Danny had given up drinking a long time ago when it came to solving his problems. It was a weak-willed habit that only left him embarrassed and filled with regret the following morning. He had promised himself not to use alcoholism as an outlet no matter what path his life took. No matter how bad things seemed, there was always a better way to deal with the problem.

To tell the truth he hadn't even planned it. He had left the office and gotten into his car with the intention of going home for the evening. But as any counselor Danny had talked to over the past few years would have told him, old habits die hard.

Danny walked into the bar called 'Senuna's' located a few blocks from work, which many fellow drinkers found was very hard to pronounce when drunk. It was a sports bar, normally heavily populated during the weekends or on a game night. However, on a Monday night outside football season its customers were sparse.

Tony Barsotti, a young grad student at NYU, was cleaning glasses when Danny plopped down at one of the bar stools. "Hey, Dan." He looked him up and down. "You look like hell."

"Thanks."

"Where's your date tonight?"

Normally, Danny would have smirked. Though everyone teased him, it was true…he usually did have a date with him. "With all the others, I suppose."

Tony snickered, putting down the glass with a 'clink.' Tony had known Danny since he moved to New York to study biology. On game nights they often got into heated debates, ranging from whether cloning and abortions were morally sound…to who was the better team: the Yanks or the Red Sox. The two got along fairly well, even though Tony was a Boston boy.

But tonight, Danny wasn't in the mood for conversation.

"You meeting anybody?" Tony asked.

"No."

"Jesus, then why're you here? The atmosphere?"

"Who are you? My mother?"

Noting the irritation in his voice, Tony laid off. "Most certainly not." He turned around. "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey. Straight up." Tony turned around to pour him a glass of Jack Daniels. It only took Danny a few moments before the glass was once again empty.

"Whoa," Tony said somewhat softly. He watched him carefully. "Thought you were off the sauce."

Danny sent him a warning glance. "Just leave the bottle."

Though Tony didn't like what he was seeing, he had unpaid graduate school bills in a pile on his desk. He did as Danny requested, allowing the FBI agent to become as drunk as he pleased. And he did. Danny was miserable…and right now, alcohol seemed as good a solution as any other. Pouring himself a second and third glass, he guzzled down its contents until he felt his problems ebbing away. Until there was nothing left to do but drown in the hard, mind-numbing liquor.

But something happened that the agent didn't plan. Danny had lost many things over the past few months, and one of them was his tolerance. Barely an hour had passed before he began to sweat from the alcohol coursing through his veins.

Noticing the agent's red face and leaking skin, Tony nodded to him. "You alright there, man?"

"Yeah," he drawled out. He cackled and loosened his tie, as if he'd just thought of something very funny. "Never better."

Tony eyed him. "Oh, I don't know. I think I've seen you a little better than this."

There was no hiding it now. Danny was obliterated. "You're right," he said drunkenly. "I have been better than this. A lot better. I just can't quite remember what it felt like."

Tony watched him carefully, like he did most of the partisans that drank more than they could stomach. He knew Danny. He liked him…but he didn't want to keep watching him do this to himself. He started to reach over. "That's it," he said. "It's bedtime for you. I'm cutting you off."

Danny glowered and held the bottle back, just daring him to try to take it from him.

Noticing how foreboding Danny could look when determined to keep what was his, Tony backed away and put up his hands. "You're right, man," he murmurred, turning around to wipe down the bar. "I'm not your mother."

Visibly calming, Danny replaced the bottle back on the bar. After a few minutes passed, he spoke. "I gave it up at one point…" He pointed to the bottle, as if Tony didn't know. "The booze."

Tony shook his head at him. "I know, man… I know."

Danny sighed, his hair uncombed, his clothes disheveled. "Not anymore apparently…" Looking up with bloodshot eyes, he pointed to the Jack Daniels' label and began to snicker. "You know, I work for a guy named Jack." He kicked back the last of the whiskey. "He doesn't come in a bottle though…"

Danny stayed until closing time, drinking himself into oblivion. Once the bar doors closed, he left a wad of money on the counter and staggered out into the street. He ambled around for awhile, uncertain as to where he was going but certain that he had little idea as to where he would stop.

Though he was standing upright, it wasn't long before his body shut down. He felt his legs buckle underneath of him, and he blacked out right there on the sidewalk. Danny didn't panic though. Something told him that the ground would catch his fall

- - - - - -

At that same time in an abandoned warehouse in Long Island, Chris Grierson was making his rounds. A strong sense of paranoia kept him walking at a steady even pace, his eyes shifting from side to side. He couldn't believe how quickly the fog had rolled into place. He looked suspicious enough, out alone trespassing, pants bulging from the weight of his piece, without pea soup clouding the air.

Chris stalked through the fog until a familiar face appeared alongside the warehouse. One of his regular movers gave him a nod.

Chris managed a smile.

Gary, a man in his late thirties, was about as hardened as you could get. He'd been in the dealing business since he could count kilos. There were rumors that he was so quick with a knife that you didn't have a chance to scream. He had a tattoo of a snake around his neck; he didn't shave, and Chris was almost certain that 'Gary' was as much his name as he was a circus monkey.

Despite his reputation, Chris had always found him decent. Not to mention he was the best mover in all of the Big Apple. Chris had done a lot of freelance work for him, and the man owed him a favor. That was why he had called upon him tonight.

Gary's deep voice was also enough to make your skin curl. He nodded to Chris as he drew nearer. "Thought you were leaving town."

"Plans change." Chris took out a pack of Lucky Strikes. He offered him one, but Gary turned it down.

"What do you need?"

"A job. A quick one that pays."

Gary thought for a moment. "I could always use another guy." He squinted at him suspiciously. "Why the sudden interest?"

"I'm still leaving town, just not as soon as I'd planned. I want some traveling money."

Gary was a hard man to read, but from the looks of it, he didn't exactly trust what Chris was saying. Chris understood. Had he been in Gary's situation, he'd be thinking the same thing. "What do I get in return?"

There it was. Always a dealer. But this was where Chris was prepared. "Connections, all the way to Chicago."

"Already got connections in Chicago."

"Not the ones I'm gonna get," Chris shot back confidently. Gary studied him. Chris kept a straight face. "I'm going full-time."

"Yeah, for who?"

"You're lookin' at him."

Gary made a face. "You taking stupid pills?"

"No," Chris said, releasing a stream of smoke from between his lips. "Just desperate."

The word sparked something in Gary. Not that he had suddenly turned into a teddy bear; it was just that desperate had been Gary's friend for as long as he could remember. Desperate people could be manipulated. Desperate paid the bills. Desperate kept the furniture in his house. Desperate was what he wanted to hear. "What're you doing tomorrow?"

Chris' eyes went wide. "You're kidding me."

The look on Gary's face made it clear. The man did not kid.

"Okay." Chris offered his hand, which Gary shook. "What time?"

"Seven. Evening. Bring a raincoat." Turning back to his car, he pointed to Chris' pants. "And find a better way to hide that piece of shit. Makes you look like a moron."

Patting his lips, Chris Grierson watched as Gary's truck started and left him alone by the warehouse. He finished his cigarette and headed back to his car. He still had a long night ahead of him.