Title: Vendetta ( A new Silk Stalkings story)

Characters: Tom, Cassy, Harry

Guests: Fred Millen, Jeremy Millen and an assortment of bad guys to numerous to name

Warnings: Violence and language. And yes, because I can't seem to write in any other manner, this story will be posted in parts, a total of which is not known because I haven't written them yet.

Description: Tom must convince a friend's son to not seek revenge against the men responsible for his father's death, while battling his own need to settle the score.

Timeline: Takes place at the end of the seventh season.

By: Terri D. Thomas

Only the bad guys are mine. Everyone else is borrowed (although I had to make up names for a few of the characters because the show never provided them to me.) 1998.

Vendetta

Part 1

Tom Ryan finished off the last of his beer and grimaced as the warm liquid hit his tongue. The Florida heat was stifling and had turned the previously ice cold beer to lukewarm in a matter of minutes. What was worse was that the air conditioner had been on the fritz since Saturday morning. The repairman didn't have time to fix it until Monday, so the young cop had resorted to lounging in nothing but his jersey shorts and keeping his activity to a minimum.

He debated on going into the station to seek relief from his discomfort, but he had spent the entire week looking forward to plopping down in front of the television and watching the Jaguars/Panthers exhibition game. A little heat was not going to keep him from enjoying every minute of the kickoff to the football season.

He rolled himself off the couch and with bare feet, padded his way to the refrigerator to grab a second beer. He opened the door and a wave of cold air passed over his body. He leaned against the cool metallic surface, as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the freezer, allowing the refrigerated breeze to cool him down.

The sudden ringing of the telephone broke the peaceful moment. He decided to let the answering machine pick it up. "This is Tom Ryan. I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number after the tone, I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

The tone sounded and then nothing. Figuring that the caller had hung up, Tom started back to the couch. Then a voice came over the line, "Ryan? You there? This is Fred. Fred Millen. I need to talk to you. If you're there, please pick up."

Tom put the name and the face together immediately. He had busted Millen a few years before for forgery and counterfeiting. The man had been on parole for the last year and a half and was working in body shop doing paint jobs. He hadn't seen Millen since he and Cassy had wrapped up the Chartwell-Parker murders.

Tom stretched across the counter and grabbed the phone, "Hey Fred. . .make it quick, kickoff is in five minutes."

"Ryan. Thank God you're home. I need to talk to you." The man's voice sounded panicked.

"That's what we're doing Fred. What's up?" Tom leaned his chin on his hand, resting his elbow on the countertop.

"No. . .not over the phone. I need you to come down to the shop. I think I've got some trouble here." The man was definitely scared.

"Fred, what's going on?" Tom repeated, his words tight with frustration.

"Just get down here." The phone was suddenly disconnected.

Tom sat the beer bottle down on the cabinet and walked back to the couch. He looked back at the television to see the football teams jogging onto the field, preparing for the start of the game. Sighing deeply, he dug the remote control from between the cushions of the couch and turned the television off.

Within thirty minutes, Thomas Ryan was pulling the Mustang in front of the auto body shop. The garage doors were closed, which wasn't all that surprising considering it was a Sunday.

He climbed out of his car and approached the side door which led to the shop's clerical office. He tried the handle and found it to be locked. Looking through the window he saw movement from within the garage, and identified the figure, by its outline, as Fred. He tapped on the glass and was able to get the man's attention.

Fred moved quickly to unlock the door. "Ryan. Get in here. Quick." The man said hurriedly, pulling Tom into the building.

"Yeah, it's nice to see you too, Fred." Tom responded sarcastically.

"I'm sorry, man, but I got a big problem here," the man muttered.

"What? You don't have any derogatory names to call me today?" Tom scoffed, remembering Fred's continual reference to him as a 'mick.'

"Please, stop," the man pleaded.

Tom looked into the older man's dark brown eyes. Normally, Fred was quick-witted and cocky. Even when Tom arrested him, the man was cool. This time, Fred's eyes showed only one thing. . .fear.

"Did something happen to Jeremy?" Tom asked, suddenly worried for Fred's son. After arresting Fred, Tom had taken Jeremy 'under his wing.' He had been able to get the kid a football scholarship at Florida State. The last time Tom had talked to Fred, Fred had cut his ties to his son so as not to jeopardize Jeremy's future. Having a father with a felony record wouldn't help his chances at having a successful football career.

Fred shook his head tersely. "No. It's not about Jeremy. Besides, you'd know more about him than I would," the man's voice dropped in shame.

"Then what is it Fred." Tom asked impatiently.

The large man pulled Tom into the garage area of the building and pointed to a dark green Jaguar sitting on a hydraulic jack, about two feet off the floor, with auto parts spread out around it. It looked as if the car had exploded all over the building. Tom shook his head in disappointment, "Ah, Fred. Don't tell me. You're choppin' cars now, aren't you."

The man was silent for a moment, then he shrugged his shoulders, "Hey, I don't know where they come from. I'm just told to either repaint them or take out the parts."

"You're working in a chop shop then." Tom could feel his anger growing. Fred had been trying to go straight ever since he had been released on parole. Apparently, his efforts were unsuccessful.

Fred turned away. "Look, what I'm doing right now isn't important. What is important is this." The man pointed to a large box on the floor.

Tom walked over to the box and examined the exterior. It was a heavy metal container, approximately a foot in length, width and depth, with a hinged lid. He reached down and undid the latch of the lid, lifting the cover and exposing the contents. Several plastic bags filled with white powder were inside. "Cocaine," Tom muttered. Fred nodded his head in agreement. "Where'd you find it?"

"In the gas tank." Fred pointed to a huge chunk of metal lying on the ground next to the box. "I had drained the gas and then refilled the tank. I could only get five gallons to go in it. I couldn't figure out why so I decided to do a little investigating."

Tom stood and walked over to the phone. He picked up the handset and dialed a number. Panicked, Fred asked, "Who are you calling?"

"Narcotics."

"But what about me?"

"What about you, Fred? You called me. What did you expect me to do? Just take the box and walk away. I can't do that and you know it." Tom shook his head, disgusted. "I'll let them know that you aren't involved in the drugs, but I can't protect you from what may happen with the cars." He suddenly turned his attention to the voice which answered on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, this is Sgt. Tom Ryan. . . . Oh, hi Mickey. . . Yeah, I've got something you are going to be interested in. I need you to send someone down to Mike's Body Shop. . .ASAP. . . Okay. See you in ten." Tom hung up the phone and looked at the ex-con. "They'll be here in ten minutes." The detective looked back at the box. "Where did the car come from?"

"A guy named Brandt has been bringing them in over the past couple of weeks. I really don't know where he gets them from. My boss tells me that he's a dealer. . .I have no reason to suspect anything different." Fred turned away from the cop.

"You're living in denial, Fred." Tom grumbled. "This car is hot and you know it."

"Hey, man, I've got no proof of that. . ." the mechanic responded defensively.

Before Tom could counter, a car engine could be heard from outside the building. He glanced at his watch. Only two minutes had passed since the phone call to Narcotics.

Fred muttered, "Boy, your guys are quick."

Tom shook his head, "Not that quick. He approached a garage window and peered outside cautiously. Four men were exiting a black Lincoln. Each man was wearing sunglasses and a dark suit. One of the men pulled an automatic from a holster, checked the clip and held it in his right hand. "That's not Mickey," Tom whispered to Fred. "Do you know them?"

Fred shook his head, the fear evident in his voice. "Who do you think they are?"

"My guess? I think they're interested in your box of goodies over here." Tom moved quickly back to the cocaine stash. "We need a place to hide this."

Fred looked around the room quickly. An idea flashed in his eyes as he looked down on the ground. He ran over to a metal grate and lifted it up. "Drop it in here."

Tom looked down into the used oil holding tank. Not seeing any other option, he latched the lid over the box and dropped in the hole. It landed with a hard thud five feet below. Fred placed the grate back over the top. "What do we do?"

Tom shook his head, "Play innocent and hope for the best." He undid his belt and slid it out of the loops quickly. Removing the gun from its holster, he slid the automatic underneath his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. He laid the belt, holster and all, on a counter filled with equipment. He pulled out his wallet, with his police identification in it, next to the belt.

A sudden crash from the front office echoed through the garage. The men had broken down the office door. Tom and Fred turned to the intruders as the four men entered the room, all with their guns drawn. Tom couldn't help a cocky, "We're closed, or can't you read the sign?"

Silently the four men encircled Tom and Fred. One stepped forward to Fred and growled. "This Jag belongs to our boss."

Tom spoke up from behind the two, "Well, obviously, we're not done working on it. If you come back tomorrow, we'll have it done for you."

Without looking at his target, the man raised his gun and swung his arm backwards, connecting with Tom's temple. The force of the sudden blow knocked Tom sideways and into a worktable. One of the other men grabbed Tom by the arm roughly and pulled him upright. He didn't release his firm grip on the stunned cop.

Fred looked at Tom and then back at the threatening man. The man who assaulted Tom turned back to Fred, "My boss did not request your services in the first place. The car was stolen. We traced it here."

The mechanic held up his arms innocently, "Hey, I don't know who owns the cars that are brought in here. I just work on them. That's it."

The man turned away from Tom and Fred, while his companions kept the guns aimed at the two. He looked through the parts on the floor. "Where is it?"

"What?" Fred answered, feigning ignorance.

"Where's the box?" the man repeated.

"What box." Fred shrugged.

The man turned quickly and grabbed Fred by the collar, roughly pushing him against a nearby wall. "Damn it. Don't play games. Where's the fuckin' box?"

Tom, still a little fuzzy from the blow to the head, attempted to take a step forward, but the gunman holding his arm pushed his gun into Tom's neck, halting his effort to assist. Tom weighed the possibility of going for his own gun, but knew that he was seriously outnumbered. Such a move would be suicide. He would have to wait until the odds were better.

The man threatening Fred glanced at Tom. "I'll tell you what. You tell me where the box is or I'm going to have my companion start taking pot shots at your friend."

Tom could read the fear in Fred's eyes. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. . .almost, but not quite. The man holding the gun to his neck caught the movement and smiled, "Hey Burt. They know where it's at."

Burt turned to Tom and raised his gun, pointing it at Tom's chest. The detective could see that it was already cocked and ready for use. He suddenly regretted that he hadn't taken the chance to go for his own weapon a few moments before. "Last chance. Where's the box?" Tom stared at the man defiantly. The man's finger tightened on the trigger.

Before he could squeeze off the fatal shot, Fred's voice rose, "No! I'll tell you."

Burt turned towards the mechanic, gun now pointed at the new target, "Tell me now."

"Fred, don't!" Tom shouted, knowing that if the men found out where the box was, both he and the mechanic were dead.

The ex-con ignored the cop's warning and pointed to the steel grate on the floor. "It's down there."

The two other gunmen, who had been silent up to this point, approached the grate and peered inside. "Take it off." Burt ordered his companions.

The two kneeled down and lifted the cover. "It's here," the shorter of the two said to the leader.

The other man jumped into the holding tank, grimacing as his pants were coated in the slick brown sludge. He lifted the metal box from its hiding place and handed it to his cohort. Burt motioned for the box to be opened and a smile filled with satisfaction played across his face upon seeing the contents undisturbed.

He turned his attention back to Fred. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you." Before Fred could blink or Tom could respond, the trigger was pulled and the bullet of the gun impacted with Fred's chest. The force of the shot threw Fred's body backwards against the body of the Jaguar. The man collapsed, unmoving, onto the floor.

"NO!" Tom shouted. He saw Burt turn his attention towards him. The grip of Tom's captor was still tight on the cop's upper arm. Using the only defense Tom could think of, Tom threw his body sideways, pulling the thug with him. Burt's gun exploded and the shot impacted with stunned hood's chest, the surprise of having been shot by his partner showing in his eyes.

Tom ducked for cover behind the Jaguar. Burt's gun went off again, shattering the windshield, causing glass to rain down on top of Tom's head. Tom reached for his own weapon and returned fire, attempting to pin Burt down in his spot. Tom knew, however, that it was a losing battle. Burt's other two cohorts could easily surround him and there was no possible way he could take out all three.

As if reading his mind, Tom caught movement to his left. He turned and fired blindly, surprising himself when his bullet found its target. The man whose pants were covered in oil lost his grip on his gun as he looked down at the hole in his side with dismay.

Tom didn't see the movement to his right, however, and before he could turn and face the new enemy, he heard the sound of another shot. The force of the bullet striking his left hip caused his leg to be thrown out from under his body and he landed hard on his back, excruciating pain shooting up his spine and down to his toes. He suppressed a cry and tried to bring his gun up in defense. Looking at the shooter's grinning face, Tom knew, at that moment, that he was too late. . .that this was the end.

End Part 1