by K Ryn
Jenson's expression had been contemplative, now it turned serious. "Suddenly there's a dark side emerging. For the past several weeks it's as if you were intentionally destroying that 'white knight' reputation. You severed ties with anyone that was close to you, most notably the friendships with your captain and the partner that's been your constant shadow for the last two-plus years. You kicked the kid out of your home and made threats on his life. Your actions and insubordination earned you a disciplinary suspension. A somewhat suspicious turn of events, you must admit."
Jenson spread his hands in entreaty. "Surely you can see why we're somewhat hesitant to welcome you into our ranks without some kind of explanation."
"I already gave my explanation to your partner. I don't make it a habit of repeating myself," Jim answered darkly. His gaze flickered toward Gordon for a moment and he had the satisfaction of seeing the man flinch.
"Ah, yes," Jenson murmured, drawing the Sentinel's attention back to the table and the men seated there. "Expediency."
Jim allowed a small smile. "Exactly. My actions and attitude are dictated by what's necessary for the situation. I learned survival from the best the military had to offer."
"And is that what motivates you now? Survival?" Jenson pressed.
More than you know, asshole, Jim thought grimly. He shrugged and shook his head. "Not entirely. I simply decided that playing the game wasn't worth the effort any more. The way the deck's stacked, the chances of being promoted are pretty slim, and having seen the crap the upper echelon has to deal with, I'm not sure that it would be worth it anyway. Now, if I were in charge of making the rules, or I had some say in how they were executed... then I'd have to rethink my position. For the short term, at least. I have no intention of risking my neck for the unwashed masses forever."
He felt the weight of Jenson's gaze studying him, evaluating his answer. Four other sets of eyes burned with unasked questions, skepticism and more than a little fear.
Finally, without garnering his associate's opinions, Jenson made his own decision. "Good enough. Let me tell you a bit about what we have on our agenda."
The details poured out and the Sentinel absorbed them like a sponge, his expression never changing, even though the rank greed behind the murders and fires threatened to make his stomach revolt. It had begun as a simple discussion between Robert Allen and Jenson. The Mayor's aide had inside information about the city's intent to revitalize various neighborhoods. Several million dollars in Federal grant monies had already been secured. Which of the target areas the city was going to choose remained the only question.
Recognizing that whomever held the titles on the lots within the selected area stood to make a substantial profit when the properties were sold, Jenson and Allen had put together their plan. They chose one of the neighborhoods on the city's list, confident that Allen's position guaranteed they'd have the influence and connections to push their choice to the top.
Allen handled the paper shuffle while Jenson recruited the troops. The first of the purchases were simple transactions, dealing with absentee landlords who accepted the offered sums easily. They ran into a snag when it came to those properties held by the local residents. There weren't many, but they were strategically placed. Without ownership of those lots, their grand scheme was doomed. The protection racket was born out of their need to convince the resident-owners to sell, and to underwrite the cost of the overall venture.
"Unfortunately, we had to resort to extreme measures in order to meet our timetable," Jenson concluded.
"Murder, you mean," Jim said, forcing a casualness into his tone. "And the fires were set to cover the killings while generating what I suspect was another profit center when you collected the insurance money."
"From a man who's sworn to 'Serve and Protect', you don't seem at all disturbed by the facts," Jenson observed.
Jim flashed a grim smile. "Expediency, remember?"
Jenson's return smile never touched his eyes.
"You seem to have things pretty well covered," Jim observed quietly. "Just where do I fit in?"
"And what's in it for you?" Jenson almost smirked. "As my partner explained, we'd like you to return to Major Crimes. Make peace with your captain and co-workers to whatever extent is necessary so that you're reassigned to the case. As the lead detective, you'll be in a position to keep us apprised of any complications. There should be none. We've been careful so far. I promise you that we have no intention of getting sloppy now. You control the investigation and you'll be well rewarded."
"I can play the role again, with the proper motivation, but I want more than just money," Jim countered.
"Power is more attractive, isn't it?" Jenson replied. "I can assure you that this venture is only the beginning. We plan to negotiate with additional associates like Mr. Allen -- people in positions of influence who can open other doors for us. We'll be able to take whatever we want."
"Assuming that you're satisfied with the results of this interview, what's the entry fee into this little club of yours?" Jim prodded. He had enough information. It was time to finish this and get the hell out, preferably in one living breathing piece if he could manage it. He'd heard no sounds from the outside of the building to suggest that any backup had arrived. Either they hadn't been able to trace the call or they'd come up empty on the search for this particular property. He knew Blair would have done his best, but if this building was owned by Allen or one of the others that they hadn't already identified, the odds that the younger man would pick it out were slim to none.
"Just a simple initiation ceremony."
Jim locked gazes with Jenson and slowly rose to his feet. "Who do you want me to kill?"
"What if we said, your ex-partner?" Randolph asked, breaking his silence for the first time.
"I'd have to count you all as fools and reject your offer, generous as it appears," Jim answered, letting his deadly blue- eyed stare drift across the assembled men.
Allen's expression was intent. Curious. "Why?"
"Because there's no profit in it," the Sentinel retorted. His harsh expression gave no hint of the rage he felt at the casualness with which these men discussed ending his Guide's life. "There's no percentage. Not for me. Not for you. I have no intention of winding up in a cell charged with murder, and that's exactly what would happen if Sandburg turned up dead right now. My experience and connections won't do you any good if I'm in jail."
"And if we insisted?" Randolph pressed.
"You won't."
A tense silence stretched between them. Just when Jim was certain that Randolph or one of the others would push the matter too far, he caught the sound of a car engine outside of the building. Seconds later, the grating of the garage door being raised ended the standoff.
The Sentinel turned, senses dialed up to maximum. Probing. He'd already picked up the presence of two people within the vehicle. One of the heartbeats was racing. He focused his hearing, afraid of what he would find.
And almost sighed in relief.
It wasn't his Guide.
"You're right, Detective," Jenson murmured. Rising from his chair he stepped around the table and stopped at Jim's side. "Mr. Sandburg can be dealt with later if the need arises. We're ready to welcome you to the unit." He gestured toward the car that had just pulled in.
Jim moved forward to follow Jenson who was already striding toward the car and its occupants. The others followed as well. The Sentinel identified Jeff Rogers before he slid from behind the steering wheel, pulling a struggling, blindfolded and handcuffed figure out of the vehicle with him.
Ellison found himself face to face with the man that his young partner had been so worried about protecting. Andrew Jankowski.
"You're late, Mr. Rogers," Jenson frowned, eyeing the final member of his team with disapproval.
"Yeah, well the old geezer here decided to be uncooperative," Rogers grumbled, grabbing the old man and shoving him forward.
Jankowski stumbled, but regained his
balance.
"Why, Mr. Jankowski, what poor manners," Jenson smirked. He reached out and tore off the old man's blindfold.
Jankowski blinked and glared at the circle of men surrounding him. He squared his shoulders and raised his head defiantly. "Courtesy's wasted on animals," he hissed.
"I assume you recognize our guest, even though you haven't had the pleasure of meeting him until now," Jenson said amiably, ignoring the old man's angry retort as he glanced at Jim. "Mr. Jankowski is the gentleman that your partner spoke with a few weeks ago. Sandburg's description of him was very accurate. It made finding him quite simple."
The Sentinel felt the full force of Jankowski's scathing stare and heard the surprised intake of breath.
"The young man... the night of the fire. He was your partner? You're the one that he wanted me to trust?" Jankowski shook his head in disgust. "I should have let him fall and break his neck."
"Caustic to the end, eh, old man?" Jenson taunted, his mouth a savage sneer. "You've been a troublesome complication, Jankowski. Stirring up the locals with your stories of the old days. Trying to convince them not to sell even when we made them generous offers for those dung holes. Spewing your antiquated garbage about civic responsibility. You should have kept your mouth shut."
Jenson backhanded Jankowski and the old man staggered sideways a step. He raised bound hands to his cracked and bleeding lip. Ugly purple-black bruises testified to the rough handling the man had seen, but he still held himself with pride, staring at his enemies in contempt.
"But you didn't," Jenson continued, a smug grin creasing his face. "Now you pay for that mistake and do us a service at the same time."
Jenson snapped his fingers and Hiller moved to Jim's side, holding out a gun. The Sentinel took the weapon, feeling the weight of the deadly metal laying heavy within his soul.
"Mr. Hiller was scheduled to have the privilege, but he's agreed to step aside for our newest recruit. You should feel honored, Jankowski. Ellison's an ex-ranger. Army. Just like you."
The old man's face was a mask of stunned betrayal which shifted quickly to derision. "Be careful who you insult, punk," he snarled, meeting Jim's eyes with a glare of pure fury.
In one smooth move, Jim crossed the distance between them and raised his gun, placing the barrel against Jankowski's temple. "Watch your mouth, old man," the ex-ranger warned softly.
There was no trace of fear in his victim's eyes. Ellison wanted to smile.
No, not smile... salute. Hope I live long enough to be as tough as this man.
The Sentinel cast his senses outward, hoping to find some sign of Simon bringing in the cavalry, but there was nothing. It was up to him.
Holding Jankowski with a frigid, blue-eyed glare, the Sentinel relied on his other senses to feed him the data he needed. Shuffles of leather and rubber soles against the concrete; a harsh chronic smoker's cough; heavy, excited breathing; the scrape of denim; and the thunder of heartbeats, fixed the nine men's positions in his mind. Rogers stood just beyond the old man and Jenson a few feet to Jim's right. The rest stood in a rough semi-circle, waiting with evident impatience for the kill.
Like the carrion-eaters that they are, the Sentinel raged silently. Vulturous birds of prey... damn them. They took an oath.
And so had he. One far more ancient and binding than any that these men could have even dreamed of. The proud old man in his gunsights might have recognized the truth of it -- the need to protect; the need to find justice for those who couldn't fight for themselves -- but at the moment he was blinded by his own anger and feelings of betrayal.
"Go ahead. Kill me," Jankowski hissed. "Look right into my eyes and pull the trigger. If you can."
"Oh, I assure you that's going to happen, old man," Jim sneered, never flinching or lowering the gun. Still hoping to run the bluff, he directed his next words to Jenson. "I assume you want him done the same way as the others."
"Yes. One to the back of the head," Jenson answered. "It will reinforce our message to the rest of the holdouts. That gun's clean, by the way. No way to trace it to us, or to you."
The ex-ranger didn't blink an eye although his gut tightened. This sucks, he thought, using his partner's patented expression "Tell me where you want it finished," he requested, hoping to buy a little more time. If this killing ran to pattern, there would be another building set ablaze to cover the murder. The factory wasn't within the target area. He hoped that Jenson would order him to take Jankowski to the selected site. Even if half of the men went as chaperones, the odds that he could overcome them and get both the old man and himself to safety increased dramatically.
"Here. Now," Jenson said quietly.
Jim nodded and tightened his grip on the weapon, his mind racing, his expression giving nothing of his inner turmoil away. The gun felt light and almost like a toy in his hands. His eyes narrowed as suspicion bloomed. Was the gun actually loaded? He dialed up his sense of smell.
Gun oil... it's been cleaned very recently... just a trace of gunpowder... no reek of metal casings... damn... I don't think there's any ammunition in the clip... a bluff... another test... Jenson's not sure of me so going to let me hang myself... I pull the trigger and I'm in... if I don't shoot they gun both of us down... loaded or not... How sure are you, Ellison? Willing to risk a man's life on these senses of yours? Blair would say go for it, but he's the one with absolute faith in your abilities. You're the one with the doubts...
Jim took a deep breath and made his decision. When in doubt, follow the wisdom of your Guide, Sentinel, he told himself.
Unfortunately Jankowski chose that moment to take matters into his own hands. The old man jerked away from the gun, lowered his head, and barreled into Jim. One bony shoulder struck Ellison mid-chest, throwing the detective off balance. At the same time Jankowski jerked his head upward, the top of his skull connecting with the underside of Jim's jaw. The impact drove the Sentinel's teeth together with an audible click and snapped his head back.
Silently cursing the old man's timing, Jim immediately changed tactics, shifting from attacked to attacker. Clutching Jankowski, the Sentinel used their combined momentum and weight to carry them several steps backward. As the two men tumbled toward the floor, Jim swept outward with one leg, knocking the feet out from under the two men standing closest to them. Gordon and Hiller wavered and toppled like errant bowling pins, carrying Allen to the floor in a jumble of thrashing arms and legs as well.
The ex-ranger hit the floor and rolled away from Jankowski, pushing the old man flat against the concrete and rising fluidly to his feet in one blurred motion. He homed in on the next closest target -- Randolph. Jim raised the weapon he still held and pressed the trigger. There was a click, not the reassuring sound of a bullet leaving the chamber. The gun was useless -- empty as he'd suspected.
Nonetheless, it was still a weapon and significantly harder than his fist. Ellison stepped toward the advancing man. He swung the gun in a punishing arc, connecting with Randolph's jaw. The force of the blow sent the other detective reeling.
The Sentinel's mind registered four enemies down as he pulled a knife free from its hiding place in his left boot. He feinted right toward Smithson, then lunged to the left to take down Jenson. He grabbed the vice-cop's jacket and spun both of them toward the concrete. Jenson rolled with the movement and even as they fell he jabbed upward, striking Ellison's right elbow with an expert blow that jarred the knife from Jim's suddenly nerveless fingers. The Sentinel grunted as the air whooshed out of his lungs and he ended up on the unyielding floor with Jenson's weight pinning him down.
His head snapped to the right as Jenson's fist connected with his jaw. Jim fought off the blackness, trying to free himself. The air was filled with the sounds of scuffling feet; grunts as flesh struck flesh, moans of pain; the metallic slide of a weapon being primed; and his Guide's voice ringing in his head --"Stay out of your own way, man!"
Instinct and training took over, launching the Sentinel into action again as he
fought back. He wrenched his arms free of Jenson's hold and struck out with his fists, pummeling short blows into his adversary's ribs. The resulting grunts of pain energized him and he arched his back, driving one knee upward at the same time.
Jenson collapsed to the side, doubled over and gasping. Jim rolled in the opposite direction, snagging one of his guns from the other man's waist. He lurched to his feet and took two running steps toward Jankowski. The old man was crouched on the floor next to Barnes, who he had somehow managed to take out. The Sentinel heard the cocking of two more guns and whirled around, resolutely placing himself between Jankowski and death, his own weapon rising.
The explosion as someone fired, blasted the Sentinel's hearing. He was reeling in anguish before the burning pain registered midway between the center of his chest and his right shoulder. Ellison fell backwards, crashing into Jankowski and knocking the older man aside. Dazed and half blinded by the sweat pouring into his eyes, Jim struggled to get up, swinging his head groggily toward where he thought his attackers would be. He caught a blurred glimpse of jeans-clad legs just before something hard struck him along the left side of the head. A regretful apology to his Guide and the old man that he'd failed to save flashed through his mind before a lightning bolt of red- hot agony seared his sight and darkness took him.
Seething with fury, Jenson glared down at Ellison's motionless body. "You're good, Ellison. I almost bought the act. Almost." He shifted his gaze to Jankowski who stood unresisting in Rogers' grasp, a stunned look of horror on his face. "You blew it old man. Army was on your side all along."
Gordon stumbled up, glanced at the blood pooling under Jim and grabbed his partner's arm in panic. "Jesus, Phil... What are we going to do now?"