There was no escape from the steady throb and hum of the machinery. Vin felt it through all his body; head, throat, heart. His stomach was queasy and he couldn’t tell if it was from the pain in his head or the disorienting sounds that surrounded him. Ronnie was training a nasty-looking Ruger on him. He had stuck the knife carelessly and temptingly in his belt, but at the moment Vin felt so uncertain and woozy that going for it just seemed like a bad idea.

Chris knew he was in trouble. He could wait. He could be patient. Question was, could Ronnie? He was already looking jumpier than any man holding a gun ought to be. Vin figured any move on his part would set off that twitchy trigger finger, and the smartest thing he could do was to make Ronnie believe that nothing was going to happen.

Vin swayed slightly and passed a hand over his forehead. "Ya mind if I sit down fer a bit? I’m feelin’ kinda dizzy." Even as he spoke, he let his knees buckle beneath him and slid slowly down the wall at his back to the ground. The relief he felt at being off his feet wasn’t entirely a ruse. Might give him a chance to catch his breath, recover a bit of strength, buy some more time.

Fazio’s hand had jerked at the motion, but he didn’t fire. He just stood looking at Vin like he was an interesting kind of bug; one that he hadn’t decided whether to squash beneath his heel or impale on a pin for his collection. Either way was just as dead.

"I didn’t see no sniper on that roof," Vin said casually. "Yer plans change?"

"Shut up, Tanner."

"Guess things ain’t goin’ exactly how ya wanted ‘em to. Troy must be ready t’spit nails."

Fazio’s eyes darted nervously around the room. He looked at Tanner slumped against the wall, pale and bleeding, eyes slightly unfocused; but a wounded wolf was still dangerous and Fazio wasn’t taking chances. He took a step towards Tanner. "You talk too much."

"You expectin’ company?" Vin asked. "Think ol’ Troy’ll show up here? I ain’t worth a rat’s ass t’him, and I ain’t so sure he thinks too highly a’ you. Know fer a fact he wouldn’t if he knew you was sendin’ little clues to th’enemy ..."

Incoherent with rage, Fazio leapt toward Vin’s throat, fastening hard fingers around Vin’s windpipe, cutting off his air and breath. With black specks floating in front of his eyes, no wind in his lungs, and feeling like his ribs were stove in under Fazio’s weight, Vin fumbled for the knife he knew was in Fazio’s belt. His seeking fingers found the hilt, he pulled the blade out, tried to reverse it to thrust up into Ronnie’s gut. Before he could complete the action, Fazio released his throat, grabbed his hand and banged it hard against the concrete floor. Pain zinged through Vin's wrist, numbed his hand. He felt his grip weakening. He brought his knee up, tried to drive it into Fazio’s groin.

Either he was too weak, or Ronnie was trickier than he’d expected. He jammed his knee between their bodies to buy himself a bit of breathing room. He managed to buy himself a bit of breathing room, and drew in a great, hoarse gasp of air. He stretched out his hand, tried to find the knife, and then cried out in pain as a heavy foot trod on his wrist. He felt a bone crunch and gasped. The black specks returned in force. He closed his eyes, fighting nausea and fear.

Fazio stood up, rubbing his thigh where Vin’s knee had impacted. He looked up at Troy D’Amico. "Thanks, boss."

Troy just looked at him with cold killer’s eyes and passionless expression. "Tanner’s right, Ronnie. You are a little shit." He glanced down at Vin, who was trying not to writhe in pain as D’Amico’s weight pressed harder on his wrist. "At least he has the virtue of being loyal. You – you’ve been playing me for a fool for a long time, haven’t you? Making phone calls you thought I didn’t know about. Here’s news, Ronnie. I knew. I knew you were going to double-cross me and go for everything."

Fazio shivered. "It wasn’t like that, Mr. D’Amico. It was just a bit of fun ... playing with the feds, making ‘em crazy." D’Amico was unmoved and Ronnie cringed. "I killed Ed Williams for you," he whined.

D’Amico laughed. "You killed him because he knew what you were trying to do and he was about to back out."

"He was gonna go back to the feds. Come clean. Tear you’re whole fuckin’ plan apart. I saved you, Troy. I did!"

"You don’t see farther than your own greed, Ronnie. Don’t get all noble with me. I know what you are ... I’ve always known. Too bad, Ronnie. You should have stayed with me." With an expression on his face that was nearly pity, he raised his gun.

The sound of machinery grinding to a halt distracted him. Dimly, through pain and still trying to sort out what D’Amico and Fazio were saying, Vin thought, "elevator." God!

Chris!

He swung over to his side, grabbed D’Amico’s ankle and tried to jerk him off balance. There wasn’t enough weight or strength behind his motion to pull him over, but he made D’Amico lurch as he fired. Fazio went down with a grunt, falling heavily over Vin’s legs as D’Amico pulled free and ran up the steps to the roof.

"ATF! ATF! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!" Buck roared and burst through the door in a firing stance, clearing the way for Chris to follow. He jerked to a stop. "Vin!" Chris sidestepped him neatly, paused in consternation when he saw Vin prone.

Vin waved him off. "D’Amico’s up on th’roof," he gasped. "Go! ‘M’alright –" Vin broke off, coughing, struggling to pull away from Fazio’s body across his legs. "Buck, git this sack a’shit off me. Larabee!" He called up after Chris, "He’s got a gun!"

"Easy, son. Easy. Let me do the work." Buck took hold of Fazio’s body, turned it.

The gleam of a dark eye, the movement of a hand, and before Vin could cry out a warning, Fazio fired. Blood misted as the slug tore into Buck’s body. The big man’s eyes widened in shock and he dropped to his knees, toppling over with a soft sigh.

Fazio staggered to his feet, blood dripping from his fingers. He seemed dazed; he just stood over Buck’s body like the agent was his prize kill. Vin saw Buck’s chest move. He was alive! But not for long if Ronnie had his way. With the grace and instinct of the predator he was, Vin reached for the knife he had dropped. His body coiled and he rolled to a crouch.

Fazio turned to him. His gun hand came up as Vin surged up from his stance with the knife clutched in his right hand. He had been well trained to kill. The blade slid unerringly into Fazio’s flesh, angling beneath the breastbone and ripping through the tough tissue of the diaphragm to still his beating heart.

But death didn’t come swiftly enough to stop the last twitch of Fazio’s trigger finger. He fired even as the tip of the knife tore into his heart. Vin felt the hot blast of the powder, the punch of the bullet in his side. He held on, shoved that knife deeper into Fazio’s chest and then stepped back as he fell, dead before his body hit the ground.

Vin stared down at him. The lethal stroke had been so swift that very little blood had pumped out; just a tiny crimson blotch surrounded the knife blade. It was a clean kill. Vin pressed his hand to his side. It throbbed like living fire, but he took the fact that he was still standing to be a sign that he wasn’t too bad off. "Bucklin –" He dropped down beside his friend. There was a bullet wound high on his chest. He was bleeding freely, but breathing deep and steady. Vin took off his denim shirt and thankful that it was an old one, so thin that it was nearly parting on its own, ripped the sleeve out of the seam, folding it in a pad and packing it tightly into the wound. "You hang on there, pard. You hang on."

Wilmington’s blue eyes opened wide with pain. "Vin –"

"Don’t waste yer breath. I’m fine." The lie only succeeded because Buck was too weak to argue and couldn’t see the blood seeping through the dark cotton t-shirt Vin wore.

Panic made Wilmington struggle to sit up. "Chris!" he gasped, fighting against Vin’s hand on his shoulder.

Vin pressed harder and Buck yielded. "You stay here. I’m goin’ after Chris. You stay put, ya hear?" Fiercely, trying to impose his will on Buck and quell any ideas the man had about going after Larabee. Pain must have gotten through because Buck’s body suddenly went limp. He lay back down and grimaced.

"You git him, Vin. Shoot the fuckin’ heart outta his chest fer me." He pressed his service revolver into Vin’s hand.

Vin nodded. He stood up, tried to straighten, caught his breath as pain shot up his side. His t-shirt was soaked with blood and the slow chill growing in him wasn’t something he wanted to think on. His left wrist hurt fiercely and he could feel it swelling; the bone was either cracked or broken outright, but at least it wasn’t through the skin. Something else he didn’t want to think on. Right now, he had to get to that roof. He took Buck’s service revolver and hauled his way up the steps.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

It was chaos on the ground. The bomb squad boiled out of their trucks, armed with sensors and dogs. The US Marshals had arrived to take care of the governor and the other dignitaries, and the press conference was called off, leaving the media to deal with air time. This was a feast for them, breaking news far more ratings-worthy than the announcement of a task force.

Orrin Travis stood like a rock amid the chaos. He saw Mary hurrying towards him, a cameraman in tow. "Not now!" he snapped, bringing her up short.

"Go on, Tom. Set up with the others," she directed calmly. "What’s going on?"

"I’ve got a situation here. I don’t have time for this."

"Where’s Chris?"

"I wish I knew," he growled. "Mary –"

"There’s a rumor that a government agent has been taken hostage. Is it true?" Her blue eyes were wide, something more than journalistic curiosity making her voice quiver.

"It’s not Chris," Travis said. He took her arm. "Get back with the others, Mary. This area isn’t secure." It wasn’t a request, and Mary retreated to the barricades that had been set up for crowd control.

Ten minutes! Where the hell was Larabee?

"Judge!" JD Dunne’s clear voice cut through the noise. The young agent came running up to him. "Just got a report from one of the helicopters." He handed Travis a headset. "You can hear what’s going on."

Travis got the headset on in time to hear the pilot shout. "Subject on the roof! Subject has a gun. Repeat, subject is armed. ATF agent has exited to the roof. Shots have been fired! Agent down! Agent down! Jesus ..." before static overwhelmed the transmission. From the look on JD’s face, he’d heard the same thing. His face went white, freckles like dust against the pallor.

The earpiece crackled to life. The pilot’s voice had a thin, strained note to it. Shock maybe. "Subject has taken the ATF agent. Repeat, we have a hostage situation. Repeat, we have a hostage situation."

"Aw shit. Aw... shit," JD whispered. Nearly a sob. He ripped the headset off and shoved it into Travis’s hands. "I gotta get over there."

Travis didn’t try to stop him. The boy’s whole world was frozen in place until he knew. Tanner, Larabee, Wilmington.

God.

Travis got on the radio, ordering units to the scene; even as he ran towards the street; his mind knowing but refusing to acknowledge that he might have just lost the heart of Team Seven.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Chris came through the door leading to the roof, his gun ready to fire, his heart pounding and his breath strangling in his throat. The adrenaline rush of the hunt shot through him like a drug. He bent low, making himself a smaller target for any assailant waiting for him.

Nothing. Just the sound of traffic in the distance, the wail of sirens, the faint crunch of gravel despite his care in walking. A slight wind kicked up, ruffling his hair. The large AC units on the roof were humming; waves of heat rising from the exhaust fans shimmered in the air. Chris couldn’t see around the corner of the unit nearest him and despite the cover it provided he felt exposed and vulnerable.

He moved out cautiously, ranging close to the boxy air conditioning units and structural components that made a maze of the central roof area. The gravel surface grated beneath his boots, mocking his attempted stealth. Trying not to breathe like he’d just run the hundred meters, he pressed flat against the metal housing of one of the larger units. It vibrated through his spine like a shiver of warning.

The scrape of a sound behind him sent him diving for cover. His elbows skidded on the cindery gravel, driving splinters into his skin. The first bullet scored the side of his skull with a hot burn of metal on flesh. A second shot shaved a chunk of concrete off the wall next to him. It slashed across his forehead, and his blood welled up instantly; the warmth scrawling down his neck and sheeting down his forehead and cheek. Half blinded by blood and pain, he rolled to his feet, firing in the direction of his assailant.

"D’Amico!" he yelled. He turned blindly in a circle, trying to sense the other shooter’s position. He felt the presence of another body behind him. Blinking hard to clear his eyes, he swung out wildly, connecting with muscle and bone in a solid punch that dropped the man to his knees. Chris swiped a sleeve across his eyes. Blurred vision, but enough to see Troy D’Amico crouched down, protecting his ribs. Chris leveled his pistol.

"Drop your weapon!" he ordered. D’Amico turned his head and looked at Chris with hate and despair in his eyes. But he laid his gun down and Chris kicked it away. "Get up. Slowly."

D’Amico did, uncoiling and staggering to his feet. He swayed slightly; his hands held away from his body. Chris wiped his eyes with one hand, keeping his gun trained on D’Amico with the other. *Too easy,* he thought. It couldn’t end like this ...

And then two gunshots broke the silence on the rooftop.

Reflexive and unavoidable, Chris had to turn his head, the streaming blood making it nearly impossible to keep D’Amico in his peripheral field of vision. Those few seconds – no more than two heartbeats -- cost Chris dearly. D’Amico clasped his fists, brought them up in a cracking blow to Chris’s chin, and dropped him like a log.

Chris’s head exploded in fire and stars. He felt the shock in every nerve of his body. Consciousness faded briefly; he lost himself in darkness and too soon came back to gray awareness and unrelenting pain. He moved weakly on the tarred gravel, seeking his gun like a blind man looking for scattered pearls.

A hard hand twisted in his collar, jerking him up upright, dragging him to his feet. The cold steel of a gun dug cruelly into his jaw. Chris tried to claw at the constricting band of his collar, at D’Amico’s hand. D’Amico shoved him hard against a concrete barrier. Chris’s head cracked against the surface and he slid to his knees.

D’Amico looked down at him, bloodied and gasping for breath, and a slow, taunting smile curled his thin lips. "The odds change, Agent Larabee. I’m the one dealing from a position of strength, now. I’d be willing to bet you’ll negotiate with your life on the line."

"It’s over," Chris gasped. "Give it up." He struggled to speak. "You can walk out of here or get carried out in a body bag. Your choice."

"You don’t get it, do you?" D’Amico grabbed his shoulder roughly. "You will get me out of here, willing or not." He pulled Chris to his feet and with the gun jammed in his ribs led him to the wall running along the edge of the roof. "Raise your arms, Agent Larabee. Get their attention. Let them see you."

Chris looked over the wall. Beneath him, he could see police cars arrayed in ranks surrounding the building. Dark sedans that were FBI and ATF vehicles. The squat tank of the bomb disposal unit. Uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives, agents. "You’ll never get out of here, D’Amico."

Troy D’Amico pinned him against the parapet and patted him down until he found the cell phone in his jacket. He checked the last number and dialed it. "Travis, if you want Larabee and your other men, I’ve got some terms for you to consider." He pressed Chris closer to the wall. "As you can see, Larabee’s alive. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for the others. You don’t listen – all I have to do is pull the trigger and you’ll have three dead agents."

Chris jerked in D’Amico’s hold. "Don’t listen to him, Orrin! Vin’s –" D’Amico grabbed and handful of Chris’s hair and slammed him down against the concrete wall. He was able to turn his head slightly, taking the brunt on the blow on the hard ridge of his orbital bone rather than full face. The aggregate was sharp, cutting into his skin and pain shot through his cheek and eye socket. He crumpled, darkness swirling, and knew nothing more.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Vin held Buck’s pistol in his right hand and instinctively reached for the metal rail to pull himself up the stairs with his left, remembering too late that there were broken bones in there. He bit back a cry of pain, and a rush of nausea made his knees tremble. He had to get to the roof even if he had to crawl up the damn stairs. He stuck the pistol in the waistband of his jeans and closed his right hand over the rail. With all the grit and willpower in him, he hauled himself up the stairwell.

By the time he reached the door, he was shaking and sweating. His t-shirt clung to his ribs, wet with sweat and blood. Perspiration dripped from his hairline. He swept his arm across his forehead and steeled himself to open the door slowly and quietly. He tried to envision the rooftop; where he would come out, what cover he would have. How to use surprise to his advantage.

Then he heard the gunshot and everything but getting to Chris went out of his head. He put his shoulder hard against the cold metal door. It was heavy and he didn’t have enough weight or strength in him to overcome its ponderous swing. He braced his weak legs and shoved.

Even the overcast-dimmed sunlight made him wince. He scanned the rooftop quickly. The maze of metal and concrete cluttered his visual field. Sometimes one sense had to be isolated and another focused. He closed his eyes, listened, sorting out the sounds. He heard more noise than he would have liked, caught one sound that he knew too well -- Chris’s voice. He couldn’t catch the words but he homed in on the direction.

He crept across the gravel, saw his rifle where Fazio had kicked it away from his hand. A low, venomous chuckle filled his throat. He dropped low, sprinted across to where it lay and retrieved it. He knew he couldn’t rely on being able to shoot Buck’s pistol accurately; the recoil was more suited to Wilmington’s big wrists and hands. His own piece, he could *feel* and knew how it would fire.

He eased around the corner of an air conditioning unit and his breath caught in a hiss. D’Amico had Chris up against the waist-high wall enclosing the roof, shoving him hard, a knee at his back, a gun in one hand, a cell phone in the other.

God, Chris, don’t do anything ... I’m here. Like Larabee could hear him. He brought the rifle up to his hip, balanced the weight on the ridge of bone, then leveled the barrel on his forearm as he braced the stock on his shoulder.

"Don’t listen to him, Orrin! Vin’s –" Chris shouted out, and Vin winced. Damn Larabee for not knowing when to lie low.

D’Amico slammed Chris’s face into the wall and Vin didn’t even have to think about his next move. He shot the bolt lever on the rifle, not bothering to mute the sound. He wanted D’Amico to see him. Look him in the eye. Watch death come to him.

Larabee’s body slid from D’Amico’s hold in a boneless slump. Vin saw the blood sheeting Chris’s face and felt rage spill through him. He straightened, took a step into light from shadow.

"Drop it, Troy, ‘less yer lookin’ fer a bullet." His voice sounded thin in the air. There was a helicopter above him, descending low enough for the downdraft from the rotors to stir dust from the rooftop and swirl through his hair. It snatched his words away, but it didn’t matter.

Troy D’Amico saw him standing there, slight and bloodied, the rifle slanted over his forearm and death in his eyes.

Endgame.

He feinted a movement of surrender and then with sudden, murderous intent, turned his gun towards Chris Larabee.

Without thought, without emotion, without remorse, Vin squeezed the trigger on the rifle. He didn’t aim consciously; he hurt too much and was too shaky for true accuracy. He just had to stop D’Amico.

The first shot caught D’Amico high on the right shoulder; not a killing shot, but destroying the nerves and muscles that controlled his gun hand. The second blossomed crimson on his chest, the force of the hit spinning him back against the wall.

There was a break in the concrete where a drainpipe ran from the condensers to feed into a gutter. Not even a foot wide, the gap was shielded by a strip of black plastic netting as a precautionary measure. It was not meant to take the full weight of a man’s body driven against it by force. It was brittle from too much sun and heat, already weak when Troy’s body spun against it. The plastic broke away from the concrete, and D’Amico teetered on the brink, his arms windmilling wildly in a futile attempt to catch his balance. Vin dove forward, his arm outstretched to grab D’Amico before he could fall. His knuckles brushed against the linen suit jacket, his fingers closed over the lapel.

For two seconds, his eyes held Troy D’Amico’s. Two seconds staring into an infinity of darkness. Then D’Amico willfully leaned backwards into the gap.

"NO!" Vin screamed. But his damaged hand was weak, and D’Amico had nothing to live for. The fabric slipped through Vin’s fingers and Troy D’Amico fell away, down and down, to hell.

"No!" Vin sobbed. Angry that he couldn’t have had some part of D’Amico, angry that the man couldn’t have been brought to trial, that he had been forced to shoot at all. He fell to his knees, coughing and gagging, his breath stripped away. As much as he had wanted D’Amico dead, he had wanted so much more for the team, for Ezra, for Chris. He’d wanted to watch Travis skewer D’Amico to the wall and make him squirm. He’d wanted D’Amico to suffer.

He sat there shivering until a sound, a low moan, broke through his daze. Chris was moving weakly, his hands scraping over the rough, splintered cinders on the roof.

Vin crawled over to him, grabbed his hands to still them. Carefully, he turned Chris over, sickened by the blood and the damage done to his face. He was crying, couldn’t seem to stop ...

"Vin?" Chris tried to open his eyes, but the side of his face felt like a balloon was slowly inflating beneath the skin, and only his left eye seemed to be working well enough to focus. The white blur floating in space slowly resolved itself into familiar features.

He reached up a hand to touch Vin’s face and felt tears on his fingertips. Alive, he thought. Alive ... and drifted away ...

Vin wanted to move. He wanted to call for help, for back-up. He wanted to breathe, but suddenly that all seemed as possible as water from the moon. Pain, which he had been holding at bay by sheer willpower, overwhelmed him and he slumped forward, falling across Chris’s chest with a soft exhalation of surrender.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Orrin Travis followed Josiah Sanchez as he made a path through a quickly gathering crowd of spectators. They wouldn’t come out to hear the governor speak, but they sure as hell turned out as soon as they heard the police helicopters overhead. One look at the tall, broad-chested man with the set, heavy jaw of a prizefighter and they parted like the Red Sea. The earpiece continued to crackle with static – something was interfering with the connection – or maybe it was just bad equipment. Angrily, Travis tore it from his head and shoved it into the hands of the agent next to him. He was nearly to the police line that had been established outside the office building where D’Amico was holed up when the crowd gave a collective gasp of horror. There was a sickening crunch of glass and metal, followed by shocked screams.

Dear God! He couldn’t see over the heads of the crowd and the white-helmeted line of policemen blocking the way. "Josiah!" he shouted. "What the hell is going on?"

Sanchez turned, his face strained. "A man fell, sir. From the roof. I-I’m sorry, I don’t know ..."

Travis shoved Josiah aside and thrust his badge at the nearest policeman. "Let me through!" he snapped.

"Sir, the scene isn’t clear –"

"I am ATF Assistant Director Orrin Travis. Those are my men up in that building. My team in there fighting for their lives." He glared at the policeman.

"Sorry, sir. I sure hope that wasn’t one of your men fell off that roof."

"So do I, son. So do I."

He made his way to the barricade of yellow tape. As he emerged, JD and Ezra ran up to him, followed by Nathan. "Judge, we’re going up there, now," Ezra said tersely. "Troy D’Amico has seen fit to take a swan dive off the parapet."

"D’Amico?" Relief washed through Travis. "You’re sure?"

"Most certainly, seein’ as I was only ten feet away from the Mercedes that was the point of impact. Pity. It was a lovely car." Ezra’s soft drawl might as well have uttered an obscenity. His face was set like granite, his eyes glittering as he slapped a clip into his sidearm. "Gentlemen, as Mr. Larabee would say were he here -- Let’s ride."

If any of them felt awkward about Ezra assuming the mantle of command, their doubts were well hidden. Travis caught his arm. "Wait." He pointed at the policeman who had spoken to him. "I want three officers with them. You, and two others."

"Yes, sir." He wasn’t about to tell the steely-eyed man giving the orders that maybe it wasn’t his jurisdiction.

Travis continued to hold Ezra back until the agent raised a quizzical brow. "Agent Standish, do not assume that D’Amico’s death has rendered this situation harmless, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." For once, Ezra was perfectly serious. "I understand." Travis released him, and Ezra moved off, followed by Nathan, JD, and the three policemen. They vanished into the building and Josiah came to Travis’s side. He handed him an earpiece and a small microphone to clip on his lapel.

"From JD. He’s wired."

Travis uttered a silent thanks for the young agent’s forethought. He just hoped this device worked better than the last one. He hooked it over his ear. He heard JD’s breathless voice first. "We’re heading up on the elevator to the top floor. So far, haven’t seen anybody or anything. Place seems to be deserted."

"Agent Dunne, do you read me?"

"Yes, sir. No trouble here."

"Good. Just keep talking, son. Make me feel like I’m right there with you."

"We’re here, sir. Ezra and the cops are scoping out the hallway – looks empty. Nobody here."

Travis heard Ezra’s voice, couldn’t quite catch the words as he said something to JD. From the change in JD’s voice, he knew they were on the move. "What’s going on?" he asked.

"Sir, we’re trying the freight elevator that runs to the power and water plant on the roof." JD’s reply was followed by a dull thud as the doors were closed, the faint hum of the motor lifting the elevator. "They’re securing the floor ..."

"Nathan! JD!" Ezra’s voice sounded unnaturally strained even filtered through the electronics.

Then a moment later, JD’s shocked gasp. "Jesus, Buck!"

"Talk to me!" Travis was nearly shouting with frustration. He shoved through the lines of police, EMS crews, and FBI agents. "Josiah!" he grabbed the tall agent. "Get up there."

"Sir?"

"We have at least one agent down. Buck Wilmington."

Lord, oh, Lord. Josiah uttered an invocation. Travis was talking to the senior FBI man on the scene. He passed over the microphone Dunne had given to him. Then, drawing his own weapon, he nodded to Josiah. The two men slipped under the yellow tape blocking the door to the building and headed towards the elevator bays.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Ezra rounded the corner from the elevator bay to the large room housing the power, hydraulic, and water pumping system. The cement block walls were bare, the floor was hard concrete. The thrum and throb of machinery was disorienting until he adjusted to it. He waved the cops ahead, heard one of them call out urgently, "Agent Standish!"

He bolted ahead of JD and Nathan, his gun drawn, then halted so quickly that he nearly slipped on the slick concrete. Two bodies. One of them, Ronnie Fazio’s, had a knife sticking out of his chest. Buck Wilmington was half-propped up against a wall. The upper left shoulder of his shirt was bloody, he was pale as death, but his eyes were open and he was trying to shove the policeman out of his way as he struggled to get up.

Ezra knelt beside him and forced him back with a rather ruthless push of his hand against his uninjured shoulder. "Stay still! Nathan, JD! Over here!" His voice echoed hollowly around the concrete walls.

"Vin ... Chris ..." Buck gasped. "Roof ... Heard shots a while ago –"

Ezra looked at the cops. "Get up there. Be careful. Was there anybody else besides D’Amico, Buck?"

Wilmington’s head moved restlessly he licked his lips. "No ... don’t think so. But D’Amico’s a real snake –"

"A real dead snake, Mr. Wilmington." Ezra’s gold tooth showed briefly. "Trust me," he shushed Buck’s question before it was out.

Buck grabbed Ezra’s arm. "Get me up there. I gotta get up there!"

"I don’t think so, brother." Nathan knelt beside Wilmington and began a quick assessment of his injuries. "Only place you’re goin’ is down to the ambulance."

"I ain’t goin’ anywhere without knowing about Chris and Vin."

"Is he gonna be okay, Nathan?" JD’s face was screwed in a frown of worry as he watched the medic examine Buck’s wounded shoulder.

Buck’s hand moved dismissively. "Sure, kid," he reassured JD, but his blue eyes remained focused on Ezra. "Get Chris," he said weakly. "Hurry."

"I am on my way. Nathan, as soon as you can, get up to the roof. Agent Dunne, sit on Mr. Wilmington if you have to." He rose from his crouch just as one of the policemen called down the stairwell.

"Agent Standish! We need EMS up here, stat!"

Buck gasped, struggled against JD’s hold. The young agent’s eyes were wide, stricken, but he didn’t release Wilmington from his restraint. "Ezra –" JD entreated. The plea was there, the pain, the fear. Ezra wondered if those hazel eyes were a mirror of his own. He turned and ran up the steps.

The glare from the watery sunlight partially blinded him. He blinked, shielded his eyes. He saw two cops standing over the third, who was kneeling over two bodies, both frighteningly still. Ezra felt like he was strangling on his own breath. He jerked at his necktie as he crossed the roof, but found no relief from the tightness in his throat. He brushed past the two policemen screening his vision. "Are they ..." He had to pause, swallow.

The cop looked up at him. "Alive."

Thank God. Ezra sank to his knees beside his fallen comrades. Chris was lying on his back, his head turned slightly. There was blood oozing from a cut on his forehead, more blood at the corner of his mouth. The flesh around his eye was grotesquely swollen beneath the abraded, bruised skin. There was a dark and growing stain of blood on his white shirt. Something about that seemed odd ...

Vin’s body was draped limply over Larabee’s chest. Ezra bent closer and saw that it was his blood leaking onto Chris’s shirt. He gently swept aside the veil of brown hair. Tanner’s pale skin was cool, clammy to the touch. He looked nearly bled out -- and he was a man who couldn’t afford to lose much. "Nathan!" Ezra yelled, fear clamping down hard on his heart.

Jackson was there quickly with two EMTs. He started work on Vin first; moving him gently off Chris’s body once there was a cervical collar on him. He cut off the dark, bloody shirt, cursed softly under his breath. One of the techs raised Vin and checked his back. "Went through," he said. Ezra couldn’t tell from Nathan’s reaction if that was good news or bad.

They put a pressure bandage over the wound, front and back, took his blood pressure and pulse, and started an IV. Ezra knew enough medical terminology to be alarmed, but wouldn’t interrupt their work to ask questions. There would be time for that later.

Meanwhile, the other team was working on Larabee. A cervical collar immobilized his neck, his pupil reactions were checked, another IV started. One of the techs gently placed gauze pads to cushion Larabee’s injured face, then both men were lifted onto gurneys, wheeled carefully down the short flight of steps, and loaded into the freight elevator.

Ezra stood alone on the rooftop amid the detritus of gauze, tape, and plastic. The wind swirled it across the surface, sending it scuttling into corners where it was trapped along with the dust, ashes, and trash. Ezra took out his cell phone and called down to the command center. "We’re clear. Send up a forensics team." He heard a carillon chime in the distance. Less than an hour had passed since Vin had first gone to the rooftop. It seemed like an eternity.

"Ezra, you coming?" JD stood in the stairwell, holding the steel door open.

He sighed, shifted his shoulders which ached like the weight of the world was resting on them. "Yes, Mr. Dunne. I am."

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Travis and Josiah arrived in the lobby just as the EMS teams were coming through with Buck Wilmington’s gurney. Wilmington’s eyes were closed, his arm was strapped across his chest, an IV was dripping into the other arm, but he was clearly alive and looked likely to stay that way. JD was trotting alongside the EMTs, but when he saw Travis, he patted Buck’s leg and let the techs take care of loading him into an ambulance.

"Sir --" He approached Travis warily.

"Where are the others?" Travis asked more sharply than he had intended, and making JD take an involuntary step back before he answered.

"Chris and Vin ... the other teams are bringing them down. Sir, it’s bad."

"God."

JD swallowed hard, fighting his emotions. "Vin’s been shot, lost a lot of blood it looks like. And Chris ... I-I don’t know ... Nathan’ll tell you more than I can. I-I’m gonna ride with Buck if you don’t need me here."

Travis felt a sick churning in his gut fueled by worry, an enormous rage towards the bureaucrats in Washington who had been pushing for the investigation, and guilt for his own desire to prove his team the best. Well, he’d proved that in spades. Perhaps to their deaths.

"Sir?"

He realized JD was still waiting for permission. There was no reason to keep him here. Travis nodded. "Go ahead. Agent Dunne, thank you for your exemplary work on this case." A blush warmed the pallor in his cheeks. He nodded, the hank of dark hair falling over forehead making him look like he was fresh out of school, and compounding Travis’s guilt.

He watched as they loaded Wilmington in the ambulance, then turned on his heel and headed inside the building. They lobby was becoming crowded with police, FBI, Secret Service, ATF, crime scene techs. The news media would be admitted later. He could see them just beyond the doors; microphones on booms extended towards the Mayor’s press secretary, who seemed to be making an official statement.

Josiah was standing in the elevator bay watching the lighted display on the wall that indicated the position of every car. Only one was moving, coming down. "That should be Chris and Vin," he said quietly.

And then the doors were opening and the first gurney was wheeled out. Travis caught a glimpse of hair the color of rusty straw. Chris. Strapped down, unconscious. Bloody. Gauze bandages covered one side of his face.

Then Vin. Swathed in blankets, hooked up to an IV held high by one of the EMTs, as white and frail as a ghost. They were moving fast, and Travis didn’t get much of a look at him; but he saw enough to haunt him.

Ezra Standish and Nathan Jackson were last off the elevator. Jackson’s white shirt was stained red, his forearms were smeared with bloody streaks. His dark face was taut with worry. Following him, Ezra Standish was about as far from immaculate as Travis had ever seen him. His tie hung loose, his cuffs were edged with blood, his elegant trousers were dirty and snagged. And the look he fixed on Travis made him feel like one of the lower orders of slime. With cause, Travis thought inwardly. With cause.

"Nathan –"

He didn’t have to ask. Nathan answered with unflinching honesty. "We won’t know much until they get them to the hospital. Vin’s been shot. Chris’s been beaten up pretty bad. Might have a facial fracture around his eye. Might be bleeding internally. His blood pressure is way too low."

"God." Orrin rubbed his forehead. "Ezra, what happened up there?"

Ezra looked at him, his expression inscrutable. "That I am afraid I am unable to say at this time. You’ll have to ask your witnesses – if they survive." Slightly defiant, challenging, he walked away. It was the worst sort of insubordination, but Travis didn’t have the heart to fault him for it.

Josiah came to his side. "You want a ride to the hospital?"

Travis wanted nothing more. But he shook his head. "I can’t leave here. There are things that need to be put in order. That’s my job. I’ll meet you there later."

"Yes, sir."

"Josiah – I’d be there if I could."

Josiah nodded. "Judge, you do your work and let the docs and the Lord do theirs." He sighed. "I reckon things look mighty dark right now, but these men are tough. They’ve all been through worse than this."

"But not through any fault of mine," Travis replied bitterly. His grey gaze swept along the front of the building, seeing all that had happened as an accusation of failure to protect and defend the men he commanded. "Call me if there is any news."

Josiah nodded, walked away quickly. Travis squared his shoulders and went out to deal with the media, his investigative teams, and his conscience.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Two hours later, Dr. Elizabeth Stone stripped off her bloody surgical gloves and gown with a weary sigh of satisfaction. It hadn’t been easy, but her team of trauma specialists had fought the fight and won the last round. For now. Nobody knew better than she how easily death’s dark shadow could return. Infection, hemorrhage, blood clots; she had seen patients go from mending to mortally ill in the matter of hours. But somehow she doubted it would happen to these men. Not even death was willing to go mano-a-mano with a pissed-off Chris Larabee.

She pushed open the swinging door to the waiting area, and the four men waiting there rose as one and moved in unison towards her. Before they could start asking questions, she raised her hands. "Whoa, there. Just stop and listen to me, all right?"

"B-but –" JD started stuttering, and she shook her head.

"Listen to me." When he had subsided and the others backed down, she nodded. "Sit down." They did. "First, Buck Wilmington. He’s fine. He’s been transfused, patched up, and is already spreading his own brand of sweetness and light through the nursing staff. You can see him shortly, but only for a few minutes. Even Buck Wilmington needs to rest and recover."

She sensed a slight abatement in the level of anxiety at her news and she hoped she could offer some reassurance about the other two members of this extraordinary team. When she'd first met them, she had thought them the usual swaggering, macho, gun-toting lot of law enforcement officers she ran into too frequently, and Chris Larabee the most arrogant S.O.B. she'd ever met. It had taken only one true crisis to completely revise her opinion of them -- and that included Larabee. She had never seen more devotion, respect and love than these men had for each other. Even if every single one of them but JD Dunne could be a royal pain in the ass.

"Chris and Vin?" Nathan asked into her momentary pause.

Dr. Stone crossed her arms. "I wish their conditions were as uncomplicated as Buck’s. Chris sustained a fracture of the orbital area. When the swelling reduces, Dr. Rheinhardt will assess if there is any ocular impairment." When she saw their crestfallen expressions, she amended. "If there is – and that is only a possibility – it should resolve itself in a couple of weeks. A plastic surgeon will be consulted as well. The CT scan did not show any skull fractures, though he has a concussion. We sutured a gunshot wound to his scalp. His most serious problem wasn’t an injury at all, however. His ulcer perforated. We had to do a laparoscopic procedure to close it and clean his abdominal cavity. The surgery was successful, now we just have to wait for him to wake up. And we will be treating him with antibiotics and hopefully taking care of that difficulty." She paused for a breath.

"How is Vin?" Ezra asked quietly. There was no hint of his usual acerbic drawl. His green eyes were intent, shadowed.

"Why that man isn’t dead is beyond me," she said with a wondering shake of her head. "Oh, his gunshot wound wasn’t particularly serious. No major damage to any internal organs or large blood vessels, but the bullet did tear a good chunk out of his side. His blood counts were low already and that didn’t help. He’s exhausted, run down. He has two cracked metatarsal bone in his left hand, and a low grade infection from a small abscess in his liver caused by his earlier injury. Getting shot might have saved his life." She frowned, exasperated and relieved because it could have been so much worse.

"Can we see him and Chris?" JD asked.

"You can see them, but they won’t see you," she smiled slightly. "I’ll have somebody come down to get you as soon as they are settled in rooms. Now, get out of my ER and let some other patients monopolize me for a change."

"Thank you." Josiah said. "We appreciate what you’ve done for us." His big hand gently engulfed Dr. Stone’s.

"Prove it by staying out of my ER," she smiled up at him. "Though I don’t expect that you gentlemen will." She retreated behind the swinging door.

Josiah laid his arm over JD’s shoulder. "I don’t know about you, son. But I just realized I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Anybody else up for a run to the cafeteria?"

Ezra shook his head. "I will pass on that gustatory experience, thank you. But don’t let my reluctance prevent you from the culinary indulgence of high fat, low flavor cuisine."

JD gave a snort of laughter. "Shoot, Ezra. Why don’t ya just say you’re not hungry?"

"I thought I did."

Nathan listened to the banter, astonished by the resilient spirits of his comrades and more grateful than he could say that they weren’t mourning that evening for the three men who had put their lives on the line that afternoon. "You sure you won’t come with us, Ezra?" he asked before he followed Josiah and JD down the hall.

"No thank you, my friend. I need some time to sort out the events of this afternoon. I expect Orrin Travis will be here shortly, and I imagine he will be looking for answers."

"Bring ya some coffee?"

Ezra felt a faint astonishment that they wouldn’t let this go. That their friendship could endure all that it had and they could still offer more was a mystery that he hadn’t quite figured out. Maude had never taught him that particular lesson. "I would be grateful. Milk, no sugar."

"I know." Nathan grinned and left Ezra even more astonished.

He sank back down in the vinyl chair and sat with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His thoughts were too fragmented to make much sense. He pulled a deck of cards from his inside pocket and expertly shuffled them, setting out a game of solitaire on the low table in front of his chair. It wouldn’t help him formulate answers to Travis’s questions, but it would help pass the time.

He was still alone when a nurse’s aide came through the swinging doors. She looked at the paper in her hand." Anybody here to see Buck Wilmington, Chris Larabee, or Vin Tanner?"

He swept the cards up from the table. "I am. The others are in the cafeteria."

"Oh. Okay. Mr. Wilmington is in Room 509. Mr. Tanner and Mr. Larabee are in surgical ICU. Dr. Stone gave her permission to visit there. Why don’t you go on up to SICU first, and I’ll get the others. Do you need directions?"

Ezra nearly laughed. "No. No, I assure you I can find my way without guidance." She gave him an odd look, but he was already on his way towards the elevators. The SICU floor was nearly silent, no visitors but him so far. The lights were low, the quiet disturbed only by the electronic sounds of monitoring equipment and the quiet voices of the nurses and doctors on duty. Ezra stopped at the nurses’ station. "I am here to see Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee."

The nurse looked up from her work and smiled. "Rooms 7 and 8. Dr. Stone told us they had to be near each other."

"They would appreciate that." He left the desk and found Vin’s "room". Hardly a room, a glass-walled cubicle. He stood looking down at the man in the bed. "Mr. Tanner," he sighed. "You do lead us all a merry dance, my friend. I wish this once you had been more cautious." Too pale, too thin in the narrow bed. Ezra brushed a knuckle across Vin’s forehead, clearing the strands of hair from the damp skin. "We owe you an incalculable debt that you will never acknowledge. So, my friend, the least I can do is thank you even though you cannot hear it. *Thank you.*" Then ashamed of his sentimental gesture, he pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot iron.

His eyes burned. He rubbed them, surprised to feel tears on his cheeks. Maude would be appalled. He looked up. The curtains over the glass walls of the next cubicle had been left open. Inside, the light over Chris Larabee’s bed shed a dim glow on his blond hair. His face was bandaged, but turned towards the glass partition as if he were aware of Vin’s presence.

Ezra shook his head, smiling. Elizabeth Stone deserved every cent of her undoubtedly outrageous salary. He couldn’t think of another doctor who would have known that neither man would rest easy unless they could open their eyes and see each other the instant consciousness returned.

He saw the others standing at the nurses’ station and knew he had to leave before any one else could enter. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat, and hoped that there were no telltale tracks of tears on his face. That, he would never live down.