"Are you listening to me?" Stella asked impatiently.

Ray's head shot up from the book he was looking at. Stella was all dressed up in her going to court suit, while he was in sweats, because for once he got a day off. He tried to remember the last thing Stella said to him. More and more she was sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher, "wah wah wah..."

"'Course I was listening, Stell."

"So you'll meet us at Charlie Trotter's at seven p.m.? Oh, and for god's sake, Ray, wear the suit I bought you last month. This is important to me."

Oh. Right. Stella's dinner with the boss and his wife. And probably a few other legal types. Ray had completely forgotten.

"Seven o'clock. Not a problem." Ray grinned from the couch.

Stella's look was fond exasperation, but the fondness in it seemed to fade every day. "Damn." she said, glancing at her watch. "Now I'm running late."

She left the house in a flurry of motion. She remembered everything except a goodbye kiss for Ray. He couldn't think of the last time she'd remembered that.

Ray put the book down on the table. "Remembrance of Things Past." It was pretty thick. Of course they were going out to a fancy restaurant where he had to stuff himself into a monkey suit for her. Stella had stopped listening to Ray about the same time Ray had stopped listening to her. So he shouldn't be surprised that she'd never registered his request for one nice night in, quiet, just the two of them, before he started his new undercover assignment.

Stella didn't want him going undercover any more. That was part of the problem. Not that she could find much to object to in his latest cover. English teacher at a high school? Ray grimaced. He picked up the Cliff's notes to the novel. This wasn't going to be like that film with Lou Diamond Phillips where the guy taught all the kids calculus. Ray flipped the book open. On the other hand, at least he wasn't baby-faced enough to be sent in as a student. That would really suck. No, just a substitute teacher, plausibly desperate enough for extra money to get caught up in the drug dealing that plagued the South Chicago school he was going into.

Ray skimmed the Cliff's notes for a while, then tossed them back onto the coffee table and swung his feet up onto the couch. He had this day off, and he was going to enjoy it. Stella wasn't here to nag him to get dressed or do the dishes or get his feet off the furniture or speak properly or leave his stress behind at the office or any of the things she wanted him to do lately.

Lately, he might as well be undercover in his own home. When they were both home at the same time, he wore the stupid polo shirts with little crocodiles she bought him, and smiled, and pretended like his work wasn't a losing battle, like what he saw out there didn't get under his skin a little more every day. He made nice to her friends and never could seem to get away to go down to the bar to see his friends, if he still had any. He grinned and played the fool, and thought every second was worth it if she'd stay.

Stella would leave one day, but it wouldn't be because Ray didn't put the effort in to be what she wanted. Hell, he'd known when they met that she was out of his league, but he couldn't let go, not after this long. Not when what they'd had, well, the good times had been so good.

But this - this giving everything, this hanging on for dear life to their marriage, while she just let go, it was making him hate her. And Ray couldn't take that. So sure, he said yes to this undercover job, even though she'd be mad. He needed to get away, into another life for a bit. Away from what was going sour between them.

Tonight he'd go and be her slightly embarrassing but basically housebroken husband at the fancy restaurant, and tomorrow he'd go be someone else, someone who had read "Remembrance of Things Past", not just the study notes. Someone who was enough of a loser to drift up as a substitute teacher at one of the worst schools in the city. Ray figured that part would be easy enough.

It wasn't that his solve rate sucked. Ray solved crimes. This week's big case was an embezzlement. Really, the lawyers would bring it down to number crunching, but Ray'd known the guy was guilty because he had the same kind of shoes Stella's dad always wore, and no way could he have afforded them on his accountant's salary. But what good did it do to lock up one petty bastard who really didn't hurt anyone, when the next day you turned around and your desk was still covered in files. Kids hurt. Rapes. Assaults. Violent thefts.

And the money crimes or the ones where someone important knew someone who got hurt, those were always on the top of the file, and people like the kids in that high school, anything that happened to them was on the bottom of the file. How was he supposed to leave all that behind and be what Stella wanted, like the minute he got off his shift, everything was fine and dandy?

The phone rang. Ray sighed. It was his day off. He could let the machine get it. On the third ring, he sighed again and arched his back, twisting so he could grab it off the side table without moving from the couch.

"'Lo." he said. Maybe Stella forgot something other than saying good bye.

"Kowalski?"

Not Stella. It sounded like one of his informants.

"Ina, is that you? Jeez, it's my day off." Ray said. "Can it wait?"

He had no idea how she'd got his home number in the first place. Somewhere, there was a problem with security.

"No, no. It can't wait."

Ina sounded shaky, scared. Ray sat bolt upright, his feet hitting the floor. Ina was never scared. Sometimes arrogant, pushy. Always demanding, wanting more money than he was prepared to pay for information, but never scared.

"You come meet me, all right?" Ina said. "The usual place. Meet me there. Don't bring no-one, okay?"

Before Ray had a chance to reply, Ina had hung up and Ray was talking to silent space.

Crap. Well, there went his day off. But it sounded like whatever Ina had was big. Ray considered that he should call his partner and let him know what was going on. But, really, partner? Some guy whose desk was next to his, someone shuffled his way between undercover jobs. Ray wriggled to his feet. Anyway, he needed a shower and to get dressed, and Ina hadn't said when, so he supposed he should hurry, and his partner had a day off too, so, yeah, he'd fill him in later.

An hour later, Ray pushed his way into a smoke filled bar. It was already populated with a scattering of late shift workers, ladies of the night, and an assortment of losers with nowhere better to be at nine in the morning. Ray was carefully dressed to fit in, his hair spiked up dangerously, and his oldest grey t-shirt, whisper soft, untucked over jeans. Ina came to him because he didn't look like a cop, she didn't get in trouble for being a snitch. It was important to Ray not to betray that trust. Especially not as scared as the usually bold woman had sounded. He saw her leaning against the bar, way up the back of the room. She would be good looking if the drugs, alcohol, and plain hard living hadn't added twenty years to her young face. She still had a body that could stop traffic, and Ray didn't doubt that it stopped cars cruising by looking for a party.

Ray threaded through the bar, making his way to where Ina leaned. Her face was pinched with worry as she pulled him into a corridor leading to the loading area where beer kegs were delivered. There were three men waiting there. Ray's heart fluttered with shock when he recognized who they were. Those profiles, the scars and disfigurements were known to every policeman, and most of the public of Chicago.

For most criminals, obvious tattoos or scars were a bad idea, making them far too easy to identify with certainty. But the Devon brothers, their scars caused terror, and it didn't matter if you recognized the big men who had cut their own ears off in prison in a show of ferocity and solidarity, who now sported angry red, rutted blemishes on the sides of their heads, not to mention other assorted souvenirs from fights on their faces. If you got close enough to recognize the Devon brothers you were in serious trouble.

Ray just didn't know why this serious trouble was looking for him. He made to back away from Ina, back into the safety of the bar. The Devon brothers had broken out of the Menard maximum security prison in a violent escape that left four guards and several inmates dead, and more injured. They were the most wanted men in Illinois.

"Don't go anywhere, unless you want a lot of people hurt."

And that would be Gregory Devon, the youngest, but definitely the meanest of the Devons. Ray found himself looking into a junior cannon of a handgun. He had no doubt that Greg Devon meant what he said. The interesting thing about the Devons was that they were scrupulous in their claims not to hurt innocent people. Their string of murders had been hits against rival drug and weapons dealers, conducted with a personal viciousness. But it was all too probable to Ray that the Devons didn't see anyone in the sordid bar scene as entirely innocent bystanders. The number of petty criminals present was probably enough to swing the balance toward mayhem.

"What do you want?" Ray asked.

"Come for a ride with us, cop." Alex Devon said. He was the oldest brother, with a soft, silvery voice that jarred with his rough visage. He sported a scar across his forehead and nose where he'd been hit with a broken bottle.

"Yeah, I guess I will." Ray said. "Let Ina go, yeah?"

"Sure thing, cop." Alex said. "She knows better than to say anything."

Ray was hustled between the three men to the loading bay at the back of the bar. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up as he went passively with them. Alex and Greg were holding a low conversation. Of course, Avery Devon, the middle brother, hadn't said a damn thing. How could he? Ray had followed the colorful career of the three, he knew full well Avery's voice was gone after he'd taken a rusty shiv slash across his throat ending up in an infection that nearly killed him. The man who'd taken Avery Devon's voice had later turned up in very small pieces. None of it made Ray feel any happier about his situation.

As Ray was escorted into the back of a battered jeep, he tried to figure out just what HE personally was doing here. Sure, the Devons didn't like cops. But why had they looked up Ina, called him in, specifically? Although he would have been proud to say it, he had never been involved in arresting any of them, or in any of their convictions. So what the hell did they want him for? He settled back into his seat between Greg and Avery and determined to keep his head and figure out what was going on. If he could stay alive long enough.

The jeep pulled up behind a nondescript shell of an apartment building, with condemned notices plastered all over it. Ray continued to be a good little hostage as the Devons manhandled him toward a small door. Avery Devon unlocked the door, leading into an emergency stair well.

"Upstairs." Alex Devon said. Ray trudged up a flight of stairs with the three homicidal men at his back.

"In here." Alex said, pushing open the stairwell door, leading into a dingy corridor. They crossed the corridor and Avery unlocked an apartment door.

For an apartment in a condemned building occupied by three men on the run from the law, Ray thought they'd done pretty well with the decor. Three old, but comfortable looking, armchairs were the main feature of the small living room that opened into an even tinier kitchen. A record player stood on an end table, speakers on the floor next to it, and a surprisingly large stack of records on top of one of the speakers. Ray remembered hearing that Alex Devon was something of an audiophile.

"Okay, I came quietly. Do I get to know why you grabbed me?" Ray asked, showing more guts than sense with the challenging tone in his voice.

Alex Devon took a seat in the biggest of the armchairs and gestured to his brothers. Greg took Ray by the elbow and held him in front of Alex, like a prisoner facing trial. Avery stood between Ray and the record player.

"Actually, yeah, you do." Alex said, "But you'll want to watch your tone. I don't tolerate insolence."

Alex nodded at Avery, who swung his fist into Ray's gut. Ray gasped and doubled, Greg's hold on his arm jerking forcefully to straighten him up again.

"Let me tell you about my cellmate in Menard." Alex said. "Troy Kane."

Ray stiffened.

"I see you recognize that name, cop. Troy hasn't forgotten you. Hasn't forgotten your betrayal."

Oh yeah. Ray swallowed. Troy Kane had taken him in like a son when Ray was deep undercover infiltrating his people-smuggling operation. Ray remembered well the threats and curses, the promises of revenge that Kane made as he was dragged out of the courtroom after his conviction. Troy Kane's name in conjunction with his current playmates was enough to turn Ray's guts to ice.

"But you know what else he hasn't got over?" Alex asked conversationally.

Ray had no idea, and said nothing. This got another nod from Alex, another blow from Avery.

"You'll answer when I ask a question."

"No, I don't know." Ray said sullenly.

"He hasn't forgotten that he stashed twelve mil in cash from his operation, somewhere in this city. He hasn't forgotten that he told you where, that he trusted you. Troy figured you'd already grabbed the money. I don't figure you have. But either way, you know where it is, and you're going to tell me."

Oh. Yeah. That was bad. Ray's eyes blinked closed, stunned by the simple brilliance of Kane's plan for revenge on him. Alex Devon wouldn't stop at killing Ray in his quest to make Ray give up the location of Kane's hidden funds. And that was information Ray couldn't give up, because Kane had never told him anything.

"You want to make it easy?" Greg Devon's voice startled Ray, the man twisting his arm up further to encourage a reply.

"I don't - Kane never told me - I swear to god, Kane never told me." Ray said. He hated that he was babbling, but he couldn't help the momentary panic. He took a deep breath, trying to control autonomic reactions that were running wild on him.

"Hard, then." Greg said, sounding happy.

Avery Devon moved toward the record player, lifting the arm up and dropping it on the disc already on the turntable. Ray was astonished to hear strains of opera coming from the speaker. He even knew that one. The big romantic song from Madame Butterfly, the one where she was waiting for her lover while he was off making time with some other girl. Stella made Ray go to the opera a couple of times, but none of it spoke to him, except that one, that one that got into his chest and made him feel crazy with sorrow for the tragic woman at the middle of it all. Love could be hell.

"So what, this some kind of cliche?" Ray forced himself to sneer, pushing a bravado that was backed by weak knees. The aria was loud enough that any other squatters in the building wouldn't hear what was happening and get interested. "Pretty music while you -"

He didn't get to finish his sentence as the beating began. Greg held him while Avery laid into him, fierce heavy blows to his body and face, accompanied by wordless grunts from the man who could not speak. Alex watched on impassively.

Ray drew down his focus to a small place inside him. He couldn't fight back, but he could move his head out of the way as much as possible, could read the blows and brace his body for them, exhaling with the gut punches, inhaling slowly to keep from getting dizzy. It didn't look like he was going to be in any shape to go to school in the morning. The thought made Ray suppress a hysterical snort. Or maybe a beating would be good for his rep as a down-and-out substitute teacher. Yeah, maybe this was an advantage. Sure. Ray tasted blood as a hard cross snapped his head back.

"You can tell me where the money is, any time, and this will stop." Alex said from his chair. "Or we can go on to other things."

Like what the Devons were known for. Ray could see a toolbox sitting on the kitchen counter that divided the two rooms. He very much did not want other things happening to him. This he could handle. Think of it like a boxing match. A boxing match he was losing very badly, sure, but still. He'd taken hard hits before, he could handle it. The soprano's voice washed through him, her anxious longing magnified by the terror Ray fought off.

Boxing match.

A desperate thought occurred to Ray, and suddenly it was all he could do to stop from grinning. Sure, it probably wouldn't work. But it might. And it would forestall any plier-related activities. Which was good. No pliers near Ray's feet was very, very good.

"I give!" He gasped out. "Stop."

"Ready to talk?" Alex asked. Greg made a disgusted sound, but Avery stopped punching, which was what Ray was looking for.

"Let me sit down?" Ray panted.

Alex nodded at Greg, who let go of Ray's arm. Ray staggered back. The nearest chair wasn't actually as comfortable as it looked. The springs in the seat had given out, and it sagged perilously. Ray suspected it had been hauled in off the street to furnish the hideout. Still, it felt heavenly compared to trying to stand on his own two feet.

Greg walked over to the kitchen counter, and Ray felt a quaking horror, which was only relieved when Greg turned and tossed him a nearly-empty roll of paper towels.

"Clean yourself up." he said.

Ray wiped the blood off his face with the rough paper. It gave him time to compose himself.

"Okay, you're ready to talk, so talk." Alex said. Greg stood behind Ray's chair, and Avery leaned against the wall. The EP played to an end and the sound of Madame Butterfly singing in vain hope about her faithless lover stopped. The suddenly still air seemed full of expectant tension.

Ray laughed softly, almost under his breath.

"Geez, you must think I'm stupid. If I tell you where Kane stashed the dough, you have no reason to keep me alive."

Alex steepled his hands together, looking thoughtful. It was an oddly academic gesture on the big, scarred man.

"You have a point. But obviously you're going to get us the money. So what's your proposal?" Alex asked.

The reasonable question sounded entirely dangerous coming from a Devon.

"Here's how I see it," Ray said, pushing down his nerves with a cocky smile. "You guys don't need the hassle of killing a cop. And I am just as smart as Ina on the keeping my mouth shut front. I kept my mouth shut about the money so far, right?" So, only because he'd never known about it, but it would appear to be a point in his favor. Ray hoped Alex Devon thought so.

"Seems that way." Alex said.

"So what I think is I take you where it's hidden, you get it out, you leave me there, tie me up, whatever, and get out of town, and we're all happy."

Greg spoke up. "I don't know. It'd be just as easy to keep working on you until you spill."

"But every minute you stay in this state is a minute closer to gettin' hauled back to Menard." Ray argued. "I never touched Kane's money, I thought it was safer where it was, a nest egg for me if he never made it out of prison. But it sure ain't worth dying for."

Greg snickered, an unpleasant sound. "You're a cop, you must have insurance. We could start cutting bits off if you want a nest egg. How much do they pay out for a finger?"

Ray shuddered. "That's okay, you really, really don't have to do that. Let's just get this show on the road. I take you to the cash, we're all set, right?"

Alex and Greg met eyes over Ray's head. Avery seemed to be out of the silent conversation. Then Alex stood.

"Yeah. We're set. Let's move."

Ray pushed himself out of the chair, feeling every blow Avery had landed. He was shaking, but he had to hold himself together and make his crazy plan work. God help him if it didn't. Ray's eyes hardened. There was more at stake than his life, but it was a gamble to not only save his own hide, but bring these dangerous men back in to custody.

As they walked back down the stairs of the building to the Jeep, Greg shoved Ray, not too gently. "If you try to call for help or anything while we're doing this, we will kill anyone you get involved. They'll die quick. You'll die slow."

"Got it." Ray said tersely. He was wired, buzzing with the energy needed to see this through, the boxing match verbal now, bobbing and weaving with his words as he spun lies about Kane and the money. In the Jeep, Greg rode up front with Alex, leaving Avery in the back seat with Ray. The unsightly slash across Avery's throat was still red from the blood pumping with the exertion of beating Ray, and Ray found his eyes kept wandering nervously to it as he gave Alex a series of directions through the winding back streets of his Chicago, toeing a dangerous line between keeping them from discerning just where it was they were headed, without making it obvious that he was steering them away from main streets that might have given the game away.

"Here!" he said, finally. "That building."

It was a tall, red brick warehouse. They were at the rear entrance, which was mercifully free of any information other than a large sign prohibiting parking across the entrance way.

"We'll have to pick the lock." Ray said as the four men gathered around the door. The Devons were, surprisingly, treating him like an accomplice rather than a hostage.

"Shoot it out." Alex said to Avery. Ray gloated internally. Even better. Shots had a way of attracting attention.

But Avery screwed a silencer onto his pistol before shooting the lock. Ray rolled his eyes at his own stupidity. Of course, these guys were professionals.

Avery pushed the door open. He kept his silenced pistol out, and Ray felt like a hostage once again as he led them into the back of the building.

"Down these stairs." he said. It was only a matter of coincidence that he knew the back way into this place. The sort of coincidence that went with hanging around somewhere long enough and cop instincts about knowing entrances and exits.

They went down a narrow flight of stairs to a green door. There was a vague murmur of activity on the other side.

"In there." Ray said.

"There are people in there." Greg said, gripping Ray's arm brutally.

"Nah. Yeah, it sounds like it, but it's the duct work. This office is just used for storage now, but under the desk is the trapdoor to the sub-basement that Kane used. Upstairs there's a drop-in center. Kane figured no-one would look too closely at a place like that."

Greg and Alex stared at Ray in the dim light as if they could read the truth from his face.

"If you're lying - " Greg said.

Ray shrugged. He knew it looked jittery, not as carefree as he wanted, but there was only so much nonchalance he could manage.

Alex opened the green door and Avery shoved Ray in first. He stepped forward quickly. If he was the bait, he had to walk them all the way into the trap before they got wise. Avery was right behind him, and Alex and Greg crowded in afterwards.

"What the -"

Alex Devon was evidently lost for words in the split seconds it took for him to realize what they had just walked into. It wasn't quite as bad as cheerfully walking into a precinct building and turning himself over, but nearly so.

The three Devon brothers gaped at the guns drawn around them, and the semi-clothed and towel clad men scrambling to unlock their lockers and get their own weapons out. Ray had lead them right into the basement locker room of the boxing gym he frequented, the one used mostly by other cops. Cops, who right now, were ready to shoot the Devons where they stood.

Avery reacted the fastest. Ray felt him bringing his hand up to shoot. Ray spun and controlled the gun hand, pushing it back so the trigger was bending Avery's finger painfully and his wrist was twisted over. At the same time, Ray glanced around to make sure he was keeping the line of fire clear of the other cops. This was what he'd been most afraid of, that he'd get someone else shot. The gun went off, the muzzle flash burning Ray's hand, but the bullet lodged harmlessly in the wall above one of the lockers. Then Ray finished the move, taking the gun away from Avery and breaking his finger in the process. Ray didn't feel too bad about that.

Alex and Greg didn't have time to draw their weapons before they were manhandled to the floor by a number of large, angry policemen ready with handcuffs. Ray staggered back and let one of them take Avery. He was done.

Ray leaned against one of the lockers. His stomach hurt. His head was throbbing. His ribs were tender. His hand was red and raw. He still couldn't believe he'd pulled off the con, managed to smooth talk the Devons into practically handing themselves over. It looked like he would be free to go to school in the morning. It was all over bar the endless paperwork.

Almost over. Ray looked up as a figure approached him, and groaned softly. Harding Welsh. Lieutenant Harding Welsh. Ray had run across him once or twice before and it was not a pleasure to see him with that look on his face. That deadly glare. Let alone with nothing on him but that deadly glare and knee-length, bright white boxer shorts. It was enough to send Ray over the edge into painful, hysterical little gasps of laughter.

"All right there, Detective?" Welsh said. He held out a towel to Ray, clean and damp, and wrapped it around Ray's burned hand. Ray blinked. Apparently Welsh wasn't furious at him. "Looks like they worked you over."

Ray gasped in some air, pushing the insane need to giggle aside. "Yeah. I'm fine. Nothing an ice pack won't fix."

"Kowalski, that was about the craziest thing I've seen in all my years on the force." Welsh said.

Ray braced for the scalding critique to come.

"And one of the damn bravest. I'll see you get credit for the collar."

Ray gaped and found nothing to say before Welsh turned to oversee the booking of the escaped murderers.

As Ray held the towel around his hand he thought that he might be able to make it to start his life undercover as a substitute teacher tomorrow. He might even be able to leverage the beating he'd taken, playing it off as the result of not paying a gambling debt. It might speed the case up, get him in where he needed to be quicker. But there was one thing he wasn't going to do, and that was make it to dinner at Charlie Trotter's with Stella.

Ray dropped his head back against the locker. He'd almost rather face the Devons, again, than Stella when she found out he'd be standing her up. Whatever. It was worth it if he'd made Chicago that least little bit safer, today.

Fraser: "In September 1993 you faced down three escaped murderers and you brought them to justice. Your third citation. You're a good policeman, Ray. And I would be proud to call you my partner... and my friend."