"Would you stop that?" John asked irritably.

Grace stared at him blankly. "Stop what?"

"Hovering. All of you," he scowled around the room at his teammates, "you’ve been hovering over me like a bunch of mother hens ever since we got here. I’m *not* a baby chicken. I’m a big boy. I’m okay with this." At Sam’s worried expression he rolled his eyes and dropped back into his chair. He raked his fingers through his hair until it stood up in spiky clumps. "It’s just a city."

Right, Bailey thought as he watched the younger agent frown sullenly. Just a city. Same as any other. Except that this city had Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, Celtics and Bruins… and Patrick O’Doyle. John had been born here. He’d spend a large part of his miserable childhood here. And the last time he had been here, after a fifteen-year absence, he had ended up more battered than Bailey cared to remember. No, this was not just any city. This city was Boston.

As soon as Bailey had seen where the VCTF’s next case would take them he had decided to take a few precautions.

*****

VCTF Headquarters, earlier

"I got your message," Marcus said as he walked into Bailey’s office. "Something wrong?"

"Our next case is in Boston," he said without preamble.

"Hey, I thought we cleared all this up last year," Marcus said, suddenly on the defensive. "You said the OC boys didn’t think there was a price on my head. If you think I’m afraid to go to…"

"This isn’t about you," Bailey interrupted. "It’s about John." He watched comprehension dawn quickly. "What do you know?"

"About John?" Marcus shrugged as he settled on the sofa. Though the edgy attitude had been toned down Bailey could still hear the caution in his voice. "I’ve heard the rumors around here. Nothing official. Mob ties in the northeast, family skeletons in the closet…"

"I’m not asking about the rumors. I’m asking what you know."

Marcus’ abrupt bark of laughter sounded strained. "I worked undercover in O’Connor’s outfit for two years, Bailey," he said. "I know a lot."

"That’s what I’m hoping."

"Where were these questions during the Jenkins case?" Marcus asked, eyes narrowing. "You let him walk right into that death-match circus. Didn’t it occur to you to ask me then?"

"We didn’t have much of a choice at the time," Bailey said tightly. He didn’t need Marcus to remind him how dangerous that plan had been. "Sending John in was the fastest way to stop those fights. This time we have other options." He stared intently at the man on his sofa. "So, tell me… how safe will he be?"

"As safe as he is anywhere else."

Bailey frowned. "Is that supposed to mean that he’s safe in Boston… or that he’s at risk in Atlanta?"

"I don’t know, man. Maybe both." Marcus shook his head. "They know who he is. If they want to… they can hit him any time. But they also know that hitting him will just bring down more heat than..." He stopped short and shrugged. "I’ve never met a man with so many targets on his back." He grinned suddenly. "At least, now Jack finally has a real reason to hate him."

Despite his concerns Bailey felt a quick smile cross his own lips. "They aren’t exactly subtle, are they?"

"Sam tries, but I think it’s a lost cause. John isn’t all that big on subtle." Marcus’ grin faded and Bailey saw where he was leading. "He lives on his own terms, Bailey. If he hasn’t let Jack scare him away from Sam, he isn’t going to let his father scare him away from doing his job… even if it takes him back to Boston."

Bailey suppressed a weary sigh. If Marcus’ evaluation wasn’t exactly reassuring, it was at least what he had expected. John was a walking target wherever he went.

*****

Boston Police District Nine

"So?"

Bailey was brought back to the present by John’s question.

"Are you going to let me go talk to the theater managers?" John said. "Or do you want to send a babysitter along?"

Not for the first time Bailey felt a stab of sympathy for Noreen O’Doyle. John couldn’t have been an easy child to raise. Even at thirty his willful stubbornness could be difficult to deal with. Bailey could only imagine how impossible he had been at fourteen. Noreen must have possessed the patience of a saint or had the bearing of a four-star general. At the moment, Bailey prayed for a little of either.

"I’m not in the habit of sending *any* of my agents out alone," he said. "Marcus is going with you."

John gave him a glare of pure exasperation and stormed out without another word. Marcus shrugged and followed.

George laughed quietly after they left. "It would be a lot easier to buy the ‘I’m all grown up now’ speech," he said, "if it wasn’t followed by a temper tantrum."

"George…"

"Come on, Bailey. We’ve been here two days. Marcus says he hasn’t seen anyone taking an interest in John…"

"Anyone he recognized…"

"They know he’s a Fed. They’d be idiots to try anything."

"If they were intelligent, Georgie, they wouldn’t be in the mob."

"No, Bailey," Sam said suddenly. "I think George is right."

"Thank you."

"If anything happens to John in Boston – even an accident – they know that the first place we’ll go is to Patrick O’Doyle’s front door."

*****

Bailey lay the homicide reports on the table. He had been staring at them for so long that he practically had them memorized, he thought. Not that it was doing any good. No matter how long he looked at them, nothing new seemed to jump out at him. He glanced up to see Sam pacing distractedly beside the conference table. George sat at the far end of the room, ignoring them both as he dug through Sam’s latest search criteria. All three agents turned, however, as Grace pushed open the door to the small office that they had commandeered from the local PD.

"What have you got for me, Gracie?"

"Not much," she said as handed him a plastic bag. "It’s a shoestring."

"I can see that," he said with a smile. "Why?"

"Murder weapon," she replied. "That’s what he’s been strangling them with – shoestrings. We found this one in victim number three’s skirt pocket. It matches the indentations in her neck."

"What can you get from them?"

"Not much," she said again. "He’s using *new* shoestrings. Standard thirty-six inch…" She paused as Bailey’s ringing cell phone interrupted.

"Malone."

"I lost him." Marcus’ voice was fuzzy with static.

Bailey pressed a palm to one ear and held the phone more tightly. "Lost who?"

"John. I lost John."

"What? How?"

"At a convenience store. I went in for a soda and when I came back he was gone."

"What do you mean ‘gone’?" Bailey’s mind refused to wrap around the concept.

"I mean no John, no car, no nothing. Gone."

"What’s he thinking?"

"Bailey, he’s stubborn, not stupid," Marcus said. "Pissed as he is with all of us, he still wouldn’t go off on his own just to make a point."

There was a small silence. Neither man wanted to state the obvious.

"You have an address for O’Doyle?" Bailey said abruptly.

"Yeah, but… Okay." He rattled off the street number. "But I don’t think…"

"We’ll send a car for you," Bailey cut him off and hung up.

"Bailey?" Sam’s eyes were dark with concern.

"Maybe they are idiots."

*****

O’Doyle residence

An average-looking house in an average-looking upper-middle class neighborhood. Not bad for a man who got his start in the waterfront unions, Bailey thought. He tried to imagine a younger version of his missing agent playing on that perfectly manicured lawn… and couldn’t.

"John didn’t grow up here," Sam said to his surprise. Sometimes he was convinced that she could read his mind. "They lived closer to the warehouse district when he was born," she continued as they headed up the sidewalk. "O’Doyle must have moved here in the past few years, decided to play the role of an upstanding member of the community. He wants respect," she said. "Even if he has to buy it."

No one answered the doorbell. Or Bailey’s knock. Or his frustrated hammering. He turned toward the street as a car pulled up to the curb, but it was only Marcus arriving in an unmarked patrol car.

"Can we get a warrant?" Sam asked as she stared at the locked door. If she could glare with any more intensity, Bailey thought, there would be burnt holes in the wood. He shook his head.

"Based on what? A special agent is out of touch for thirty minutes. No judge in the city will give us a warrant to go beating down the door of the East Coast’s biggest loan shark without something more."

"Tell them who John is," she persisted.

"Not without something tangible to go on," he repeated. "That still wouldn’t be enough."

"There won’t be anything inside anyway. Pat’s learned how to be careful," Marcus said. "We need to find Cahill…"

Bailey studied the man carefully. He wasn’t sure if he was more bothered by Marcus’ easy use of O’Doyle and O’Connor’s Christian names or by the fact that he still seemed to be holding out on them. He cursed the fact that he hadn’t pried more deeply into Marcus’ history with these people before coming. He had only dug far enough to confirm that John would need someone to watch his back here. Apparently that hadn’t been deep enough.

"I think it’s time you spill everything you know about the Irish mob," Bailey said. "And I don’t give a damn about whether it’s classified or not. We don’t have time to wait for authorization from the OCB’s undercover department."

"John wouldn’t…"

"And I don’t care what you think John would or wouldn’t want us to know. His life is on the line. We *need* to know. Now."

Marcus nodded slowly. His eyes were unreadable as he finally met Bailey’s gaze.

"You have no idea how much trouble he’s caused them."

*****

on to part two