Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor (M/F)

[LunaDog]

Nearly there, but not quite. Still unfinished business to complete here.

[GreyLord]

It would seem that Erica's part is finished. And, yet, we don't know about the Mexican side of things. How much faith should we have in the Federales?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, correct, this is far from over. @GreyLord is right, we'll see tonight what the Federales achieved.

[Jenny_S]

The drive to One Hogan Place is short, but her nerves are stretched tight.
With the traffic backed up on Worth Street, she pulls into the first parking space and kills the engine. The cold air is sharp and bites into her face as she steps out and walks the rest of the way, but it grounds her, smoothing her raw edge.

She takes the steps to the DA’s building two at a time. At the security check, the officer running the metal detector gives her a once-over with his electronic wand.
The scanner beeps.
Erica sighs and pushes up her sleeve, revealing the Rolex.
The officer grins. "Nice watch. Real or fake?"

Usually, she’d let that slide. But today, she doesn’t have the patience. She exhales sharply. "Can we just get on with it?"

"Sure, ma’am. ADA van Rey’s office is…"

"I know. Thanks."
She grabs her handbag and walks through without another word. What a day.


~~~


Sophie’s surprisingly small office is as cramped as ever. Papers, case files, and legal briefs are stacked in neat but excessive piles. For someone as sharp as Sophie van Rey, Erica always found it strange she didn’t have more space. But maybe Sophie liked working under tight conditions.

The ADA waves her in. "Come see this."

She spins her monitor toward Erica and clicks play. The screen lights up with drone footage. The view is crisp, smooth - almost cinematic.

At first, it looks like a quiet compound, a white hacienda sprawled out beneath the Mexican sun. Then… gunfire.

A coordinated strike. Mexican Federal police storm the property, tactical teams moving with ruthless precision. Muzzle flashes erupt in bursts of light. Figures drop.

Sophie fast-forwards. “Watch.”

And then…
Helicopters.
Missiles streak through the air, impacting the hacienda with surgical accuracy, turning the beautiful white building into rubble. The explosions bloom like deadly flowers, engulfing the estate in fire and smoke.

Erica flinches.
This is not what she had imagined when the raid on the cartel was discussed, seeing what the Mexican authorities mean when they say “takedown” is something else, but she blinks the image away. After all, the Federales ensured her safety.

"The Mexican government wants to get on our good side." Sophie muses. She pushes a printed message toward Erica: the bodies of Rafael Espinoza and his top men have been recovered and positively identified.
It’s over.
In one ruthless, decisive strike the cartel has been destroyed.

Erica wipes a bead of sweat from her forehead. She sinks into the visitor’s chair, exhaling a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

Sophie leans back, crossing her arms. "Thank you, Erica. This wouldn’t have been possible without you."

Erica barely hears her. Her mind is already ahead - Crosswind. Lea. There’s one last thing left to take care of.
"I need to get my horse," she murmurs.

Surprised to see this point is being brought up at this moment, Sophie studies her for a moment, then says, "I already made arrangements."

Erica frowns. What kind of arrangements could those be?

Sophie shrugs. "I called in a favor. NYPD’s mounted unit will pick her up tomorrow. She’ll be stabled at B Troop on West 54th until you figure out where to move her."

For a long moment, Erica just stares at her as she tries to wrap her mind around the good news.
A single tear wells up, slipping down her cheek.

"Thank you." she whispers.

Sophie smiles. "Don’t mention it. I like horses too, you know."


~~~


Erica steps inside her apartment, locking the door behind her with a quiet click.
The city hums faintly beyond the windows, but in here, everything is still.
The air carries the familiar scent of home - faint traces of coffee, books, and the soft lavender fragrance she loves.

She exhales slowly, shrugging off her coat. The weight on her shoulders feels heavier than it should, a lingering burden she can’t quite shake.
Soft paws pad across the hardwood floor. A tiny chirp.

Spot, the little tabby, is the first to reach her, winding around her ankles, his tail curling against her leg. A second later, Tiger stretches luxuriously before hopping onto the black leather couch, watching her with those sharp green eyes.

"Hey, babies." Erica whispers. Her voice is hoarse, raw in a way she hadn’t noticed until now.
She bends down, scooping Spot into her arms, pressing her face into his warm fur. He purrs instantly, the gentle vibration soothing against her chest. Tiger, not to be left out, hops onto the armrest and bumps his head against her shoulder.

She sinks onto the couch, curling up with them, their warmth seeping into her. Their fur is impossibly soft, warm, and alive. Their purring vibrates through her ribs, grounding her, tethering her to the present. Outside, the city murmurs - distant car horns, muffled voices, life going on as if nothing has changed.

The dam doesn’t break all at once. It starts with a shaky breath. Then another. The tension that’s been coiled tight inside her for days begins to loosen, unraveling thread by thread.
Her eyes sting. Tears roll down her cheeks, disappearing into Spot’s fur. He doesn’t seem to mind.

Her gaze drifts to the cabinet across the room. Slowly, she reaches for the silver picture frame resting there.
The photo…

Baby Erica, no more than two, standing on a picnic blanket, her father’s arms wrapped securely around her mother, both smiling. The sunlight catches in her mother’s hair. Her father’s eyes crinkle at the corners, full of love. A life frozen in time. Before everything changed.

Her thumb brushes over the glass, tracing the contours of their faces as if willing to bring her parents back to life. A quiet sob escapes her lips - but it doesn’t feel like breaking. It feels like releasing. Letting go of the weight, even just for a little while.

Spot licks at the tear on her cheek. Tiger presses his small body against her side.
She closes her eyes, holding them both, letting the quiet of the evening wrap around her.


~~~

[LunaDog]

All's well that ends well!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I haven't heard the fat lady sing yet...

[GreyLord]

Dear @LunaDog, I haven't heard the fat lady sing yet...

Right, everyone. Until the fat lady sings, it's not over. Let the dust settle and we will see what we have missed.

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, I haven't heard the fat lady sing yet...

Fair enough. It seems that i somewhat 'jumped the gun.' Sorry.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, no worries, I am happy that you go with the flow of the story. Without your encouragement, I wouldn't be working on story #18 at the moment.

[LunaDog]

Thank you, Jenny.

btw, all the time that you keep writing stories of this quality, i will continue to read them.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I promise that I will always do my best not to disappoint you.

[Jenny_S]

The next morning, something feels different. Lighter. The tightness in Erica’s chest has loosened, and for once, the air doesn’t feel so heavy.

The sharp buzz of her phone on the nightstand wakes her at 5 AM sharp.
Maybe it’s discipline. Maybe it’s habit.
Either way, she slides out of bed, secures the belt of her black silk kimono around her waist, and pads barefoot to the living room.

Her kittens are snuggled up in their bed by the warm air vent, curled into an impossibly small bundle of fur. Spot’s tiny paws twitch in his sleep.
A rare, soft smile tugs at Erica’s lips. They never fail to bring her a sliver of peace.

She picks up their bowls and carries them into the kitchen to clean and refill them. Kittens first. Always.

Her thoughts drift to Lea. The newest addition to her little menagerie.
Sophie had arranged for Lea to stay with the NYPD’s mounted unit, but that would be only temporary. The city’s rules and endless noise, the lack of open space - it would feel constricting, suffocating even, to a horse like her. Lea needed pastures, not pavement.

As Erica sets the fresh bowls down, she makes a mental note to text Claire. She’ll need to take a day or two off to find a stable outside the city. Somewhere close, within driving range, but far enough to give Lea the freedom she needs.

The morning run leaves her invigorated. The shower washes away the last remnants of tension. By the time her coffee machine hums and sputters, filling the air with rich warmth, she’s already typing the message to Claire:
"Something personal came up. I’ll be out for the next two days."

Then, wrapped in nothing but a towel, coffee in hand, she sinks onto the black leather couch and pulls out her laptop. The search for the perfect stable begins.

An hour passes. Then another. At 10:15, her phone buzzes with a message from Sophie.
“Can you come over to W 54th now?”

Her pulse quickens.
That means Lea has arrived.
She types back, “On my way.”
Then she rushes to her bedroom to get dressed.


~~~


The scent of hay and leather greets Erica the moment she steps inside. Warm air swirls around her, thick with the familiar blend of horse sweat and antiseptic. Hooves clatter softly on the concrete floor as officers tend to their mounts, adjusting tack, brushing coats, checking bridles.
For a moment, if it weren’t for the crisp NYPD uniforms, this could be any stable.

Sophie van Rey stands near one of the stalls, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. A smirk tugs at her lips as Erica approaches.
"There you are." Sophie says.

Erica exhales, for a brief second she hesitates before holding out a paper bag. "Here. Something you might be missing."
Sophie furrows her brow, then peeks inside. Fifty thousand dollars, neatly bundled in crisp hundred-dollar bills.
She nods, unimpressed. “Right. I was missing those.”

Before Erica can respond, a stable door creaks open. One of the NYPD officers leads a striking brown mare into the corridor.
Lea.
Erica’s breath catches.
She hadn’t been sure how to react when seeing her Bay again.
Distant? Unattached?
It’s all water under the bridge, because the second she sees her, everything else vanishes, and just like that, the last piece of the dam gives way. Her breath shudders in her chest.

Lea’s ears flick forward, deep black eyes locking onto Erica with instant recognition. Her glossy coat gleams under the overhead lights. The white star on her forehead stands out against the dark, her long tail swishing lazily.

"She was easy to load." the officer says, stroking Lea’s neck. "Seems like she knew we were taking her somewhere safe."

Erica steps forward, her fingers brushing against Lea’s muzzle. Soft. Warm. The familiar scent of her mare surrounds her - sun-warmed grass, oats, and the faintest trace of ocean air.
Everything else blurs.

"Hey, girl." she murmurs. Her fingers stroke along the velvet skin between Lea’s nostrils.
Lea lets out a deep, rumbly nicker and nudges Erica’s chest. Her breath is warm against Erica’s jacket.
A laugh escapes her. One she doesn’t have to force.

"She missed you." the officer notes with a smile.

Erica swallows. "I missed her too." The words almost feel like a confession.

Sophie crosses her arms, watching them. "Looks like she’ll be just fine here for a while. The NYPD keeps their horses in top condition. Plus, she’s got company."

She gestures toward the other stalls. Several sleek, well-trained police horses stand nearby, their ears twitching at the new arrival.

Erica nods absently, still stroking Lea’s neck. It’s not just about safety. Lea represents something more. A part of Erica’s life that hasn’t been tainted, twisted, or stolen.
She leans in, pressing her forehead against Lea’s, taking in the mare’s scent, feeling her breath warm and moist against her cheeks, not caring that Sophie or the officers might see the moment of raw vulnerability.

Lea stands still. Steady. As if she understands something deeper than words.

"I’m visiting a stable in Bedford this afternoon." Erica says, running a hand along Lea’s powerful neck. "It might be a good place for her."

"That’s about an hour from here." the officer notes. "If you need transportation for the horse, just call us."

Erica exhales, her grip tightening ever so slightly on Lea’s reins as if she needs to keep herself upright by holding on to the muscular frame of her Bay.

She wants to say that she will, but she just nods out of fear that her voice might break.

And for the first time in days, she lets go.
Her debt of honor to Sophie is paid. In full.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, I promise that I will always do my best not to disappoint you.

Rest assured, i have absolutely NO doubt that you will. And that you will succeed in this aim.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much. With faithful supporters like you, nothing can go wrong.
Let's see how the current story wraps up. Shall we?

[Jenny_S]

The gravel crunches beneath Erica’s sneakers as she steps out of her black Volvo, the late afternoon air crisp against her skin. She inhales slowly, drawing in the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh hay. A breeze stirs the towering oaks lining the property, their golden autumn leaves catching the sun’s dying light. Long streaks of gold and amber spill across the rolling pastures, stretching toward the horizon.

She closes the car door with a soft click. This could be the place. It has to be.

For a second, she just stands there, letting the quiet settle over her. The distant nickering of a horse drifts through the air, mingling with the rhythmic creak of branches. No honking horns. No sirens. Just the steady pulse of the countryside.

Her gaze drifts to the stables ahead - a long, well-kept barn with dark wood siding and a sturdy stone foundation. It’s built to last. A place where Lea could breathe, stretch, belong.

A door swings open, and a tall woman steps out, her movements unhurried but efficient. Margaret Henshaw. Erica had spoken to her on the phone, but in person, the woman carries the air of someone who has spent her life around horses - steady, no-nonsense, the kind of presence that doesn’t need to demand respect to receive it.

Margaret wipes her hands on her waxed coat and strides forward in her worn boots. Her jeans are faded with years of hard work, and her sharp eyes don’t miss much.

“You must be Erica Sinclair.” she says, extending a calloused hand.

Erica clasps it firmly. “I appreciate you making time for me.”

Margaret nods, sizing her up, gaze assessing but not unkind. “I could tell from the way you talked about your mare that you’re not looking for just anywhere to board her.”

Erica exhales, tension unraveling just a little. “That’s right.”

Margaret tilts her head toward the barn. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”


~~~


The scent of fresh shavings and leather greets Erica as they step inside, mingling with the warm musk of horses. Hooves shuffle in the stalls, the soft sound of chewing filling the quiet. A few curious heads poke out - sleek thoroughbreds, sturdy warmbloods, and a stocky pony whose mischievous eyes practically dare anyone to trust him.

It should be comforting. It almost is.
But anxiety still lingers, coiled tight in her ribs. Lea isn’t just any horse. She’s hers. And after everything they’ve been through, handing her over to the wrong people isn’t an option.

Margaret leads her past an open-air paddock where a chestnut gelding gleefully rolls in the dirt, legs kicking toward the sky. “Daily turnout, weather permitting. Small group or private - whichever your mare prefers. When it rains cats and dogs, we take them to the covered arena.”

Erica nods, gaze flicking over the space, the fencing, the grass. Lea needs space. “She’s used to a lot of open space.” she says carefully. “She was at an estate in the Hamptons before I got her.”

Margaret arches an eyebrow. “I take it she wouldn’t be happy in the city.”

“Exactly.” Erica doesn’t bother hiding the urgency in her voice. “I’m not looking for luxury. Just the right people. People who’ll treat her as more than a showpiece.”

Margaret studies her for a long moment, then nods. “I get it.” She gestures to the next stall, where a dapple gray mare flicks an ear at them before returning to her hay. “We’re not fancy here, but we do right by our horses.”

Erica takes it all in. The wide stalls, the thick bedding, the neatly stacked hay bales. Everything smells right. Feels right.
And yet, the doubt lingers. Will it be enough for Lea?

They reach the outdoor riding ring, its white fencing sturdy, its footing pristine. The kind of ring built for real work - not just appearances. Leaves in fiery reds and deep oranges frame the space, a contrast against the setting sun’s golden light.

Margaret leans against the fence. “Good enough for you?”

Erica’s lips twitch, despite herself. “Yes More than good.”

Margaret eyes her, a knowing look crossing her face. “You’ve got the look of someone who hasn’t been off a horse for long.”

Erica exhales a quiet laugh. “It’s been a while. But…it comes back fast.”

Margaret nods approvingly. “Your mare’s in good hands, then.”

Erica stares out at the ring, the image forming so clearly in her mind it almost feels real. Lea - strong, sleek, hers - stretching into a powerful canter, mane flying, hooves drumming a steady rhythm against the soft footing.

The lump in her throat tightens.
This is real.
Lea is hers.
And she has to make the right choice.

As they walk back toward the barn, Erica stops just outside the stalls, crossing her arms.
“How soon can I bring her here?”

Margaret’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Erica exhales. Slowly. Fully. The last thread of doubt finally unspooling.
She pulls her phone from her pocket and dials the NYPD Mounted Unit’s stable.
The call picks up on the second ring.

“Hey, it’s Erica Sinclair.” she says, her voice steady. Certain. “Whenever you can spare the time, please bring Lea up to Ironwood Pastures in Bedford. I’ve found her new home.”

As she ends the call, the afternoon sun bathes the barn in a golden glow, its warmth sinking deep into her skin.
Lea is going to be fine.
And so is she.


~~~


Epilogue:

The late summer sun filters through the half-closed blinds in Erica’s office, striping the floor with molten gold.
A rare moment of quiet stretches between back-to-back client calls - too brief to truly relax, long enough to tempt distraction.

Erica leans back in her chair, fingers steepled against her chin. Her thoughts drift - not to briefs or closing clauses - but north, to Lea. To the open skies over Ironwood Pastures and the rhythmic thud of hooves on damp soil. She wonders if she can make the drive in time today, if it’s even worth trying.

Of course it is, she thinks, chastising herself.

Her phone buzzes, sharp and insistent.
The screen shows a number she doesn’t recognize.

She hesitates. Her instincts scream: Don’t answer! No good ever starts that way.
But her thumb betrays her. With a short swipe across the screen she accepts the call.

“Erica Sinclair,” she says, tone clipped, neutral.

A pause. Static hums. Then…

“Well. I guess you know who this is.”

The voice is unmistakable. Smooth as glass. Steel wrapped in velvet. Tipped in poison.

She freezes. The breath caught in her lungs has nowhere to go.
Her spine straightens slowly. “You’re supposed to be in federal custody,” she says, ice coating each word.

“Was. Just a temporary inconvenience,” Darren Cross replies, amused. “Turns out the U.S. Attorney’s Office values cooperation. And the Bahamian government? Extremely hospitable once I explained how… generous I can be.”

Her jaw clenches. She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to.
Cross always loved the sound of his own voice.
She can hear the sloshing of waves in the background. The wind. A cheerful laughter that isn’t his. Chrissy’s perhaps?

“It's not over till it is over,” he says, the smirk audible in his words. “That move you pulled? Brilliant. Cost me a lot of dough, but damn if it wasn’t elegant.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, you should.” Then, softer: “I’d like to invite you down. We need to finish what we started. And there’s a sunset here I think you’d appreciate. Come as you are. Unafraid. I want to meet the woman who brought me down… not the one hiding behind a mask.”

Then silence.
No goodbye. Just the sterile, disconnected line.

Erica lowers the phone, slowly, deliberately, like she’s holding a live grenade. She places it on the desk as her gaze shifts to the skyline beyond her office windows. The city stretches outward, oblivious. Indifferent.

A muscle ticks in her cheek.

This case was supposed to be over. The victory neatly packaged. Cross - contained.

But now?

Cross reminded her that he’s still out there.

She wonders what he gave up to buy his freedom.
More importantly - what he held back.

The Rolex on her wrist catches a shard of sun.

She releases a long breath - sharp and slow.

The dragon has found a new lair and she knows that sooner or later, she might have to look him in the eyes once more.


The End
…but Erica Sinclair will return in the breathtaking thriller “Erica Sinclair – The Enemy Within”.

[LunaDog]

Well, i wasn't expecting THAT!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, some people always land on their feet, I guess. But I'm glad I could surprise you with this TUG-only ending.

To celebrate the 300.000+ views of this story, I'd like to leave this image as a little thank you-note to my readers.
From the bottom of my heart, dear all, I just can't thank you enough.
Tonight, I'll drop the first part of the next story and I hope you'll be back for the ride.

[LunaDog]

I was referring to Darren Cross being free and not behind bars. With that being the situation, isn't he still a threat to Erica?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I will pick up this thread at a later date and we will find out what his deal is.

[JFBound1]

Like this ending. It's nice that Erica found somewhere to keep her horse.
That phone call also has me waiting and wondering about that future adventure.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @JFBound1, thank you so much. Your support of my writing means a lot to me. The epilogue with Cross calling Erica from the Bahamas is a TUG Special that was not in my original story. My readers wanted to know what happened to Cross and since I am always up to a challenge, I will bring him back in a future episode.

If you like, check out Erica's next adventure "Erica Sinclair - The Enemy Within" here: viewtopic.php?t=23624

[Caesar73]

Fantastic Tale. I got finally Time to do some catching up. The final Conversation of Erica and Cross is truly excellent. And leaves us Readers thinking: Will we, will Erica meet Cross again? Future will tell.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, great to have you back! Rest assured, Erica will cross him again (pun intended).
See you again here: viewtopic.php?t=23624

[GreyLord]

All of your options are open. Your ending was beautifully engineered. Lea is taken care of. There is a lingering threat, but not one expected to strike immediately. The game is afoot!