With a set jaw, Scott crosses the street, slamming the car door shut.

He just sits there, staring out the window as he shakes his head. He finally gets a witness, and Mitch refuses to help.

Sure, the sketch would be enough to get a warrant, but a sketch only goes so far in court. If he wanted to put Vine away for good, and take Shelton down with him, he needed Mitch's help.

He slams his hand against the wheel.
"Damn it!" He yells, his anger reverberating through the empty car.
With a shake of his head, he puts the key in the ignition and starts the car, heading back to HQ with exactly what he had the day before–nothing.

{*#*}

I sit my tea down and switch on my tv, desperately trying to drown out my thoughts.

I had always wished something would happen and break up my mundane routine: sleep, work, exercise, the occasional date or night out with friends–which was far and in between now that I was the only single friend in your group–then back at it the next day.

I always loved crime show and movies and thought it would be exciting to be a detective; getting to chase down criminals, helping victims, coming into work never knowing what would be thrown at me that day.

But now I was a part of every crime movie I loved, and I just wanted out. I suddenly regretted always questioning my quiet life.

I wanted it, so I got it. Big time. I shake my head and push myself off the couch, needing to move.

I knew Agent Hoying was right; I had a chance to do something great for a lot of people. But no matter how boring my life was, I still wanted a chance to live it. I'd rather sit at a desk all day, working on spreadsheets, than going down in a hail of gunfire. No matter how climatic it was.

I just hoped that refusing to testify was enough to keep me safe.

{*#*}

Scott sits at his desk, writing up a warrant for a weapons bust on his latest case now that the Hunt murder was a bust. His shoulders are pinched and he hadn't relaxed since the moment he left Mitch's apartment.

"We'll get him," Kaplan had patted Scott's shoulder when he returned to report that the witness was refusing to cooperate. Scott just nodded and left the office without another word, and Avi couldn't help but feel for him.

E.A.D Avriel "Avi" Kaplan had met a seven-year-old Scott Hoying when he was still an agent himself.

He had found Scott sitting in a witness room that smelled like cigarettes with a fading blue couch beneath him. His batman pajamas had the lightest spatters of blood, and the blonde hair, wide-eyed boy sat, looking down at his swinging feet. His father and younger sister were a few doors down talking to the metro cops who had first taken them in–back then, there wasn't really a protocol for dealing with children witnesses.

His mother, Connie Hoying, was a local cop, following in her father's and grandfather's footsteps. She was just a traffic cop, twenty-nine and still new to the beat, with two young kids at home, and back then, you'd be hard-pressed not to find a cop–even a traffic cop–under Shelton's payroll.

Blake Shelton was new to the scene back in the sixties; an Oklahoma boy with the accent to prove it, Shelton had a knack for backdoor business trades, and soon found himself rising the ranks of what was then the O'Connell family. But as soon as Shelton secured himself a place at the top, he had the entire family killed and took over everyone and everything that had been under them. Cutthroat and with no conscious, by the time the 80′s rolled around, Shelton had knocked out almost every competing family in the area and was leading one of the largest crime families in the city since the fifties.

But it wasn't long before the FBI started cracking down on mobs and breaking up mafia families. Hundreds of bosses, underbosses and lackeys were being rounded up and arrested across the country. Shelton managed to disappear and go underground before the FBI could get cuffs on him, but that didn't stop him from running his empire. The only difference was that he wasn't doing it in public anymore. Out of sight, and hypothetically, out of mind, since he then started paying off local cops to look the other way.

They never could figure out why Shelton wanted Officer Connie Hoying dead, but he sent Adam "La La" Vine, one of the newest members of the Shelton gang who was still working on proving himself, to their home while her husband, Rick had to stay late at the garage he worked at.

She was home with her two kids, Kirstin, four, and Scott, seven–almost eight. She had been tucking Scott in when Vine found her.

She had fought him, tried to knock the gun from his grasp, but Vine managed to put three bullets in her before Scott could call 9-1-1.

For five years, Avi kept in contact with Scott. There was something about the boy in front of him that was determined, even at seven years old. For years, Avi would answer calls from him, his voice getting slightly deeper with each check-in, hoping that they might have gotten Vine. Each phone call ending with a disappointing, "Thanks anyways, Mr. Avi."

After about five years, the calls stopped. At twelve years old, Scott had seen enough of this world to know that justice wasn't coming for his mother–not anytime soon anyways.

Avi was only two years into his E.A.D. position when he was going through candidate files, unsurprised when he saw a picture of the light-haired boy–now man–with the same blue eyes that had looked up at him with tears spilling down his cheeks and asked if Avi would get the bad guy who hurt his mom.

At twenty-one and fresh out of college, Candidate Hoying quickly caught the eye of his superiors; he was strong, never meeting an opponent he couldn't take down with an ease that none of his classmates could even try to match, no matter how hard they trained. He always knew exactly what to say, getting a perp to crack or a witness to open up. The way he spoke, people wanted to respond. He was as smooth and charming as his looks, and that alone would have been more than enough to get him to wherever he wanted to go. But behind the smartass remarks and cocky smirks, he was smart. Not that he would ever intentionally show it; It was the way he would devise a plan, how he could read someone with just a few glances-not to mention that he excelled in every one of his courses, though not enough to be the top of his class–even though he could have been if he wanted to.

Scott Hoying had a great life ahead of him, but Avi worried every single day that he would miss his chance to grab it. For Scott's sake, Avi prayed that they could close this case.

{*#*}

A little over a week had gone by, and my life was finally settling back to normal.

I was back at work, I had gotten brunch with friends, and called my parents so they wouldn't worry.

I hadn't told anyone what had happened; a few coworkers knew there was an incident, but I didn't talk about it, and they didn't ask. When my friends asked why my hands were all stitched up, I lied and said a casserole dish had shattered in my hands, no one questioning why it was the back of my hands, and not my palms, that had been hurt. And when my mom asked if everything was alright, surely hearing in my voice that something was wrong, I just told her the late nights at work were wearing on me, but I would make sure to relax this weekend.

I had been a giant stress ball the entire week, constantly checking over my shoulder, and grateful that my car was still in the impound, worried about a car bomb (thank you every mob movie ever). But everything had been normal, and I was finally able to sleep at night again.

Saturday rolled around at despite the fact that the week before had been arctically bitter, there was a warm spell stopping by for a few days, with sunshine and temperatures in the 50′s.

It would be perfect to head down to the flea market. So, I caught a cab down, ready to make the most of the day.

As I strolled through the vendors, pushing past the crowds that were just as happy as me to be in the warm(ish) sunshine, I could feel the stress rolling off me. Here, the only thing people were worried about was getting the best price on knick knacks that they think they need, but will probably never use. No one was thinking about mobs and murder, and for the first time since that night, I wasn't either.

I stop at a handmade jewelry booth, the light gemstone rings set in bronze catching my eye.

"Three rings for twenty-five," the woman with grey hair running the booth points at me as I admire her selection.

I nod, not really needing new rings, and probably not going to bother with these, already knowing my fingers will be green within the week.

"Are you looking for someone specific?" The woman strides across her tent to a man looking at some scarves. I glance at him, the back of his head covered in dark hair.

"Not particularly," he responds, his voice uninterested. The woman seems put off by his attitude and walks back to her fold up chair and plops herself down, her eyes scanning the crowds passing by hoping to find someone who might stop in and actually buy something.

I put the ring I was holding down, ready to move on to the next vendor, and thank the woman who just holds up a hand towards me.

As I turn to push my way into the flow of the crowd, I notice a movement beside me, and I glance towards it, my heart stopping as I catch a glimpse of the man in the vendor tent with me.

A silver scar running besides steel grey eyes makes my stomach drop.

It's him.

The man from the parking garage.

I feel my whole body begin to burn as my ears fill with a shrill ring.

Someone bumps into my shoulder, jostling me, and bringing me back down to earth.

I have no idea if he caught me looking at him, my glance had been so quick, it would have been easy enough to miss, but I know this isn't an ordinary man.

Another bump to my shoulder sends me stumbling, finally getting my feet moving and pushing myself into the crowd, hoping to blend in.

I try to walk normal, to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest as I reach into my purse and pull out my cell phone, grabbing the business card that I had stuffed in my wallet just in case.

With shaking fingers, I dial the ten numbers next to CELL and, rather than put the phone to my ear, plug in my headphones with the microphone attached and pray to any god above that he answers.

"Hoying." A gruff voice answers. He sounds like I woke him up, and I realized that it's only ten in the morning, so it's a possibility.

"Hoying?" He asks annoyed when I don't respond.

"He's here." I breathe. A silence falls over the phone, and I can hear rustling in the background.

"Uh, who is this?"

"It's Mitchell Grassi." I can hear the fear in my own voice, and I'm hoping he's awake enough to hear it too.

There's a pause, as if everything is coming back to him slowly. Too slowly.
"Okay. Start over. Who's where?" His voice is so even, so calm, I wish he was here in front of me so that I could shake him.

I take a deep breath, passing by a vendor stand and stopping to pretend to look at the hand-carve statues and casually glancing over my shoulder.
He's still behind me, keeping a distance and looking down at a watch a few tables down.

"The man from the parking garage. The one who shot at me and works for that mafia guy. He's following me."

The conversation skips a beat and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.

"Where are you?" His voice is firm like he's finally been snapped into FBI agent mode.

"Findlay Market. In the west wing vendor section." I keep moving, slowly strolling, not wanting to get too far away from the crowds.

"Okay. Here's what's going to happen. I'll be there in ten minutes. Until I get there, you stay on the line with me and stay where there's a lot of people. In ten minutes, you meet me at Bender's Meat Stand and I will get you." I lick my lips, nodding, not even thinking that he can't see me.

"Understand?" For a moment I hear it; fear. But I'm not sure why.

"Yes." I take a deep breath.

"Good. I'm on my way."