Orrin Travis regarded the three men in his office through narrowed eyes. The plan they were proposing sent a cold chill to the pit of his stomach. Any undercover operation had inherent risks, this one, with the double-cross inevitable, and involving the possible duplicity of Williams and his investigators, had more pitfalls than traversing an Arctic crevasse.

"I don't like it," he said.

Vin leaned forward. "The way I see it, sir, Ezra's pretty damn close t'bein' suspended, if Williams has his way. C'n you tell me that he ain't gonna bring it to somebody's attention that Ezra musta tried t'kill himself, jist 'cause that's the way it looks to an outsider? Leak a few hints that maybe guilt had driven him to it?"

"We have evidence that contradicts that."

"Yeah, but why waste it?" Vin argued. "Look, Judge. Ya got D'Amico tryin' t'take control of his uncle's business and Ronnie Fazio anglin' to be his muscle, an' maybe more 'n that. They know someone inside sold out the old man to us. Ya got Williams on yer back about Ezra -- claimin' he's responsible for breakin' the operation before we got a chance t'shut it down. And we still don't know who sold Ezra out, do we? Might be Williams, might not. Me 'n Ezra are the only ones with contacts on both sides. You cut us loose, and we c'n play those two sides off 'a one another."

"We are only followin' the path that has been laid down for us by circumstance, sir," Ezra spoke softly.

"That path could lead to unforeseen consequences," Travis said.

"If you will pardon my objections, I *have* seen those consequences," Ezra countered.

Travis studied Ezra. He stood restlessly. Paced. Weighed common sense against the wishes of his heart. He respected all the agents he supervised, but this team of seven extraordinary men was precious to him, every one. He looked at Chris Larabee. He'd known Chris for a while, well enough to think of him like a son. He still hoped that Chris and Mary would find a way to reconcile their stubborn spirits ...

"Orrin ... what do you think?" Chris asked.

He brought himself back to the issue at hand. "I don't like it, Chris."

"This job requires us to do a lot of things we don't like. But we do them." He met Travis's level gaze. "Par for the course."

Travis relented, still hating the thought of the danger Standish and Tanner were facing. "Give me until tomorrow morning to get the paperwork in order. If we're going to do this, it has to look good."

If he had expected jubilation at their successful campaign to win him over, he would have been disappointed. If anything, the mood became more somber. Chris rose and held out his hand. "Thanks, Orrin."

"You don't owe me gratitude for this, Chris." He shook Chris's hand, then offered his to Vin and Ezra. "But I believe my debt to you will be incalculable if you succeed."

They left Travis's office and stood waiting for the elevator. Chris scowled at the numerical display. "Shit."

Vin laughed softly. "You were hopin' he'd say no?"

Chris's mouth thinned in a mirthless smile. "Kinda was."

"We seem to have reached the point of no return," Ezra said.

"No. You listen to me, the both of you. It's never too late to back out of this." The elevator doors opened, quelling any other words Chris would have added, and maybe that was for the best, he thought.

They took the elevator down to their floor. Buck, JD, Josiah, and Nathan were at their desks. They all looked up as Chris strode through the door. "Don't you guys ever go home?" he asked.

Buck rose lazily from his chair. "Thought we'd all go out for a drink. You've been keepin' us out a the loop, Chris, and I think it's time you brought us all up to date." He passed a sheet of paper over to Chris. "Williams asked me t'deliver this to ya. Said you ought to know he's taking this to Travis."

Chris's first reaction was anger. Then the irony of it struck home. He looked at Vin and Ezra. "This is a formal request for an immediate suspension from active duty for Agents Standish and Tanner, pending an investigation into their roles in the D'Amico case."

Silence, and then Ezra drawled, "Don't you just love it when a plan comes together?"

******************

They gathered around their tables at Inez's bar, a pitcher of beer, glasses, a couple orders of nachos shared between them. To the casual observer, they would have looked like a bunch of guys getting together after work for a drink. To Inez Recillos, who knew them better, they looked like brothers in arms gathering before a battle. She sensed the tension beneath their usual banter, the grim, wild look in Buck's eyes as he flirted with her -- reflexive -- Buck would have flirted with her on his deathbed, and probably with more enthusiasm than he did that night. She didn't like seeing any of it. These men were her friends, and she worried for them. She saw Buck gesture for a refill on the beer, and she drew one and carried it over to the table. She set it down and gave Vin a curious look. He was never a heavy drinker, but tonight he hadn't even had one glass, just sat there nursing a cola.

"Not drinking?" she asked.

He raised the can of pop. "Got another one a' these?"

"Watch it, Senor Tanner or I'll have to cut you off," she smiled.

"S'all right, I ain't the designated driver." He ducked away as she reached to ruffle his hair, making Buck clear his throat irritably. Inez bumped up against Buck playfully, and walked away to get Vin his drink.

Buck gave a last longing look at her trim figure before he turned his attention to more serious matters. "You ready to talk, Larabee?"

Chris took a swallow of his beer. "Ezra was drugged."

"Shit."

"We can't risk another attempt on his life, or Vin's. So we had already decided to take the initiative with Travis providing the cover of suspensions. Seems like Williams has done us a favor by making it look even more official."

JD spoke up, "I can understand why Williams is so keen on getting Ezra -- I mean we all knew that he suspected Ezra of being on the take -- but why's he going after Vin?"

Vin's voice was soft, but no one had trouble hearing him. "Reckon it jist seems that me'n Ezra are in this t'gether. Don't make much sense, but Williams is only seein' what he wants t'see. And he sees me as crooked." His lips turned in a wry smile. "Might as well oblige him."

"You were nearly killed!" JD sputtered indignantly.

Vin shrugged. It was Ezra who answered. "Hazards of our profession," he said.

There was silence then; a moment when mortality seemed to hover over the table, and Chris felt a shiver down his spine. Josiah raised his glass. "May they be small."

And they all drank to that.

Buck set his glass down with a sigh. "So, how is this all goin' down, Chris?"

"My guess is that Orrin will announce the suspensions in the morning. Vin and Ezra will leave the office under a cloud of suspicion and rumor. And I guess we'll go on from there."

"Damn, cowboy. Ya don't have t'make it sound so damn cheerful," Vin rasped. His throat was tight, his stomach cold with the thought of losing what he had fought so hard to earn. Orrin would have to do some fancy damage control when this was over, and Vin wasn't sure that would be enough to erase the taint. Suddenly, he was very tired. He shoved an elbow into Chris. "Sorry, I'm headin' home. Fall asleep in m'drink if I don't."

Chris slid out of the booth. "JD, you hear from Jimmy yet?"

"I gave him a call before I left the office. He'll get back to me."

"Ezra, are you gonna be all right?"

"I am stayin' with Josiah tonight. My cleaning service won't be there until tomorrow, and I have no desire to spend the evenin' surveying the debris left by the forensics team."

Chris half-suspected that there was another reason Ezra had accepted Josiah's hospitality, and he was grateful that Sanchez had offered it. "Buck, you and JD be careful."

Buck raised a surprised brow. "Sure, Chris."

Nathan stood to leave. All of this just made him want to go home to Rain, take her in his arms, and be thankful that he was not involved in this case to the extent that Vin and Ezra were. But it didn't stop him from worrying about his friends. "Wait up, Chris. Walk ya out."

They walked to the Ram. The night was clear, warm. The sounds of the city drifted around them; the rush of traffic, the music from the bars. Vin leaned against the side of the truck, waiting for Chris to open the locks. Nathan frowned at him, and Vin smiled.

"Back off, Nate. I'm all right." The door locks popped, and Vin opened the door, warning Nathan off from helping him. "Ain't eighty years old or crippled up, doc."

Nathan scowled. "You take it easy, Vin."

"Looks like I'll have time t'put my feet up." He hauled himself into the Ram. "Tell Rain I'm doing fine."

Chris stood with his hand on the door, listening to the worry in Nathan's voice and the tension in Vin's. Nothing seemed right, nothing seemed to fit in his mind, and that made him uneasy. He held out his hand to Nathan. "Thanks, Nate."

"See ya in the mornin', Chris."

"Sure." He climbed in and started the engine. He glanced over at Tanner. His head was tilted back against the headrest, his eyes closed. "Vin, seat belt."

"Yeah." Still with his eyes closed, he reached up and pulled the webbing across his lap. "Jist drive, Chris."

He did, through the city streets to Purgatorio. Vin was silent, the radio was playing quietly; mournful country music that Chris turned off because it suited his mood too well. When he pulled up in front of Vin's building, he killed the ignition, but didn't get out of the truck.

Vin turned his head. "Guess this is it, cowboy." He pushed his spine upright and wrestled with the lock on the seat belt until he remembered the trick and it slid free. "Ya ever gonna git that fixed?"

"Maybe." Chris gave him a thin smile. Even in the dim light of the cab, Vin looked pale, his eyes wide and dark. There were times when the prospect of undercover work was like a hit of adrenaline, when the need to hunt and catch was strong and primal, and Vin seemed to shimmer with the challenge. But not this assignment. And that had Chris worried.

"Chris?" Vin's whisper was low and hoarse.

"Yeah?"

"Go home t'night. Okay?"

"You sure?"

Vin nodded. "I need ..." he shrugged a slim shoulder. "I guess it starts here."

"It's play-acting, Vin," Chris reminded him. "You said it yourself."

Vin looked at him levelly. "It's never jist that." His lips curved. "Reckon I got the scars t'prove it." He shifted to open the door, caught the brief, stricken look in Chris's eyes. "Don't sweat it, Chris. Me n' Ezra, we've been there before and come out all right."

"Watch your back, partner."

"I will, partner." Vin held out his hand and Chris gripped his forearm tightly. "You watch yours, Larabee. Life's as raw on the inside as it is on the out." He opened the door, and Chris watched until he was inside. He started the Ram, waited until he saw Vin's lights come on, then drove away. Suddenly, relief at spending the night in the familiar surroundings of his home flooded through him, and he took to the highway like the demons of hell were at his heels.

****************

Mary Travis's cool, professional voice floated over the image of a tense, harried-looking Chris Larabee, hounded by the press and accompanied by Buck Wilmington on one side and Josiah Sanchez on the other. Vin, watching the news with Ezra, felt like it was all a bad dream that was happening to someone else. It left him with a nauseous, disoriented feeling.

Ezra set a glass of soda in front of Vin. "Mr. Tanner, it seems we are well and truly fucked."

"Then how come I ain't got that 'afterglow' they're always talkin' about?" Vin took a deep swallow of cola and wished it was beer, whiskey, anything to bring oblivion. "Chris looked tired," he said, apropos to nothing.

"I imagine Mr. Larabee has been having a much rougher time than you and I. I don't suppose it will last, however. Sooner or later, someone is bound to discover where we live."

"Hell, we c'n always go t'my place if it gits too bad. Least they won't hang around the front door waitin' fer us. Too scared."

"I believe I will pass on that offer, my friend."

"Might change your mind." Vin raised the glass as Ezra's phone rang. Standish started to pick up, then hesitated, when he didn't recognize the number on his caller ID.

"Telemarketer," Ezra said hopefully.

"Reporter, betcha five."

When the phone rang again less than a minute later. Ezra snatched up the phone. "No comment," he snapped, hung up, and handed Vin a five dollar bill. "They shouldn't have this number."

Vin lifted a brow. "If there's a story in it, they'll find a way t'git it, Ezra." He reached over and unplugged the phone. "Chris'd use the cells anyway," he said and slumped down in the chair. He was tired, his head hurt, and his side ached. He hadn't slept much the night before; had lain awake trying to figure out what was going to happen, and dreading what the morning would bring.

He had worked so hard for this job. For this life. From nowhere, clawing his way through a system that had treated him like trash, finding his way through the maze of his learning disabilities, learning to use his unique talents and occasionally suffering because of them. Then Chris Larabee had reached out a hand in friendship and brotherhood, and he had found a home. He should've known something would conspire to rip that away from him.

He sighed. Just another day, just another fight.

Ezra's cell phone rang, and he answered it. Vin only half-paid attention to the conversation until he heard Ezra's mention his name and Ronnie Fazio's in the same sentence, then he sat bolt upright, fast.

"I'm certain that can be arranged, Mr. D'Amico," Ezra drawled, one eyebrow cocked at Vin. "Let us know the time and the place, and it will be a pleasure." He closed the phone and looked at Vin. "As you have no doubt gathered, that was our friend, Troy D'Amico. He would like a demonstration of your talents, Mr. Tanner."

"Shit," Vin breathed. "Looks like bad news travels fast. What kind of demonstration?" he asked suspiciously. "I ain't up t'fightin', Ez."

"Marksmanship, my friend. Marksmanship. I trust there is nothing wrong with your eyes."

"Not that I know," Vin said. "He say anything about when this shindig would be takin' place?"

"He'll let us know in an hour."

"Gotta git my rifle."

"He said he would supply the weapons for the demonstration."

Vin scowled. "I don't much like the sound of that."

"I thought you could take the eye out of a penny with a pea-shooter."

"When I'm usin' my own pea-shooter," Vin quipped, but serious at the heart of it. A sniper used his own rifle, knew it more intimately than he knew his own body; knew the way it shot, the feel of it nestled against his cheek, the crosshairs of the scope, the way it worked in heat, in cold, in rain, in wind.

"It's a demonstration, Vin. Not a job."

Vin got off the couch. "You keep believin' that, Ezra. I'm gonna take a shower, git some of the cobwebs outta my brain."

******************

Troy D'Amico set the phone back in its cradle with a fastidious motion, and turned his attention to Ronnie Fazio. "There, it's done."

"Falling into your hands like ripe fruit?" Ronnie Fazio sneered. "I don't think so."

"I'm not a fool -- don't ever take me for one," D'Amico said in a voice like cold silk. "A trap needed to be baited. That's what has been done." He went to the window with its view of Denver, the city that he wanted to own -- the city that he would own if his plan worked out. "Arrange for Mr. Tanner's trial. Make it as soon as possible. I want to be there, but I don't want him to know that I am watching. You *do* understand?"

"I understand."

"Good." He lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke. "Do it."

Fazio gave him an ugly glance, but he obeyed. D'Amico was too dangerous to cross, and Ronnie had every intention of coming out of this plot a very rich and very powerful man. And when he was, Troy D'Amico would be as expendable as his uncle had been.

**************

Chris paced the length of Orrin Travis's office, waiting for the AD to return from a meeting upstairs with the bureau chief. Politics. He should have known that's what this would come down to -- the Suits making decisions about the men who were in the trenches. It was a fucked up world; it was amazing that it worked as often as it did.

He heard the door open and turned to it, expecting Travis, and instead found himself face to face with Ed Williams. Great. Williams looked just about as thrilled to be face to face with him. Chris folded his arms. "You come to gloat?"

"Why should I? I would think that you'd be relieved to have the truth out it the open. It must have stung to realize that you didn't know your team as well as you believed."

"Fuck you," Chris growled. "You haven't proven a God damned thing -- all you've done it break up the best ATF team in the country for no reason but your own ugly suspicions. You're wrong."

"Prove it."

"I don't have to prove anything to you, Williams. And it's not my men who should be under investigation." Chris felt his gorge rise in his throat. Damn Travis anyway. Orrin could page him when he returned from his meeting. He was nearly out the door when he heard Travis's voice from the outer office and knew he was trapped.

Travis entered. "Gentlemen." His eyes swept the room, as if he expected to find evidence of a struggle in his office. The tension was thick enough to cut, and, judging from Larabee's expression, nearly murderous. "Sit down."

They did, warily, unable to disobey the direct order. Orrin took his place behind his desk. "The director has requested an internal affairs investigation of Ezra Standish and Vin Tanner's involvement in the D'Amico matter."

Chris's stomach felt like a hot poker had punched through the wall. "Internal affairs?"

"Afraid that they'll discover something you've missed?" Williams asked casually. "One way or another, it should clear things up, Larabee. I would think you'd be grateful to have the doubts resolved."

"There are no doubts," Chris said harshly. "You've told me, Orrin. Is there anything else you have to say?"

"Agent Larabee --" The tone of Travis's voice was a warning Chris knew he couldn't ignore. If it were just himself and Orrin in that office, maybe. But with Williams there, he couldn't rely on their friendship to outweigh his anger.

"I'm sorry, sir," he apologized. "But an internal investigation reeks of a witch hunt. Vin and Ezra don't deserve that sort of treatment."

"It will be a fair investigation, Chris."

"Of course it will." He looked into Travis's eyes, saw anger warring with sympathy, and didn't know which emotion to believe. He was spared having to make that decision by the vibration of his pager at his waist. He looked down. Vin's cell phone number showed in the display. "I'm sorry, Orrin. I have to get this." He left the inner office and pulled out his phone, hitting the speed dial for Vin's. He went out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, waiting for an answer.

"Hey, cowboy."

Some of the tension that had built up in Chris relaxed when he heard the lazy rasp of Vin's voice in his ear. "What's up?" he asked.

"Seems D'Amico wants t'see me shoot."

"What?"

Vin cleared his throat. "He called Ezra. Said he wants to see me shoot. Sounds like he thinks I'd do a job fer him."

"Shit."

"Yeah, well, I cain't exactly say that to him. We're meetin' at the Sportsmen's Club gun range in an hour."

"Think I'll take a run out there. You always put on a good show, partner."

"Might not be such a good idea, Chris."

"They don't know me. *You* won't know me."

"Chris, what's goin' on down there?"

"You don't wanna hear it, trust me."

"Tell me."

Chris sighed and thrust a hand through his hair. He couldn't remember a time when his head didn't hurt from the top of his spine to the roots of his hair. "I just left Travis and Williams. The bastard's pushed for an official Internal Affairs investigation."

Vin's snort of derision crackled in Chris's ear. "They ain't gonna find anything."

"Not on you, Vin. But Ezra's been in trouble before. They might not be so willing to overlook any blips on his record."

"That's a crock a' shit, Larabee."

"You and I know that. But it doesn't look good. I thought you ought to know anyway."

"You want me t'tell Ezra?"

"Maybe. I don't know ..."

"I'll tell him."

"Thanks."

"See ya at the range, partner."

"No, you won't." Chris disconnected. He stared at Travis's door, then turned on his heel and walked away. He wasn't going to go back in there with Williams. If Travis wanted to talk to him, he knew how to find him.

*********************

The Sportsmen's Club was located in a lush park on the outskirts of Denver. For over a hundred years it had been the premier gathering place for Denver's elite. Business men, social leaders, sports figures, entertainers. It boasted some fine facilities, including indoor and outdoor shooting ranges that were state of the art.

Vin and Ezra pulled up to the valet parking at the pillared entrance. Ezra handed the valet his keys and looked around at the luxurious facade. "My, my. Impressive, isn't it?"

"You ever been here, before?"

"I have not, but I wouldn't mind being a more frequent visitor. I'd be willin' to bet there are some fine games to be had in the back rooms here."

"Gambling?" Vin grinned at the southerner. "Ez, I'm shocked."

"I know, I know. It's a sad vice, but fortunately a profitable one. My instructions were to go to the front desk where we would be escorted to the shooting range."

"Inside or out?"

Ezra shrugged. "That, I don't know."

Vin followed Ezra through double oak doors manned by doormen who looked like uniformed bouncers. Funny, he wouldn't have thought a place like this needed muscle to keep out the riffraff. Ezra, wearing chinos and a salmon-colored Ralph Lauren polo, passed through with a gracious nod of his head and Vin followed his lead.

He sauntered in, knowing that he wasn't exactly the sort of client who usually walked through those doors -- more like the fellers doing delivery at the back. Blue jeans, boots, a black T-shirt. Let'em stare. He wondered how Chris was going to get through those doors, and then he remembered Mary Travis. Bet she'd pull a few strings in exchange for a dinner with Chris.

Ezra went to the hospitality/visitor desk and gave his name. The young man at the desk disappeared into the back office, and a moment later a gentleman wearing a blazer with the emblem of the club on the breast pocket came out. He offered his hand. "Mr. Standish, Mr. Tanner. I'm Roger Anderson, the facilities director. Welcome to the Sportsmen's Club. Mr. D'Amico called ahead to make the arrangements for you to use our ranges. If you will follow me?"

Ranges. Seemed like he was going to be tested indoors and out. Well, he could do that, too.

They followed Anderson to a porticoed entrance where they picked up a golf cart and were driven from the clubhouse to a less picturesque structure screened by a line of pine trees. Vin figured it for the indoor range. It was, and Ronnie Fazio was waiting inside the front door.

Vin's hackles rose, and he tried to smooth them down a bit by telling himself that this was just another day on another shooting range. Didn't matter if Fazio spit on his shoes. He wasn't here to impress Fazio.

"You're on time," he said shortly.

"Of course." Ezra smiled, pleasant until you looked into his eyes. "I wouldn't want to keep Mr. D'Amico waiting."

"Mr. D'Amico isn't here. I'm reporting to him."

"Oh." Ezra's raised brow spoke of disdain, and Vin was amused to see the color mottling Fazio's face. Maybe he'd stroke out. "Well, then. Shall we get started? I'm sure we all have better things to do."

"Watch it, or the only better thing you'll be doing is attending your own funeral."

"I tremble to think of it," Ezra drawled and only winked when he saw Vin's warning shake of his head.

They checked in at the desk where Vin was issued goggles and hearing protection, and given a pick of weapons. Without his own guns, he chose a nearly identical Sig-Sauer and a Remington 700 VS sniper rifle that had a nice balance to it and was standard police issue. His own gun was an M24 SWS, the Ranger sniper rifle he'd used in the army, but the Remington had a familiar enough feel to it. "These two."

The shooting lanes were much like the ones he practiced on at the police range, only the amenities were more luxurious. He looked around. There was a long mirrored window high up on the wall behind him, and he knew that was for observers and silvered not so much for secrecy as to keep spectators from disturbing the shooters. Nice touch. He wondered if Chris was up there in the gallery, watching. Maybe that's what he meant when he said Vin wouldn't see him. He should have figured Chris would have known the facilities. He'd fit right in with the elite clientele. Probably had come as Travis's guest.

An attendant came up to him, smiling. "Can I help you with anything, sir?" He set a pitcher of water and a towel on a bench behind Vin. "Our lanes are set up at twenty, fifty, and seventy-five feet. Automatic target return. If you need anything just wave your hand and someone will help you."

"Just wave my hand," Vin nodded. "Got it. Thanks."

He picked up the Sig and turned to the targets. It had been more than a week since he'd shot for scores. The last time he'd fired his gun had been in the alley outside the Buell Arena, and he wasn't sure his aim and stamina were back to par. He took a deep breath and chambered his magazine. Let the games begin.

*************

Tanner was good. Very good. Troy D'Amico was impressed. He sat in a leather chair behind the mirrored glass and watched as Tanner put a bullet dead in the heart of the paper assailant time after time, distance beyond distance. He was looking forward to the rifle range. He leaned forward hungrily. He was so absorbed in his observation that he didn't notice the tall blond man who came into the gallery and stood watching the exhibition until it was over.

"Pretty impressive," the man said, inclining his head towards the range. "Must be a pro."

"One of the finest," D'Amico said. He brushed past Chris, not giving him a second look. Chris stayed in the gallery. He saw Vin take the goggles off, the muffling headphones. He looked tired, and Chris cursed softly. Ronnie Fazio was saying something to Ezra, who nodded. Then the three of them took off.

Chris had seen that Vin was taking the sniper rifle with him, and he knew they were going to the outdoor range. He asked the desk attendant for transportation and borrowed a pair of binoculars. He drove down to the range in one of the golf carts. Watching on the field range would be trickier, but he figured if D'Amico saw him, he could just say that he was interested in seeing Tanner shoot. If D'Amico gave him a sideways look, he'd back off.

He parked the golf cart at the edge of a line of trees and got out. The field range was set up in a large, flat meadow. Aside from the bleacher seating at some distance from the firing line, it looked oddly familiar. He could have been back in Quantico, at the FBI range. He wondered if Vin noticed the same thing. He settled his back against a tree trunk and looked through the binoculars. No sign of D'Amico. Had he decided he'd seen enough and left, or was he hidden, like Chris was? Chris panned the binocs along the trees and spotted him, at a vantage point nearly opposite Chris, but slightly elevated on a low hill. For some reason, he didn't want Vin to know he was watching. Funny, when Chris wished Vin knew that he was watching.

******************

He was lucky. The day was relatively windless. The air was still and dry. The rifle was satisfactory -- not as good as his own weapon, but serviceable. The scope was a piece of shit, though, and that would make accuracy more difficult. Hell, why should he give a damn anyways?

The first target was ready. Vin took a breath, steadied himself. Set the butt against his shoulder and the stock against his cheek. Settled his elbow. Settled his pulse, and in that millisecond between heartbeats, drew a bead and fired.

Ten minutes later, he stopped and set the rifle down. Sweat was running from his hairline, down his cheek, and dripping on the ground beneath him. His arms were shaking. He wiped his forehead on his arm, picked up the rifle and stood up slowly. He handed the weapon to Fazio. "Reckon I've proved myself." He turned to Ezra. "Can we go now?"

Fazio stepped forward. "Wait a minute --"

Ezra stood between Fazio and Vin, moving quickly to interpose his body between them. "No, we will not wait a minute. Mr. Tanner has demonstrated his talents, and there is no reason -- none -- for him to prove himself to you, to Troy D'Amico, or to God. And frankly, I don't know why the hell you even bothered with this. It seems to me that you should already know."

He touched Vin's arm. "Mr. Tanner, may I offer you a ride?"

Silent, but more grateful than he could say, Vin followed Ezra to the golf cart. By the time they reached the clubhouse, he had recovered his strength, but he didn't argue when Ezra coaxed him into the long bar and ordered whiskey for himself, water for Vin, and prime rib sandwiches. He had to laugh when Ezra told the waiter to add it to D'Amico's tab.

"You've got brass balls there, Ez," he said around a mouthful of honey-roasted cashews.

"I will take that as a compliment, Mr. Tanner."

"S'meant as one." He raised his glass slightly. "Brass balls."

"Crude, but true." Ezra grinned. "I have found it to be an asset in this line of work."

"You're right about that," Vin acknowledged. The waiter returned with their sandwiches. Vin had already decided that he would choke it down just to spite D'Amico. As he took the first bite of the tender meat and flavorful bread, he discovered he was hungry as well. He waited for Ezra to finish eating, weighing his options about telling Ezra what Chris had told him. He figured there was no use in delaying it. "Chris called right before we came here."

"And how is our esteemed leader?"

Vin snorted. "Steamed is more like it. He'd been in with Travis and Williams."

Ezra's brow lifted. "Charmin' man."

"Dangerous man. Ezra, he's goin' to Internal Affairs with what he has."

Ezra snorted. "I was *undercover,* or has that small detail been overlooked?"

Vin shifted on the leather bench seat. "Chris says it looks like."

Ezra crumpled up his napkin, pitched it on the table with a look of disgust. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Hell, Ez. I's ready when we walked in the door."

*************************

Chris was alone in the office, having ordered everyone else home at six. Buck had been the last hold-out, arguing until Chris promised that he wouldn't stay later than seven. Even at that, he half-expected Buck to call every fifteen minutes to check and see if he was out the door. He spent most of the time taking care of paperwork that had piled up on his desk over the last few days. It was mindless work, but it kept his thoughts from useless and frustrating paths.

He kept seeing Vin on the firing range; the perfection of his marksmanship, and the cost of that perfection on his physical well-being. When he had finished, he had been exhausted. Chris had seen that even without the aid of the binoculars. He had waited until Ezra herded Vin to the golf cart, and then had hung around watching Fazio stalk the range.

He had been rewarded by the appearance of D'Amico. He drove up, spoke to Fazio, then the two of them had driven down to the targets, which D'Amico tore from the frames before they headed back to the clubhouse. Chris had sat in the shadows of the trees until the flesh on his arms pimpled from the growing chill of late afternoon.

His foul mood hadn't abated much since.

"If this door was wood, it would'a burst into flames from them green lasers yer aimin' at it, ol' pard." Buck said as he sauntered in and dropped with a sigh on Chris's couch. "Thought you said you were leavin'?"

"I thought I sent you home," Chris said sourly.

"An' I went home. Stopped fer a beer at Inez's, took JD back to the loft. Canceled my date --"

Chris's eyebrow rose. "Canceled your date?"

"Well, delayed it for an hour. She's willin' t'wait."

"I don't need you sitting with me."

"Hell, Chris. Y'ain't looked in the mirror lately, have you?"

Chris scrubbed his fingers over his face, as if that could erase every line of pain and fatigue etched there. "I'm all right."

Buck leaned forward. "You ain't all right, Chris. I've been watchin' you wear yourself down ever since Vin was shot. You ain't eatin', you ain't sleepin', and yer poppin' those ulcer pills and pain killers like they was candy."

"I've slept," Chris objected.

"Yeah, when ya can't keep your eyes open for another minute. And I bet they pop right back open after an hour." Chris's shoulders drooped and Buck pounced. "I'm right about that, Chris, and there ain't no use in gettin' all riled up at me. We've been through a lot of times -- good and bad -- so I figure I've earned the right to worry about you." Buck's bright blue eyes softened in concern.

"Thanks, Buck. I appreciate it."

"Then shut down that damn computer and let me buy you dinner. Or maybe we'll do take out and you can bunk with me and JD tonight. We've got a room and a bed for you."

Chris slumped in his chair. "Feelin' a bit like a package being passed from place to place, lately. Nate, Vin, you and JD... Josiah's probably barring his door."

Buck grinned. "Yer always welcome, Chris. You know that, right?"

"I'm gonna wear out my welcome real quick."

"Nah. We'll give ya fair warnin'. C'mon." He jerked his head towards the door. "Let's blow this pop stand, stud."

Knowing he was defeated, Chris surrendered; too tired to argue and too lonely to turn Buck's offer down. And at the back of his mind was the thought that maybe JD had heard back from his computer geek. He wanted something on Williams -- even it if was nothing but a grain of sand he could use to irritate the man.

He stared to shut down his computer. "Buck, why don't you go on, and I'll meet you at your place. I've got a couple stops to make."

"Chris ..." Buck warned.

"The bank and the drugstore. That's all."

"Better not be anything else tucked in there, Larabee."

"Get your ass outta here, before I change my mind."

Buck left, and Chris switched the CPU off. He turned off his desk lamp, got up to get his coat. The floor was quiet -- this was not one of the areas of the building that ran 24/7, even if the agents were on call. Chris flipped off the office lights and closed the door. He walked down the long, tiled hall, his boot heels hollow on the linoleum. It was very dim, only the exit lights at either end of the hall were lit, and that should have been a warning to him. He got to the elevators, pushed the down button and turned towards the window at the end of the bay. If there hadn't been a ghost of a reflection in the window, he would have been a dead man.

A wavering shape, dark. And something in Chris's mind told him to drop, and he did, not even thinking or reacting consciously, but like he had done in the SEALs, drawing his pistol from his shoulder holster and firing a millisecond after the muzzle flash and sharp hiss of a silenced bullet left his assailant's gun. But Chris's sudden movement had disrupted his aim, and the bullet smacked into the window, shattering it into pebbles of glass that exploded over Chris's hair. Instinctively, he sheltered his face and eyes from the flying glass, firing blindly into the dark hall, and knowing that the shooter had escaped.

The stairs! Chris sprinted for the nearest exit, shoved his shoulder into the door and burst through. He leaned over the rail, trying to see the flights below him and caught sight of a gloved hand on the rail. He wasn't fool enough to fire blindly down the concrete stairwell. He gave chase down four flights; then heard the door open on the landing below him. *Shit*, once that door shut he might not be able to get out. He leaped over the rail, landing hard on the concrete floor, the shock vibrating all the way through his knees and thighs.

The door was still open a scant two inches, but was closing when Chris reached it, grabbed the edge and started to haul against the weight. A bullet scored sparks along the metal edge and he leaped back as a series of shots rang off the face of the door. Swearing, panting, he had no choice but the let the door close. He sank down to floor, chest heaving, body aching. He ran his hand through his hair, dislodging fragments of shattered glass. His fingers came away sticky with blood where one fragment, even pebbled as it was, had slashed his skin. *Fuck!*

Chris got to his feet and cracked the door cautiously. The hall was empty. He slipped out of the stairwell. The chime of the elevator bell and the door opening made him jump. He flattened himself against the wall, his arm swinging sideways aiming his gun into the car.

Empty.

Chris moved silently down the hall. A sound, the snick of a door closing. He whirled, cursed. Started to run back towards the stairs, then realized that it was too late. Too late. He took the elevator down to the lobby, grabbed one of the security guards.

"Did anyone leave this building in the last five minutes? Anyone?"

"No, sir."

Chris flashed his badge. "There's a window out on the twelfth floor. There were shots fired up there and on the eighth floor."

The guard reacted instantly, using his two-way to call out reinforcements and sending them up to the floors to comb for the assailant. Chris figured that within five minutes, the place would be swarming with investigative teams. He resigned himself to a much longer evening than he had anticipated.

The guard was looking at him in concern. "Sir, are you all right? You're bleeding."

"It's nothing. A cut."

"I've got two guys checking out the floors, and the DPD is on the way."

"Thanks." He sat down on the edge of a polished granite planter, pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the trickle of blood down his cheek. It was slowing and Chris didn't think it would need stitching. He worked his neck from side to side, stretching out the stiffness and residual tension. He took out his cell phone and called Buck to tell him he was running late, not going into details, and knowing that Buck would probably be on his tail in five minutes, anyway.

"Agent Larabee?"

Chris looked up at man addressing him. "Yeah?"

"I'm Detective Aarons. Looks like you got a situation here. Care to tell us what happened?"

Chris rubbed his eyes. "Short or long?"

"Let's start with the short version."

"I had left the office for the evening, waiting for the elevator when I saw a man's reflection in the mirror. He pulled a gun. I ducked down, his shot hit the window. He took off down the stairwell, I followed to the eighth floor. He fired five, maybe six shots at the exit door. I guess the metal deflected the bullets. I exited the stairwell and looked for him, but he was gone. I think he pushed the call button for the elevator as a decoy, so I'd think he'd gone down that way. But I'm pretty sure he went out the door at the other end of the hall."

"Can you describe him?"

Chris shook his head. "I only caught that glimpse of him in the window. He was wearing a dark jacket and pants. I think he might have had a ski mask over his face, but honestly I was too busy staying alive to really catch a good look at him." He thought for a moment. "And gloves, he was wearing black leather gloves, so I don't think you'll find any prints."

The cop looked at him. "I thought security around here was pretty tight since 9/11. How'd he get a gun in here?"

Chris raised a brow. "Officer, this is a building full of people who are licensed to carry guns. Finding one wouldn't be too hard." He felt the blood slipping down his cheek, and he pressed the cloth against it.

Aaron scribbled his responses on a notepad. "Could this have anything to do with the investigation of your two agents?"

"Looks like bad news travels fast."

"Lead story. Sorry, I recognized your name." He closed his notebook. "It might have just been some crazy out to take revenge on the federal government. They seem to grow outta the rocks around here."

"Mighta been," Chris agreed, but not really believing it for a minute. An outsider would have had a hell of a time smuggling a gun into the building, and wouldn't have had the familiarity with the layout of stairwells, elevator bays, and exits that the shooter did. He wasn't going to help the Denver PD do their job by making that obvious suggestion -- not yet. He wanted some time to think this through, away from the scene and the adrenaline that could cloud his recall. Better for them, and for him.

There was a stir at the doorway and Buck charged through, flashing his badge and clearing the way to where Chris sat. He had to smile; the Red Sea would have parted for Buck Wilmington coming to rescue a friend.

"You wanna tell me what the hell is going on here?" Buck took a stance, his jacket held away from his shoulder holster as if he expected a challenge.

"Somebody took a shot at me."

"No shit." He tilted Chris's chin. "Looks like they got you."

"No. Piece of glass is all. It's nothing." He moved away from Buck's touch. "You got here pretty fast."

"I heard the radio call on the scanner. Somethin' told me it was you causin' all the ruckus."

Chris grinned. "Let me see if I can get out of here." He got up and walked over the Detective Aarons. "You need anything else from me?"

"Not right now. You got a number where you can be reached?"

Chris dug in his wallet and took out a business card. He borrowed Aaron's pen and wrote his pager number. "Don't lose it," he said, and Aarons gave him an amused look.

"I won't."

Cbris's phone beeped, and he sighed. "Larabee."

"Chris, it's Orrin. What the hell is going on down there? Are you all right?"

"Someone took a shot at me. Took out a window instead. I'm fine."

"Security get them?"

"No."

"Cameras?"

"How the hell should I know? Listen, Orrin. I'm beat. I was heading out when it happened. The guy was wearing a mask and gloves. Even if he is on camera, I'm not going to be able to ID him. I've given a statement to the PD, and I'd really like to get out of here and deal with everything else in the morning."

"Stay in touch."

In other words, sleep with his cell phone and pager. As if he ever did anything else. "I will."

Travis must have picked up on his exhaustion. "You *are* all right?" This time, the tone was that of a worried friend, not the curt supervisor.

"Yes. I'm all right."

"My office, first thing in the morning."

"Yes, sir." Chris disconnected. He turned to Buck. "Let's get out of here before he changes his mind."

"You want to ride with me?" Buck asked.

"No thanks. I still need to get to the bank."

Buck laughed. "No need. Dinner's on me." He draped an arm over Chris's shoulder. "C'mon pard, time to leave this all behind, okay?"

"Okay." Chris yielded; unhappy, but aching and flat from the adrenaline letdown.

"I'll be watching you in my rearview mirror, so don't get any ideas about peelin' off in another direction. You got that?"

"Yes, Buck. I got that." And then on the heels of his words, another thought. "Buck, you hear anything from Vin or Ezra?"

"No."

No explanation, but Chris could see the worry in Buck's eyes as he replied. He got out his cell phone. No answer on Vin's; the answering machine at Ezra's. He'd noticed that neither of them had worn their pagers to the range, which didn't surprise him. There could be a simple explanation neither man answered their phones. Knowing Vin, he'd probably turned his off to shoot, and forgotten to turn it on -- or maybe they were meeting with D'Amico. Maybe they were drinking beer in a bar and couldn't hear the phones ringing. Or ... they could be in trouble. Acid burned in his stomach and he reached into his pocket for an antacid.

Buck sighed. "Told ya so."

"What?"

"Ya can't live on them things, Chris."

"I'll be better once I hear from them, Buck."

"Yeah." They were standing at the garage entrance. "See you in my mirror, Chris."

"Got yer back." They smiled at each other. It was an old ritual, and the familiarity alone was soothing. Buck waited until Chris was safely in the Ram before he went to his own vehicle.

They arrived at the loft a short time later. JD had ordered from the diner down the street and per Buck's instruction had stayed away from their inflammatory chili and wings, settling for plain roast chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, freshly baked bread, and salad.

Chris sank down in one of their encompassing leather armchairs. Exhaustion was setting in and he felt the only thing keeping him upright was his worry over Vin and Ezra. Buck set a glass of whiskey on the table at his elbow. "I know this ain't what the doctor ordered, but I won't tell Nate if you won't."

"What Nate doesn't know won't hurt him." Chris picked up the glass and took a sip. He was impressed; Buck had poured the good stuff. He must have looked as bad as he felt. He dug out his cell phone and tried Vin again. Still no answer. The same for Ezra. *Damn!*

"JD, you hear anything from Jimmy Constantine?"

"I'm waiting for him to call me."

Chris was beginning to wonder what the use all this technology was if no one else bothered to use it. There wasn't anything he could do but wait. And eat. The food was good and his stomach didn't object to its weight. The whiskey was warming, and as tempting as it was to have another glass, he didn't ask for a refill. He wanted to be sharp for any news from Vin and Ezra. Didn't need to be falling asleep in the chair like the 'old man' moniker Vin used to aggravate him.

Still, wouldn't hurt to close his eyes for a few ...

Buck came in with a cup of coffee and saw him dozing there. Was about time, Buck thought with both satisfaction and concern. Chris's face was lax, his hands loosely clasped on his stomach. There was still a scrawl of dried blood near his hairline, but the cut had closed. When he was asleep, the man looked almost ... vulnerable. Buck returned the coffee to the kitchen.

Chris's cell phone rang a few minutes later, and Buck snatched it off the table. "Yeah?"

"Buck?" Vin sounded surprised, but not stressed, and Buck felt his tension ease back a bit.

"Yeah, it's me. And no, you didn't dial the wrong number. Where the hell have you and Ezra been?"

"Somethin' wrong with Chris?"

Buck got up and went into the kitchen, out of Chris's earshot. "Are you and Ezra all right?"

"We're holed up in a hotel."

"What?"

"There's about fifty reporters parked outside of Ezra's place, and he wasn't too keen on stayin' at mine, so he took a room. I'm about to head home."

"No reporters in Purgatorio?"

Vin snorted. "Not at this time a'night. What about Chris?"

Buck sighed. "Somebody took a shot at him."

"Shit! Is he okay?"

"Yeah, the shooter missed, got the window by the elevators instead. Took off ."

"Then why the hell are you answerin' his phone?"

"He's sleeping. Call back in an hour?"

"Larabee's jist a bundle a' nerves, ain't he?"

"He's plumb wore out, Vin. And worryin' about you and Ez ain't helpin'." He could hear Tanner's soft sigh. "Just call back, you hear?"

"Soon as I get home."

"Watch your back. It's gettin' ugly out there."

"No shit, Bucklin. But thanks anyway. Later."

Buck returned to the living room and set the phone back on the table. Chris hadn't moved. He called his date to reschedule their evening. She'd be greeted with a bouquet of flowers at her desk in the morning. JD was holed up in his room with his laptop, waiting for Jimmy Constantine to contact him. Buck poured himself a drink, put Garth Brooks on the CD player turned low, and settled in with the paper he hadn't had a chance to read that morning.

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

Vin pushed disconnect and clipped his phone on his belt. Ezra was standing at the window, turned sideways and looking like a man who was trying to present the smallest target possible to his enemies. "You think they're gonna find you here, Ez?"

"Never underestimate the power of the press, Mr. Tanner."

"Ya want me t'stay?"

Ezra turned away from the window. The annoyed crease between his brows was answer enough. "I am an armed federal agent. I don't require a bodyguard."

Vin raised his hands. "Fine. Jist thought I'd offer. Wouldn't blame yaa 'r think less of ya if you'd said yes."

Ezra's expression eased. "I appreciate the sentiment, I do. But I shall be perfectly fine. This hotel is known for its commitment to the privacy and security of its guests."

"Well, then I reckon if ya don't need me, I'll head on out."

"Perhaps I should ask if you want to stay."

Vin laughed. "No thanks, pard. Be better off in my own place." He picked up his denim shirt from the back of an elegant chair. "When d'ya think we'll hear from D'Amico?"

"In his own good time, I fear."

"Ez, what does he want us to do? Why'd he want to see me shoot?"

"I don't know," Ezra said quietly. "Whatever the reason, I'm afraid it is not a pretty one."

"Never thought it was," Vin answered, just as quietly. "See ya, Ez."

"Give my regards to Mr. Larabee."

"Sure thing. Lock yer, door." He nodded shortly, left the room, and waited until he heard Ezra put the night latch on. He pulled his gun from the ankle holster and stuck it in his belt at the small of his back, flipping the tails of his shirt over it. There were cameras at the elevator bay, which reminded Vin of something, but just as the thought was about to form, the elevator door opened and his hand went to his back, only to drop to his side when two women got out on the floor. There was no one else. Chiding himself for being jumpy, he waited for the next car and took it down the eight flights to the lobby.

He'd driven his jeep from Ezra's place when they'd dodged the reporters, figuring they'd follow Ezra's BMW rather than his ragtop. It was a short walk to the parking lot, and a twenty minute drive to Purgatorio. Vin kept his eye in his review mirror the entire time, but if he was being tailed they were good enough to escape detectio. That left out the possibility of reporters, but not Fazio and his goons. He wasn't worried about Ronnie -- they had a stake in keeping him alive -- but there were other enemies out there, and right now Vin couldn't even put a name to them.

There were no reporters lurking on his doorstep; he'd figured as much, and no other threats that he could detect. He parked in his customary place, and, with his hand on his gun, hurried inside. He walked past the elevator, and, as he did, the thought that had been a shadow in the back of his mind came to the fore.

*Shit.* Larabee's shooter had to be an insider! With all the security since 9/11 no outsider could have smuggled a weapon inside, and if he had got his hands on a gun already inside the building, he *had* to have had help. Vin's mind was working furiously, he sprinted up the stairs, opened his door, and even as he secured it behind him, he was reaching for his phone and pressing the speed dial.

"Larabee." Chris sounded crisp, alert. The sleep must have done him good.

"It's me."

"You and Ezra okay?"

"Yeah. Jist bein' hounded by reporters. How the hell'd they get Ezra's address and phone number?"

"I'd guess it was insider information."

Vin sighed. "That ain't all that came from inside"

"The shooter." No question there.

"Figured you thought of that."

"Pretty hard not to. Wasn't the first thing that popped into the PD's mind."

"You tell 'em otherwise?"

"Not yet. I'd like to think on it for a while. And I'm waiting for JD to hear back from Jimmy Constantine."

Vin could hear the weariness returning to Chris's voice. "Think it'll be soon?"

"Don't know. You hear back from D'Amico?"

"Not a word. Cain't help hopin' that I flunked his test."

Chris laughed. "You didn't. Trust me, I was there."

Vin smiled slightly. "Thought you might have been. I'll let you know what happens. Right now, all I want is to crawl into bed, get some shut-eye, and try to fergit this day."

"Wish it could be so easy."

Vin laughed softly. "Hell, when have we ever done easy? 'Night, cowboy."

He heard Chris disconnect. He turned off his own phone and turned off his lights. For a few minutes, he stood by the window looking out at Denver's night skyline. Somewhere in the vista was Buck's loft, Mercy General, Josiah's half-way house. Made him feel less alone, looking at those anonymous lights, and knowing that he had friends behind a few of them. He sighed and drew his blinds, toed off his boots. He padded into the bathroom and turned on the overhead light. Not good. He looked drawn, pale, and he couldn't blame it all on the fluorescent fixture. He splashed some water on his face, took two extra-strength Tylenol caplets, brushed his teeth, used the toilet. He turned out the light, went into the bedroom. He didn't bother undressing or turning down the covers. He pulled the quilt Nettie Wells had made for him over his shoulders. Wrapped in that comforting familiarity, he drifted off, his cell phone turned on and laid a scant inch from his hand.

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

JD sat hunched over his computer, his fingers tapping away, his hazel eyes sharp and focused on the screen as he scrolled down the linessss of text in the Adobe document on display. He was concentrating so entirely that he didn't even hear Buck come into his room. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Buck set a brotherly hand on his shoulder.

"Geez, Buck! You trying to give me a heart attack?" he gasped.

Buck grinned. "At your age?"

"Yeah, well maybe hangin' around you is aging me."

Buck laughed. "Son, you're still wet behind the ears. Got a ways to go before you get old as me."

JD snorted. "Like you're so mature." He bent back over his computer, patently ignoring Buck's presence.

Buck leaned over his shoulder. "What you got there?"

JD shrugged. "Just searching some databases for old records. I thought that maybe I could find something on Williams."

"Thought you had done that already?"

"Some. I forgot about these. Did you know Williams used to be ATF instead of Treasury? He moved over three years ago. I was trying to find out why."

"JD, guys change jobs all the time," Buck sighed. "Maybe he wanted something less invigorating. Let's face it, kid, being shot at, exposed to explosive devices, and hanging around felons ain't everybody's idea of a good time. Maybe he just got tired."

"Or maybe he just got transferred ..." JD's voice quivered with an emotion that made Buck bend closer to the screen, suddenly interested in what was there.

"You got a reason he was sent over?"

JD shook his head. "I've tried, but those files are closed. Maybe Jimmy can open a few doors. All I can figure is that four years ago Ed Williams was in Phoenix working in the Regional office, then was suddenly transferred to Treasury. He was in Washington for two years, and then came out here." He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. "My head feels like concrete," he moaned.

Buck patted his shoulder. "Get some rest, JD. You done enough for now. Won't be good for anybody if you can't do your work tomorrow. Gotta stay fresh."

"Is Chris still sleeping?"

"Yeah. Vin's supposed to call back in a bit. I'll wake him up then."

JD looked suddenly sober and much older than his years. "This is a bad one, ain't it, Buck?"

"'Bout as bad as it gets, kid." Then he winked. "But that ain't stopped us yet." He closed the door, and JD turned back to his computer screen, determined to find the clue he was looking for on the screen in front of him

Chris was awake when Buck returned to the living room. His cell phone was in his hand. "You hear from Junior?" Buck asked.

"Yeah. Nothing new since you talked to him. He made it home safely - no reporters camped out on his doorstep."

"Can't imagine why," Buck laughed. "Cowards." He fixed a bright blue study on his friend. Chris seemed a little better for having rested and heard from Vin. He still looked too thin and too tense; Larabee never was much for being a desk jockey, and Buck figured that was wearing heavily on him. Never mind the migraines and ulcers that were plaguing him. What he needed was a good dose of action. "You want a drink, Chris?"

Chris "Not unless you've got something that won't wear a hole in my stomach."

"Reckon I can find something. And JD has some interesting information about Williams."

"Really?" Chris stood up and stretched. "Be right back. Tell me then. I've got to make a run to the Ram for my pills."

"Chris, don't assume you're safe just 'cause you're parked right outside the door."

Chris nodded; he didn't need to tell Buck that he never assumed he was safe anywhere. He'd been proved right too many times.

The air was fresh and cool outside; the earlier shower had cleared out the heavy stillness Chris had felt at the range. The streets were well-lit and quiet, no sign of trouble, but he was cautious out of habit. The faint, dry, tug of the scab at his hairline was enough reminder that someone had just tried to kill him. He disarmed the security on the Ram, opened his glove box and took out two pill bottles. He shoved them in his pocket, then took his cell phone off his belt and called Ezra.

"Mr. Larabee, I'm honored." Ezra's wry drawl was nearly as reassuring as Vin's voice had been earlier. Chris grinned.

"Cut the BS, Ezra. Just checking in. You all right?"

"No one has attempted to asphyxiate me this evening, thank you."

"You hear from D'Amico?"

"If I had, I would have called. I think we can assume that he will not be in contact this evening."

"Any thoughts on why he wanted to watchVin shoot?"

"He didn't drop a clue, other than the obvious conclusion that he wants Vin to kill someone." His breath drew in a bit, as if speaking the words had made this whole sordid business more than speculation.

"That much I guessed. The question is who," Chris said. "Call me if you hear anything."

"I take it Mr. Tanner made it safely to his apartment without being accosted by members of the media?"

"Safe and sound. Keep in touch, Ezra."

"I will do my best."

Chris locked up the Ram, armed it, and returned to the loft. Buck handed him a ginger ale and Chris settled in a chair. JD joined them a few minutes later and handed Chris a printout of the report he had found. He flopped down on the sofa and sat there in a boneless slouch.

"You figure anything out?" Buck asked him.

JD forced open a red-rimmed eye. "Maybe ... I don't know. Chris, do you remember anything about a cover-up in the Phoenix office three, maybe four years ago?"

Chris kept reading, trying to recall the whisper of a hushed up scandal, and unsure if it had anything to do with what JD was looking for. "There was an investigation of some licenses that had been issued to dealers with criminal records. If I remember right, it was blamed on a computer foul-up."

JD slanted him a look. "Right. Williams left the ATF right after that and joined the Treasury Department."

"Voluntarily?"

"I don't think so. It looks like he was transferred. Don't you remember?"

"No." Chris answered tersely, and Buck stepped in, recognizing the growing darkness and frustration in Larabee. JD didn't know where Chris was three years ago - hell, a kid didn't think of things like death, bereavement, and guilt. He got out of his chair and walked over to the sofa.

"JD, maybe we should call it a night and come back to this fresh in the morning. Okay?"

"Sure - but I thought you wanted this pronto. I even gave up a date with Casey."

Buck shook his head. "The supreme sacrifice, and I'm sure that Chris will tell you how much he appreciates your dedication, kid." He laid an arm over Dunne's shoulder and pulled him aside. "But right now, he's about as close to the bone as he c'n get. Think ya ought t' give him some space and time. Things'll look better in the morning, okay?" He lifted a brow, and JD nodded in assent. "Why don't you give that pretty li'l gal of yours a call, and let me deal with Larabee, hmm?"

"Dammit, Buck! I hate it when you talk to me like I'm five years old," he grumbled.

"Sorry, kid. Bad habit."

"Yeah, well, kick it. Okay?" He went upstairs and Buck turned back to Chris.

Larabee had his thousand yard stare going - so far beyond the walls of the loft, that Buck wasn't even going to guess what he was seeing - or not seeing. Wasn't sure he wanted to. He figured Larabee needed a drink more than he needed to worry about his ulcer. He poured a shot in a glass and set it down. "You okay?"

"When he asked me ... God, Buck. Three years ago, I didn't care if I lived or died, much less give a shit about some half-buried scandal in Phoenix. How could I remember something that seemed so - so pointless?"

"Chris, you know I'm the last man on earth t'say ya didn't have the right to be the way you were back then ..."

"I hear a 'but' added on to that sentence."

"You wanna tell me what that might be?"

"Three years ago I would have killed you for suggesting that I should have cared about anything else."

"As I recall, you nearly did," Buck said softly.

Chris looked up at him, his green eyes so dark that they were nearly black. "I was a sorry son-of-a-bitch, Buck. You were trying to help and I didn't want to hear it."

"You were just hurtin', Chris. I hated to see you like that."

"Water under the bridge, Buck. Water under the bridge." He stood up, stretched. "I can't do a thing about it, now. I tell you, that advice you gave to JD about getting some sleep sounds real good to me right now."

"Think you'll sleep?"

"Think I'll get horizontal and see what happens." He squeezed Buck's shoulder briefly and climbed the wrought iron stairs to the loft. He walked past JD's room and heard his low voice speaking; judging from the light, tender tone, he was talking to Casey. Chris smiled, remembering first love.

When he settled in bed, he set his cell phone next to the pillow, close at hand. He lay awake, listening to Buck moving around downstairs, then coming up and saying goodnight to JD. He knew Buck was standing outside his door, and smiled, appreciating the thought. Most times he'd deny that he was a lucky man, but not tonight. With that thought, he drifted off into an exhausted, dreamless slumber.

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

Vin woke to the rumble of thunder the next morning. He opened an eye, figured it was around seven, though the darkness of the morning made it hard to judge. Instinct told him it was time to get up for work, and he started to gather himself before he remembered that he had no work to go to, thanks to Williams and his investigations. He listened for a few minutes as the storm drew closer, huddled deeper into his quilt and went back to sleep.

The second time he surfaced, he shoved the quilt down and sat up, uncertain what had waked him. The storm had faded to a whisper of rain. He pushed his tangled hair off his forehead and stumbled out of bed. He felt lethargic, throat dry as a husk, fuzzy-brained. He went into the bathroom, turned on his shower, prayed that the water would be hot. It would take a while for the heat to travel up to the fourth floor, so he went to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. He took a deep drink from the carton of orange juice in the refrigerator, wiped his mouth and went to take his shower.

He felt better afterwards and a cup of coffee helped, but that didn't tie up the loose ends of his life. He wanted to call Chris, but decided against it. Wouldn't be above that bastard Williams to monitor his calls. Better stay as far away from Larabee as possible. It seemed like the only person out there for him was Ezra, and it was too damn early to call on him. He opened the window in the living room. The pavement below was pockmarked with puddles of water from the earlier rain. Cars driving past threw curving splashes of water onto the sidewalk, and a few doors down, kids were playing in the puddles, careless of the filthy water or the dangerous traffic passing just a few feet from them.

From the floors below him, he could hear the sound of TV's turned too high and radios too loud; salsa music warring with Sally Jesse Raphael. A car careened around the corner and Vin shouted at the kids to get back - they did - one kid gave him the finger, another a smile.

Purgatorio.

He drew back inside, pulled on his boots and pocketed his cell phone. It was time for Ezra to wake up. He called the hotel, and was told that Mr. Standish had checked out an hour earlier. That was a surprise. He'd have thought Ezra would sleep until at least nine. Maybe he'd needed the security of home, just as Vin had the night before.

He stopped at a Starbucks to pick up a grande latte - Ezra's favorite, and a tall coffee with sugar and milk for himself. He figured the reporters from last night had given up, and it was too early for them to be haunting Ezra's doorstep this morning. He was right. He parked unmolested, took the extra key from its hiding place just in case Ezra was still sleeping, and let himself in.

Water was running upstairs. "Ez?" he called and started up. "Hey, Ezra! It's me - you decent?" He went into the bedroom. "Ezra!" He yelled outside the bathroom door. The water stopped running, he heard the shower door open, and suddenly he was facing Standish, wrapped in a terry robe, wreathed in steam, and holding a gun.

"Guess y'ain't had yer coffee yet," Vin backed off, grinning.

"You might have called," Ezra said. "Mr. Larabee would have torn me from limb to limb if I had decided to shoot first and ask questions later." But his green eyes were calm, and he laid the gun on his dresser, casual, as he wouldn't have been if he'd been taken by surprise.

"Didn't want t'wake you up," Vin moved aside. "Got some coffee here for ya." He waited until Ezra took a few sips before he started questioning him. He leaned against the dresser and drank his own coffee for a minute. "Thought you'd still be at the hotel, Ez. Somethin' happen?"

"You might say so. Ronnie Fazio called at the crack of dawn."

"Jesus, what did he want?"

Ezra sat on the bed and drank coffee. "Lunch, and a meeting with D'Amico at the Sportsmen's club."

"Hell."

"My sentiments exactly."

Vin pushed his spine off the wall. "I'll let ya git dressed. I'll page Chris. Maybe he c'n get away long enough to make a secure call."

Ezra's brow peaked. "Secure?"

"Guess you don't know ... It's startin' to look like Williams is bent. We aint' got proof, but JD's working on it."

"Honest Ed Williams is crooked?" Ezra grinned. "There is justice in this world, Mr. Tanner."

Vin snorted. "Justice is blind, Ez. Don't fergit it." He closed the door and went downstairs to page Chris.

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

Chris drove to work in the same thunderstorm that had waked Vin. Traffic was snarled and ugly, matching his mood. He had a simmering headache fed by a sense of dread that not even breakfast with Buck and JD had been able to lift. Their cheerful, affectionate banter had left him hollow and aching for the past. Hopeless.

He parked in the garage and took the elevator up to the twelfth floor. The window had been covered with a sheet of plywood; yellow caution tape marked it off until a glazier could come and repair the glass. Chris supposed it would be bulletproof like the windows that were being installed on the lower floors. Leave it to the government to be a day late and a dollar short.

The office was an alien place with two desks empty out of six. Vin's looked oddly neat without the clutter he accumulated over the course of a week scattered over the surface, and Ezra's seemed naked minus his ever-present cup of coffee.

Chris opened his office, tossed his jacket on his sofa, and sat at his desk, staring at his dark computer screen, and trying to get up the ambition to turn it on. He reached for his phone instead. Three messages. One from Orrin Travis asking him to return the call as soon as he got in. One from Ed Williams, requesting Ezra's files, one from Rain, checking up on him. The sour taste left by Williams request was overlaid by the sweetness of Rain's concern.

He called Orrin, was told he was at a breakfast meeting. He ignored Williams and called Rain instead, surprised when he got her in person and not her answering service. Her voice was sweet, too, when she asked him how he was.

"I'm all right. I was at Buck's place last night."

"Have you been taking your prescriptions?"

"Yes, Doctor Jackson."

"Don't take that tone of voice with me, Chris Larabee," she scolded gently. "It's for your own good."

"I know."

"Then keep it up, you hear me?"

"I will." He was about to disconnect when he added. "Thanks, Rain."

"You're welcome." The instant he hung up, his pager beeped. Chris recognized the number. Vin. Williams could go hang. Chris retrieved his coat from the couch and left the office.

Walking fast, he nearly ran into Buck coming towards him from the elevators. Buck tried to snag his arm, but Chris was already past him. "Hey, stud -"

"I'm going out. Be back in half an hour. If Orrin calls, tell him I'll be in touch." The words were tossed over Chris's shoulder.

"But -" Buck protested to Chris's retreating back. "Thanks for the update," he muttered. "That's the trouble with this job, no communication ..."