SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY was the bolded headline of the newspaper held up in front of the man sitting in the rear seat of the limo. Bruce allowed his eyes to drift down to the picture below it. Somebody at the LA Times had done their homework, figuring out that the unnamed woman standing next to his boss in the photo taken months ago at the Governor's Arts Awards was actually her. Originally making its debut in the entertainment section the day after the event, the added intrigue of a sex scandal had increased the reprint's promotional value to front page status.

Bruce had seen Mark dressed to the nines more often than he could count, so often it had become the norm . . . but not her. She was a different story. He couldn't stop staring. She was beyond beautiful, her features enhanced by the wispy upsweep of her hair, the heavy jewels around her neck . . . and that dress. What a dress. Long and elegant, it fit her in a way that proved there were some amazing curves under the work clothes and gear she wore most of the time.

But Bruce already knew that. Didn't he.

Her face was turned full-on to the camera with a welcoming smile. And like the loser he was, Bruce began to daydream, picturing himself there that night, standing beside the photographer, drawing her attention. What would he have said to her if she'd walked up and—

The elbow to his ribs brought Bruce back to reality, and he swiveled his head all the way around to his brother seated beside him. They were both dressed in jeans and black tees, their sole function to get Mark in and out of the building without incident. Anderson was across the aisle from them, immersed in his own papers as he prepared for court.

Steve pointed to the ceiling-mounted television perched just behind Louis's head. "Turn the volume up."

Bruce lifted the remote and an excited female voice filled the interior of the stretch Cadillac. "Lieutenant Robins has arrived."

The rustle of paper told him the announcement had captured all their attentions. A swarm of bodies flowed down the steps as the camera pulled back, revealing a convoy of LAPD cruisers being led by a black Tahoe. Doors opened and her police escort moved forward to surround the back door of the SUV, blocking the onslaught of reporters.

Bruce frowned. A man he recognized as a patron of the gym was the first one out of the lead car, stepping back to— Bruce went ram-rod straight in his seat. Dress Blues. It had been a long time since he'd seen that uniform, and it never failed to impress.

The sudden breathiness in the voice of the young reporter indicated her agreement. "We can see her brother, Paul Sullivan. He's a judge advocate with the Marine Corps and is said to be advising Lieutenant Robins today."

That's her brother? Bruce turned to Mark. "Her brother is a Marine?"

"Yeah"—Mark nodded, then shifted his gaze to Steve, whose focus remained on the screen—"keep your distance."

"Shit," Bruce muttered.

Anderson's head turned a little, but the television coverage proved too mesmerizing and won out in the end, Bruce's and Mark's exchange forgotten.

Virginia was the next one to step out of the SUV. The head-to-toe blue gave her brother's look some serious competition, but while the Marine looked perfectly comfortable with all the pomp and pageantry, she had a puff in her cheeks as she placed the dark peaked hat with its silver band and cap badge over braided hair. Giving the visor a harsh tug, she drew it down low on her forehead.

A low chuckle came from the back. "Two days in a row in that outfit must be driving her crazy."

Her colleagues were jostled by the journalists and photographers pushing up against their backs, but they held their ground with determination and professionalism. She turned to Captain Beal once he exited the vehicle and spoke into his ear. The Marine put his hand on the small of her back as they started up the stairs, her fellow officers cutting a path through the sea of people.

She ignored the questions being thrown at her and kept her head up, maintaining a cool composure, even when the mob was slow to part and let them through. A temporary podium had been set up at the top of the courthouse steps. The boxer from her gym was already there with an entourage of his own, a long line of Green Soldiers. They were impressive as a united front, proud, strong, and rather formidable. Once reaching him, Virginia embraced the young black man before acknowledging the rest of them with a raised hand and a tense smile.

She approached the microphone and waited. Her brother, her boss, and her new so-called partner positioned themselves behind her. The boxer and his group mixed in with the remaining officers and moved down the steps to form a human barricade between her and the crowd. From the looks on their faces, nobody was getting past the wall they provided.

"Look at them all," Anderson breathed. "I had no idea there were so many." He wasn't referring to the reporters. Throughout the crowd, the dark wood of escrima sticks pointed up in the air from the backs of Green Soldiers who were keeping watch on the people around them. "They're everywhere . . . like ants."

"Yeah," Bruce agreed, "and she's the queen."

Virginia said something that couldn't be heard, and the crowd started to hush.

When all was quiet, she began, "I want to thank you all for coming today." Her voice echoed as it floated across the throng of over one hundred hungry correspondents. "I think I speak for all of my fellow officers when I say, 'If we had this kind of media coverage for every initiative we took on, we could move mountains.'"

Laughter spread outward and then faded.

"However, this court case is not about me, Mr. Spinelli, or our personal relationship. Yes, it is true we are often on opposing sides which makes for good press. I know you all have to get ratings."

She paused to let the noise die down again.

"It is about a neighborhood of ordinary people dealing with extraordinary circumstances: violence right outside the front door; children pressured to join gangs; unsafe parks riddled with garbage, used at night by prostitutes and drug dealers; kids coming home to empty houses while single parents work two jobs. For some, school is the one and only hope. But even the schools struggle, their funding reduced due to low test scores.

"As I look out on this crowd, I know that most of you do not have to deal with these issues on a daily basis. And let's be honest, it's easy to ignore. Just another area of the city to avoid, right?" She paused and shrugged as her eyes scanned over the vast array of faces. "But I am here to tell you denial doesn't work. Crime affects more than just the perpetrators and their victims.

"It is the youth of this district that bear the burden of few opportunities. Stuck in a cycle of poverty through generations, they become easy targets, lured by promises made by those who are experts at manipulation. I've seen it more times than I care to remember. For some it is a game. It starts off simple—a petty crime, easy money, a false sense of confidence. It builds from there—more risk, more money, perhaps a little acknowledgment from those running the show. Everything is going their way—until they get caught. By then it is too late to go back and start over, and that's when the truth hits them hard: It's not a game. It's their life they have screwed up."

She kept the crowd's attention as she paused to recognize those who surrounded her with a wide sweep of both arms. "Some of them are no longer willing to accept that fate. They want their neighborhoods back. They stand together, not separated by race or religion, not driven by greed or power, and they make us proud to be part of our community. They are the leaders who motivate us all to join in the fight no matter how small the effort. That's what this case is truly about. I have been a police officer in this great city for eleven years now, and I stand here today, excited to be part of something that will improve all of our futures. And you can help too. Meet them. Talk to them. Spread the word about them. If you want an amazing story, I challenge you to write about them, not me, not Mr. Spinelli. Write about the Green Soldiers."

Anderson let out a low, drawn out, "Shiiiit." He glanced over at Mark. "Gus is going to be pissed."

On screen Virginia turned to her brother, who smiled back at her. With a nod of her head, she leaned forward once more and added, "Thank you."

A frenzy of flashes glittered the crowd.

Captain Beal stepped forward to the microphone. "We will take a few questions." He pointed to a reporter with his hand up.

"Is it true that Mr. Spinelli funded the resurrection of the park near your gym?"

Bruce saw a flicker of shock roll across her face.

With a shake of her head, she answered, "I know nothing about that. You would have to ask Mr. Spinelli that question. I do not speak for him." She pointed to another man in the group.

"The donation was anonymous but there are rumors that Mark Spinelli was behind it. You preach about wanting organized crime out of the community, yet you are willing to jump into bed with one of its most prominent members and reap the benefits. Sounds a little hypocritical, don't you think, Lieutenant?"

All heads in the limo turned at once with the sudden animalistic growl that would have sent a stranger scrambling for the seat up front beside Louis. Catching their scrutiny, Mark cut off the snarling and muttered, "Asshole," before shifting his attention back to the woman on television.

Virginia's face had hardened. "I'm sure the city receives any number of anonymous donations. The LAPD has no influence over what they do with the money." She cut off any retort by pointing to another.

"Is it true that the money you used to buy Jack's—your gym—was money your former partner earned while working off-duty for the very man on trial here today?"

Virginia made a grab for the badge hanging from the long chain around her neck. Bruce recognized it from her car, the keepsake that normally dangled from her rearview mirror.

She lifted her chin. "Lieutenant Kelly was never linked to any illegal activity."

"He died before any association could be made," the young reporter, looking barely out of his teens, replied.

"That's right, so he is not here to defend himself, is he?" She stared hard at the arrogant kid as she hung tight to the hardware in her hand. The Marine leaned over and spoke into her ear. She nodded and thanked the crowd again before turning away to head inside.

There was a flurry of questions shouted into the air, but one female voice could be heard above all others when she yelled out, "Is it true Mr. Spinelli saved your daughter from being kidnapped a year ago by your ex-husband, who is currently serving his sentence in a California state prison?"

Virginia stopped.

The camera swung left, searching out the woman among the multitude of possibilities.

"Over here, Lieutenant." A hand came up. There she was.

"Yes, that's true." Virginia was back at the mic.

There were no logos on the reporter's jacket or gear, no way of identifying which organization she belonged to, but she looked older than the rest of them. And she showed her experience by reacting fast, knowing the special attention wouldn't last. "Is that when your sexual relationship started? Did you feel indebted to him?"

"No. That was when our friendship started, though."

The woman nodded before shouting out another: "To satisfy the curiosity of all my female readers . . . Is he good in bed?"

"Jessssusss," Mark groaned.

Bruce had to laugh. Leave it to a woman to cut through all the bullshit.

"I think the lieutenant is blushing," Anderson noted.

The limo slowed as Louis pulled up to the curb.

On screen, her brother stepped forward and took over. "No more questions." Grasping Virginia's elbow, he guided her up the last few remaining steps and into the building. The Green Soldiers held their position, preventing any of the press from following.

The network reporter's excited voice took control of the broadcast once again. "Mark Spinelli has just pulled up."

Louis opened the back door. Steve and Bruce exited first, followed by Anderson, as a torrent of bodies rushed down the steps toward them. Mark stepped out and stood tall, buttoning his suit jacket. The swarm surrounded them, hurling questions that jumbled together into an indistinguishable buzz, the flashes from their cameras lighting them up with strobe-like pulses. Steve, Bruce, and Louis began pushing through the horde, easing Mark's passage with Anderson being swept along on his coattails.

It was a slow but steady climb. Louis saved one particularly obnoxious idiot from a long and painful tumble down the stairs with his calming squeeze on Bruce's shoulder. Just ignore him, was the silent message. Louis was such a killjoy sometimes.

They were almost at the top when the real impasse hit.

A long line of impasse.

Fronted by one angry-looking boxer.

The man had Mark in his sights. Shit. The guy looked like he wanted to go all Rocky Balboa on their boss's ass and was sizing him up as a side of beef.

Bruce looked over his shoulder. "Any ideas?"

"I'll talk to him." Mark squeezed his way forward and had to yell to be heard over the crowd. "We just want to go inside, finish up this mess."

The Green Soldiers circled around, trapping the two adversaries in their midst. Well, trapping Mark anyway. There were nasty curses and dirty looks from both sides as Steve and Bruce muscled their way in and planted themselves behind Mark like a couple of backup singers. Backup singers with bad attitudes.

Mark offered his hand to the man in front of him. "Dominique . . ."

Dominique ignored the gesture and flexed his shoulders, a deliberate show of tightening muscles. "I told her not to get involved with you right from the start. Look what you've brought to her life." He pointed to the mass of reporters. "This three-ringed circus is your fault."

Mark visible stiffened. "You can't give me all the credit, Dominique. When you told me you wanted security for the gym, I didn't think you were out to create a war." Mark turned his attention to the young people surrounding them. "You are all in way over your heads," he shouted.

"Worried, Spinelli?" Dominique drawled.

"No. But you should be. The Chilvatis don't play with sticks."

"Neither do I." Dominique surged forward until the two big chests were almost touching. "You want to go a round with me, Spinelli?" he hissed. "You may not survive it."

The photographers went apeshit, cameras flashing from every angle as they tried to capture a picture of the confrontation happening right in front of them on the courthouse steps. Bruce braced himself for the worst. He didn't relish the thought of hurting any members of the boxer's troop, although he would if he had to.

Mark smiled, but there was no pretense of it being friendly. "As tempting as that may be, this is not the time or the place."

After a long, hard stare that carried an unspoken later, the fighter regained his composure and stepped back. Turning away, he shouted a, "Let's go." The circle parted, letting Mark, Bruce and Steve through.

They made it to the door, and once Mark and Anderson were safely inside, Bruce sagged against the brick and mortar of the historic building.

Steve stepped up to him with his shirt half-tucked and signs of sweat flattening the blonde shaggy hair. "That was rad," he said, grinning wide.

As Bruce leaned forward and thumped his brother in the chest, Louis smiled and told them he'd wait in the car. Bruce nodded and looked around for a good place to stand and kill time where he could avoid the reporters, maintain a view of the doorway . . . and keep Steve out of sight.

END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sorry about the long chapter, but there really was no way to cut it in half. Day 2 for the hearing, I bet your anxious to see the outcome. Do you think Dominique is being overly protective? And what is the deal with Steve anyway? Any guesses?

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