house."

  The Plodder smiled and said, "I've also seen *Speed.* We'll get bomb specialists like Reed
  and trained dogs..."

  "Like Maastrict," said Lorry Reynolds.

  "Exactly. Now people, we've got to plan this carefully..."

  By 5:30, a surveillance detail was in place around the Franks house and evacuation of his
  neighbours began a few minutes later.
 
The Franks House
  Spuyten Duyvil, The Bronx
  6:20 PM January 31.

  ATF Agents Reed Macy, Dan Sidoroff and Phil Redding wore face shields and body armor as
  they inspected the yard and house. With them was a Belgian Malinois named Alphons.

  The dog padded to a basement window and sat. Reed's heart pounded as cold fear washed
  her core. She and the others approached Alphons carefully.

  Reed fed the dog a Baco-Bit and managed to utter a husky, "Good boy, Big Al" from her
  suddenly-dry throat. The window was open by a millimeter or two and she waved the men
  back. She heard the roar of blood in her ears as she led Alphons away.
 
6:27 PM: As Woody Franks drove north on the Henry Hudson Parkway, he noticed the many
  brake lights far ahead. *Someone must've racked up on the Washington turnoff,* he thought.
  He was pissed about the potential delay, and his stomach growled with his mind. He wanted
  food and beer.

  Then he remembered that he'd bought a six-pack this afternoon. He'd been so busy meeting
  with the guys that he hadn't drunk any. But he needed a Bud now, to calm his nerves. There
  were 100 pounds of blasting caps in the false bottom of his car's trunk.

  He drove to the shoulder and stopped. He grabbed a can and opened it.

  That's when the siren whooped as a big cruiser cut in front of him. Another car was right on his
  rear, lights flashing. Blinding spotlights flooded him.

  A harsh voice barked, "Driver! Keep your hands where I can see them! Drop the can!"

  The can bounced between his legs and spilled cold brew on his crotch.
 
7:30 PM: Adam Schiff turned off the television and put on his winter wear. The Franks house
  was secure, but it would take hours to remove all the explosives.

  Meanwhile, there was still time to visit Ben. Adam went to the elevator with his three-man
  NYPD bodyguard.

  They went to the garage, where the Lincoln and its driver waited. They were halfway between
  the elevator and the car when Patrolman Carl Merzetti, the youngest of the cops, noticed the
  bright spot of speckled red light dancing on Adam's head. *Laser!*

  Merzetti pulled Schiff to the floor and yelled, "Gun!" He heard Sergeant Coleman scream in
  pain. He pulled out his revolver and looked...

  And red agony blew away his sight.
 

  The grim-faced ER doctor--Rippon--spoke to Jack McCoy and Abbie Carmichael at 8:13 PM.

  "It's too early to give a prognosis for Coleman and Merzetti. They'll have to see an eye
  specialist. As for Mr. Schiff..."

  "I'll live!" Adam said. He stood near the doctor. His right hand was immobilized.

  "You'll have to watch that wrist, sir. At your age..."

  "I know, I know." Adam shook his head. To Jack: "I hear they caught the guy."

  "Yes--a 14-year-old with a laser pointer."

  Dr. Rippon said, "They should lock 'im in Spofford and pocket the key."

  "We'd like that to happen, Doctor," said Jack.

  But Jack was more worried about bullets. He and the police suspected that Ben's attacker had
  really been gunning for Adam.

  There was no evidence that Woody Franks had attempted the murder. Almost certainly the
  potential assassin was still at large.
 

  As the machines buzzed and beeped in the background, Ben sat in his hospital bed, peering
  over his bifocals at dozens of manilla folders engulfing him.

  At the sound of his door opening, Ben looked up in dismay. He expected another nurse coming
  in to pester him. His eyes widened in surprise as he watched Reed Macy walk in.

  "Hello, Ms. Macy. What brings you in?" He said, puzzled.

  Gingerly, she sat on the side of his bed. Without saying a word, she clasped his right hand in
  hers. "I just wanted to say that I am glad that you are doing better. And.... I wanted to tell you
  that I enjoyed meeting you and well0".

  "This sounds like a farewell speech. Are you leaving?".

  Nodding, she replied, "Yes. My work here is primarily done. Some agents will stay behind but I
  have been called back."

  "Well..." Ben was unable to come up with the appropriate words. Reed grinned at him,
  enjoying Ben's flustering. Ben noticed that Reed's grin showed a hint of dimples. Unable to
  resist, he smiled in return.

  "You'll be missed." Ben knew that that was true. He was proud taht he came up with the right
  words. Never one to be short of verbiage, Ben felt most amused that Reed should make him
  feel awkward.

  Reed continued grinning. "Maybe I'll be back. Bye, Ben. Rest and don't over exert yourself."
  Ben watched her leave and felt a little sadness. He hoped he would see her again.
 
  **

  Kelson took off his reading glasses and smiled down the couch at Faith, running his hand up
  the back of her shin, her legs draped over his. “You ready for bed?” he asked, quietly, closing
  his file folder. His eyes were warm on her face, which had lost the stressful pinch of the
  evening’s earlier events.

  Nearly too pleasantly tired to move, Faith sat up and put her arms around his neck, tucking her
  head under his chin. With a sigh, he held her close, not wanting to ruin the perfect moment
  between them. Kissing her forehead, he tilted her chin up gently to gaze into her face,
  seriously. “Faith, sugar…you’ve got to give Cait a break…”

  Faith groaned, frowning. “Kelly,” she sighed, leaning forward to kiss him. “I don’t want to fight
  about Cait.” Tangling her fingers into the gold strands of his hair, she moved closer.

  “Well,” Kelson mumbled, chuckling. “That’s a first.” He smoothed a hand over her hair, easing
  her onto her back. She laughed softly, his kisses quieting her, her fingers seeking into the soft
  material of his shirt. Kelson sighed, breaking a tender kiss. “Why don’t you come to bed now?”
  he asked, his voice rough.

  Faith smiled, touching her fingertip to his bottom lip. Kelson Dines Ransome was the most
  incredibly understanding man she had ever met…but she knew every man had limitations. He
  never questioned their lack of intimacy, he understood every dark feeling that Faith had
  attached to such a beautiful act of human love. “Kelly,” she whispered, blushing, unsure of how
  to continue. “I…”

  Kelson smiled, bashfully, kissing her one last time before sitting up, holding her hand in his. “I’m
  going to take a shower,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hand. She smiled up at him, watching
  the loving look on his face.

  “All right,” Faith said, sitting up to watch him go into the bathroom. Hugging her knees to her,
  feeling warm all over, she curled up on the couch, turning up the volume on the TV. A
  commercial flashed on the screen and her eyes wandered to the files and photos spread
  across her coffee table. Boredly, she began to tidy up, stacking the pages of notes and
  reports in one pile, organizing the photos into the folder. Picking one of the photographs, she
  tilted her head, gazing at it. Random faces speaking with more random faces…she sighed,
  filing it away. This was one thing she didn’t miss about police work…the paperwork, the
  endless hours of poring over black and white photographs that eventually all swam together in
  the mind. Smiling to herself, she turned over the last photo, gazing into it. Three men were
  standing by a long, black car, obviously either waiting for or seeing of the person sitting in the
  passenger seat. There was a large circle drawn in white marker around the three men,
  accompanied with Kelson’s chicken scratch handwriting. Shaking her head with a chuckle, she
  started to file it away the others, but stopped.

  Not quite sure why she had paused, Faith looked back down at the photograph, her fingers
  running over Kelson’s handwriting, wondering what had caught her eye. Setting her teeth, she
  looked hard into the picture, eyes tracing every feature of the men in the photograph. Glancing
  over her shoulder, she peered towards the bathroom, shutting off the TV. The water was still
  running in the shower and she stood up quickly, hurrying to the desk to dig through the top
  drawer. Yanking out a magnifying glass, she went back to the coffee table and pulled the lamp
  on the endtable onto the tabletop, clicking it on. The light shone brightly onto picture and she
  sighed, closing her eyes for a moment. She wasn’t sure if what she was looking for was
  something she wanted to see…
 

Part 10

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