Chris drove two blocks to a small coffee shop, parked and went inside. He ordered black coffee and wheat toast, and sat in a booth at the back of the restaurant. Vin picked up on the first ring of his cell phone.

"Hey cowboy, took ya long enough."

"Sorry. Thought it would be better if I got away from the office to make this call."

"Things are that bad?" Vin asked.

"Williams is asking for Ezra'a files. And just walking down the hall this morning, I could hear the whispers behind my back."

"D'Amico wants to meet again."

That made Chris sit up fast. "When?"

"This afternoon. At the Sportsmen's Club. Got a feeling this time he's ready to get down to business."

"I can't be there."

"I know. I'll let you know what's cookin' as soon as I can, Chris."

"Do that." Chris felt as if the noose around his temples had just been tightened another twist. "Watch your back."

"Hell, my problems'll be starin' right at me. You're the one with vultures at yer back."

Chris shivered. "Take it easy, partner. Call me as soon as you can."

"I will."

After they disconnected, Chris felt empty. His coffee was cool, bitter, but he drank it and ate a sliver of toast before it began sticking in his throat like a gag. He threw enough money on the table to cover his bill and returned to the office, dreading what the day would bring next.

The day brought a second irate phone call from Ed Williams, demanding Ezra's files. Chris closed his eyes and counted to ten. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'll get the to you when I have a chance," he replied tiredly. "I've got three active cases that landed on my desk this morning, Travis is asking for a meeting, and frankly, you're way down on my To Do list." He didn't bother to disguise the acid in his voice.

"I'll file a complaint of obstruction unless those files are on my desk at the close of the day."

*Go fuck yourself.* He'd have said it if he could. "They'll be there." He hung up, seething. Seized on the first object at hand - a pencil holder - and threw it against the wall at the same moment Buck appeared in the doorway.

He warded off the missile with his forearm. "Whoa there! What's got you so riled?"

Chris leaned back in his chair, his hands over his eyes. "God, Buck. Why the hell are there so many assholes in this fucked-up world?"

"So we have jobs?" Buck shrugged. "Hell, Chris. I don't know. But I reckon I know who the chief asshole is."

"He wants Ezra's files. He's threatening to report me for obstructing a Federal investigation."

"Can he do that?" Buck crouched down to pick up the pencil holder and its scattered contents.

"He can try. I think Orrin would laugh him out of his office, but you never know."

"You gonna give him what he wants?"

"Don't have much of a choice. And I kinda doubt Ezra has anything in his files that he wouldn't want Orrin to see. If he does, he's not as smart as I think he is. But Williams can damn well sit there with his thumb up his asshole until I'm ready to send them."

Buck grinned. "God, you're a silver-tongued devil, Larabee."

Chris grinned back, and for the first time that morning felt the tension in his neck and shoulders ease back a bit. "Vin and Ezra are meeting with D'Amico and Ronnie Fazio this afternoon."

Buck's expression turned thoughtful. "Funny, I would'a never thought D'Amico would trust a prick like Fazio to be his right-hand man. The old man sure didn't. Why does Troy?"

"Poor judge of character?"

"Nah, there's got to be something else going on. You want me to get on that?"

Chris studied Buck speculatively. "Instinct?"

"Yeah - maybe. Give me a couple hours, okay?"

Chris picked up the files on his desk. "Three new cases, down two agents. You do the math."

"An hour?"

It must be important if Buck was begging. Chris made his decision. "Get JD and Nathan started on the new files. You and Josiah take an hour each and work on your contacts. I've got to see Orrin." He stood up, grimacing at the pain from his stiff muscles. "See me at noon."

"You got it." Buck saluted him with the edge of the folders and left the office. Chris went into the small bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. Recalling his promise to Rain, he took his meds and went up to Travis's office.

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

The routine was pretty much the same it had been before: Vin and Ezra drove out to the Sportsmen's Club and were greeted at the desk by the courteous Mr. Anderson, the facilities manager. They were then shown not to the restaurant as Vin had expected, but to the indoor firing range. Vin wasn't sure what to make of it - if D'Amico wanted to see him shoot, all he had to do was ask, and Vin would have done it. The uncertainty made him antsy. He cast a sidelong look at Ezra. Standish looked as nervous as he ever did - which was not at all, until you saw his fingers clenching and unclenching around air. Wasn't what he had expected either. And that only deepened Vin's apprehension.

The range was deserted; by accident or design, Vin couldn't tell. He glanced up at the mirrored wall and wondered who was behind it today. Wasn't sure he wanted to find out. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"Got a bad feelin' about this, Ez," he said, his voice nothing more than a rasp of air from his lips.

"I am afraid I concur with that sentiment," Ezra whispered back. "But I have no interest in turning my back and walking out."

"I'm with ya there, pard." He walked cautiously towards the desk. "Anybody home?" And whirled when he was answered by the measured paces of someone coming from the back room.

Troy D'Amico. Vin thought of how he had seemed at the restaurant - urbane and smooth - but the hint of unease was gone, like he'd made decisions since then. Cemented his sense of power and control. He was cold and smooth, ice-hard. Things had changed. Or he thought they had changed. Illusion or reality? Vin didn't know, and not knowing made the hair on his neck prickle with warning.

"This a private party?" Vin drawled. No sense in being anything less than what D'Amico expected.

D'Amico made an elegant gesture with his hand, like a king showing off his lands. "If you want to call it that."

"Wasn't I good enough the first go 'round?" Vin asked, ingenuous, knowing that D'Amico wasn't fooled at all.

"You met my expectations," D'Amico said.

"Might I inquire as to the nature of those expectations?" Ezra spoke up and came to stand next to Vin.

"Perhaps I should ask you what sort of expectations two disgraced and suspended agents have with the ATF?"

That hurt. More even than hearing Mary Travis report on their suspensions. Distanced by the camera, it had seemed like something that was happening in a cop show - not in his life. To hear D'Amico say it made it seem real, and dirty. Next to him, he felt Ezra shift uneasily and figured he felt the same way.

"What are you offering?" Ezra asked, cool and unruffled by D'Amico's

"A future." D'Amico set his hand on Ezra's arm. "Shall we discuss this over lunch? I took the liberty of arranging to have it sent here. I thought the setting seemed ... appropriate."

*Appropriate for what?* Vin wondered as he followed D'Amico and Ezra. They went up to the mirrored room where a linen-covered table had been set for three. Silverware and glittering crystal. A carafe of blood-red wine, and a single orchid in a vase. Pale green petals and a crimson throat; Vin shivered, remembering something he had heard about orchids. They were parasitic, sucking life from other plants, beautiful but predatory.

"Please, gentlemen, join me?"

Like they had a choice. Vin slid into a chair, making certain there was a wall at his back and enough space to escape. He caught Ezra looking at him, wry and amused, but understanding his caution. If D'Amico noted his placement, it didn't show on his face.

Two waiters appeared with trays. Salads made with unfamiliar and spiky looking lettuce, baskets of warm, fragrant bread, individual pot pies with a flaky crust over rich sauce and chunks of beef tenderloin and vegetables. Vin requested water instead of wine, and managed to eat most of his meal, knowing that D'Amico was watching him for signs of nerves, and determined not to give him any satisfaction.

He was content to let Ezra make small talk with D'Amico, was impressed as always with Standish's ease - he seemed to know something about everything, and if he didn't, he winged it effortlessly. D'Amico made no effort to draw him into the conversation, but gave him an occasional heavy-lidded glance that sent shivers down Vin's spine. He wished D'Amico would quit playing the gracious host and get down to business. Vin set his fork down, tired of pushing the remains of his pot pie around his plate in an attempt to look like he was eating. He drank his water, and warned the waiter off when he moved in to refill the glass, wondering if D'Amico noticed his restlessness.

Ezra took a final sip of wine and set his glass aside. "Mr. D'Amico, this meal was excellent, though I admit the ambience is a bit ... intimidating."

D'Amico smiled slightly, as if amused by Ezra's take on things, but there was no warmth in his eyes. "I thought it seemed appropriate to our business. What do you think, Mr. Tanner?"

"I think y'ought to tell me what that business is, Mr. D'Amico."

"A job."

"Shootin'?"

"Do you have other talents I am unaware of?"

"Maybe." Vin had to work at unclenching his jaw. "But if it's shootin' ya want, then let's talk about that."

"Quid pro quo."

Vin's mouth quirked. "Ez, you wanna translate that?"

"To paraphrase, 'This for that,' or one hand washes the other, if you prefer to think of it that way."

"I'm listening." Vin inclined his head towards D'Amico.

"You were a sniper, I believe. An Army Ranger?"

D'Amico knew his background, then. Vin had to concede that. "It says so in my files, so I reckon it's true."

"Then you've killed men secretly, without warning?" D'Amico licked his lips, like he savored that sort of anonymous death.

Vin swallowed. "I followed orders. Did my job."

"And have continued doing it with the ATF?"

He forced himself to shrug; like it didn't matter, like it hadn't mattered then or now. "It's what I do."

"Do you like it?" D'Amico leaned forward.

Vin met those cold, dead eyes. "I don't git a hard-on from it like some fellers, and I got a right to keep anything else I think to myself," he said softly. Intuition told him that D'Amico had a lust for death; that awareness made him feel ill. He pushed himself away from the table.

"Sit down," D'Amico hissed. Ronnie Fazio was suddenly standing in the doorway with a gun in his hand. Vin heard Ezra's muffled exclamation of surprise, and he sat back down, slowly. "I'll tell you when you may leave."

*So it was like that.* Vin shrugged, as if it made no matter to him whether he stayed or went, when in truth, his heart was starting to beat a mile a minute and he felt the walls closing around him. "Ya don't need a gun, Ronnie. I ain't goin' anywhere."

D'Amico waved a lazy hand in dismissal, and Fazio withdrew from sight. Vin felt his presence lingering like a chill, and didn't doubt that he was still watching them. He caught a shadow ghosting through Ezra's eyes and smiled slightly as he relaxed into the chair. Beneath the table he slid his foot alongside Ezra's, the only way he could telegraph his intentions without giving anything away to D'Amico.

"Okay, you've got my attention. Suppose you tell me what this is all about."

D'Amico poured another glass of wine and held the bottle poised over Vin's. "Are you sure you won't drink with me?"

"Cain't. That little dust up at the opera took a chunk outta my liver."

"Ah, if I had known at the time, I would have instructed my uncle's bodyguards to be more careful in choosing their targets." Vin felt Ezra's foot jerk against his. Whatever D'Amico had said had struck a chord with Standish and Vin quickly sorted through all the levels of meaning, and didn't like what was at the bottom of it.

Betrayal, pure and simple. He wondered if Gianni D'Amico had any idea he'd been nursing a viper at his bosom. And then he felt a deep, surging anger that he had inadvertently been the instrument of death in Troy D'Amico's hand. When he had time, he'd sit down and count how many double-crosses had been set in motion that night.

He looked at D'Amico, wondering if his loathing showed in his eyes. "Jist tell me what you want me t'do."

"There's a man I want you to kill."

Vin moved his foot against Ezra's, warning against reaction. "You think I'd just do it 'cause you asked?"

"Did you question your commanding officers when you were in the Rangers?"

Vin met his eyes steadily. "I figured they had reasons for their orders."

"And you've grown a conscience since then?" D'Amico sneered.

"Maybe I'm just a little less clear on the reasons you want a man dead."

"This man is a threat to me. I want him removed."

"Ronnie's got a gun, and seems real willin' t'use it." Vin said, feeling reckless, his head a bit light, as if he had drunk wine with his meal.

D'Amico laughed. "You amuse me, Mr. Tanner. Indeed, you do. I had no idea you had such wit."

Vin leaned forward. "Who and when?" He couldn't stand this much longer. It was hard to breathe, hard to keep focused. D'Amico was narrowed in on him like a cobra, all cold eyes and feint and thrust as he scented out his prey.

"Not yet, Mr. Tanner. There are arrangements to be made."

"Haven't said I'd do it, yet."

D'Amico looked like Vin had slapped him. Ezra drew in a sharp breath, but didn't say a word. "You'll do it," D'Amico said in an icy whisper. A flick of a finger and Ronnie Fazio stepped back into the room.

Gambling was Ezra's forte, not Vin's, and he didn't like the ugly turn this little scenario had taken. He didn't like Ronnie Fazio's twitchy finger, and he didn't like D'Amico watching Vin like a snake about to strike. He wanted out, and he was willing to lay his cards on the table to do it. Lazily crooking his right leg over his left, partly screened from D'Amico and Fazio's view, he tapped his foot sharply against Vin's, indicating he was about to make his move. He felt the return pressure, no hesitation, and knew his shift in position had telegraphed his intent clearly.

It didn't take much movement to draw his pistol from the ankle holster, or for him to rise so smoothly that Fazio was taken off-guard. Vin cleared his own weapon, and then they were standing shoulder to shoulder, D'Amico and Fazio in their sights.

Ezra smiled, gold tooth gleaming balefully. "I believe our meeting is adjourned. When you are ready to discuss terms reasonably, Mr. D'Amico, we will be willing to do so, without resorting to sordid tactics. Mr. Tanner, shall we withdraw?"

"I'm right with ya, pard. Reckon these fellers know better than to do anything stupid."

They were out the door, and it seemed ridiculously anticlimactic to climb into a golf cart. A scene from a comic movie, not a thriller, and Ezra would have giggled at the sheer absurdity, if Vin weren't pale and taut without a hint of laughter in his eyes. Ezra didn't drive up to the clubhouse, but took the cart right to the parking lot, ignoring the resentful stares of the valets. He truly doubted he'd be back.

"Park it and leave it, " Vin said tersely. "Let's get out of here, fast."

"My thoughts exactly, Mr. Tanner."

They peeled inelegantly out of the parking lot and hit the freeway back to Denver. As they distanced themselves from D'Amico, some of Vin's tension began draining away; not so much that he'd take his eye off the side view mirror to watch for a tail. He caught Ezra checking the rearview mirror periodically, but by the time they were in city traffic, they both eased off a bit, and let the whine of the tires fill the silence until they were ready to speak.

"I can't say that was the most relaxing meal I've ever partaken of," Ezra commented.

Vin didn't even crack a smile. "There's a lot goin' on there, Ezra. You catch what D'Amico said about his uncle Gianni?"

"That night was a set up."

"Yeah, for us all. Fuck, he used me to kill the old man, and we just didn't see it coming."

"Well, neither did Gianni," Ezra said. "The old man thought that I was the problem; he never looked to see what was lurking behind him. He certainly did not expect it to be his own flesh and blood. Charming family."

"He ever say anything about his nephew?"

"Anything complimentary?"

"Hell, Ez - anything! Like he didn't trust him, like he was gonna be his heir, like how he let Ronnie Fazio hang on to him."

"No. I don't think he knew about Fazio. And it wasn't as if he took me into his confidence regarding his future plans for his organization."

Ezra rubbed his forehead and Vin noticed that his hand were not quite steady. Hell, he was feeling shaky himself. "You gonna be all right?"

"Safer than you are in Purgatorio, I assure you."

"I'll jist pick up my jeep then. Go home. Try to make some sense of this."

"Will you be speaking to Mr. Larabee?"

"I'm gonna try. Ought'ta let him know what almost happened back there. Tell him about Troy settin' up the old man for a hit. Tell him I obliged."

"You didn't *oblige,* Vin. It was self defense - and no one was reading Troy D'Amico's mind."

"I know that. I know I was only doin' my job. But part a' me jist doesn't like the idea that Troy was palming off his dirty work. Puts me on the same plane as Ronnie Fazio. Unwilling, sure. But still holding that damn smoking gun."

"Makes you wonder who on the inside was giving Troy the ammunition," Ezra said.

"Maybe the same person who's tryin' to screw us over, Ezra."

"I find that thought singularly unsettling, but sadly accurate in the assessment." Ezra slanted him a look. "I take it you will inform Mr. Larabee of that possibility."

"Yeah. That will just be the capper on my day," Vin sighed. He pulled into Ezra's drive. Vin climbed out of the car and stretched out his back. He ached, and he knew he wasn't up to full strength even now. He stuck his hands in his pockets, waiting for Ezra to move around to the driver's side so he could pull the BMW into the garage. "Talk to you later, Ez."

"You are welcome to join me for a drink to unwind, my friend."

"Cain't drink, Ezra. Remember?"

"I was referring to something non-alcoholic."

Vin laughed. "Well, I jist don't see how that is gonna help me at all, so I might as well pass." He lifted his hand. "See ya."

The jeep was where he had parked it. He did a walk around, checked under the hood and the wheel wells, and decided it was safe to drive. When he was finally in his apartment, secure and safe as he could be in Purgatorio, he stood for a while looking out the window. As he stood there, he started shivering like a leaf; not physically cold, but chilled to the heart of him, to the marrow of his bones. Angry at himself for his weakness, angry that he had been used, angry that someone on the inside had infiltrated the body of Team Seven like a cancer set on destroying them all.

Desperate for warmth, he stripped and turned the shower on high, letting the steam drive off the chill and ease his stiff muscles. When the water began to change from hot to tepid, he turned off the spigot and stepped out into the steamy bathroom. He wiped the fog from the mirror but didn't bother looking at his face. Wasn't much there he wanted to see.

He put on jeans and his Av's sweatshirt. Then figuring he wasn't going to live long enough for a bum liver to do him in, he opened a beer. He was delaying calling Chris with the bad news, but he finally picked up his cell phone. He was about to push the speed dial, when there was a knock on his door.

Retrieving his gun from his shoulder holster where he had tossed it on his bed, he went to the door and looked out of the peephole. Larabee. He sighed, stuck the Sig into the waist of his jeans, and slid the bolts back. He should have known Chris would sense his unease, like a disturbance in tranquil water.

He opened the door. "Come on in."

"I was waiting for you to call." The edge of anger rasped in his voice.

Vin stuck his hands in his pockets, shrugged. "Sorry. I needed some time."

Chris's eyes lit on the bottle of beer set on the coffee table. "That bad?" A lift of a brow and a wry smile took the bite out of his earlier words and some of the chill out of Vin's bones. He cocked his head in invitation.

"Yeah. You want one?"

"Sure." Chris prowled inside, sat on the couch while Vin locked up again and went into the kitchen for another beer. He held out the cold bottle to Chris and sat down, his own beer held lightly in his hands. Chris noticed there was less than half gone, and Tanner didn't seem to be in a hurry to finish it up. Kind of like a kid who lit up a cigarette to calm the jitters and then discovered that he didn't really want it after all.

Chris was familiar with Vin's silences. He would sit quietly until he was ready to speak, when the words were ordered in his mind, and not a moment sooner. Wasn't exactly what the doctor would have ordered for a man on the verge of developing a bleeding ulcer. Vin didn't need to know that, and Chris would wait.

Finally, Vin's head dropped back against the sofa cushions. "It's a set-up, Chris. The whole damn fucking case is a set-up, and has been from the get-go."

"What do you mean?" Low and level, but not really surprised.

Vin laughed softly. "Jesus, Chris. D'Amico played us real good. Even got me to off the old man fer him." He straightened, turning to face Larabee, with one arm laid across the back of the sofa. "Don't exactly know the trail of information, but we c'n start with somebody inside givin' Troy the information 'bout Ezra being an agent. He tells old Gianni, who figures he'll get Ezra at the opera, and Troy hears that I'm gonna be watchin' Ezra's back. Shoot, Chris. He *knows* about me! He knows about the Rangers, and that I'm a sniper. Didn't take much to put two and two together - I'd be at the opera watchin' Ez, and if it looked like Gianni was gonna make a move on Ez, then I'd take him out - no doubts, a sure kill, 'cause he knows I don't miss. And sure enough, I don't - and the old man is dead, the old guard is dead, and the whole fucking organization falls into Troy's hands like an overripe plum."

Chris listened, not interrupting, and knowing that Vin had put all the pieces together but for the insider. "Am I right?" Vin asked, searching Chris's face. "Or am I just tired and seein' ghosts 'round every corner?"

"If you are, it's the same ghost that took a shot at me." Chris scrubbed a weary hand over his face. "Shit."

"Yeah. You got any leads?"

"A ton of leads, and no proof."

"Shit."

Their eyes met, and they both laughed then, rueful and weary. "You got any idea what happens next?" Vin asked.

"Pizza? I'm buyin'."

"How's yer stomach?"

"Fucked." Chris grinned. "But I've got pills and I don't give a damn." He picked up his beer and they touched the bottle necks together and drank a toast to not giving a damn, if only for an hour.

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

It had taken nearly an hour on the phone, but Josiah had finally come up with someone who might be able give them some information on Ronnie Fazio. Problem was the snitch was in the federal lock-up in Florence, which required a drive. And that meant Team Seven would be down another man. He sighed, set the receiver back on the cradle. Buck was looking at him expectantly, reading his expression, and probably more hopeful than Josiah felt.

"You got something, didn't you?"

"Sort of. Remember Raphael Gutierrez?"

Buck thought a moment. "Ace? Sure ... thought he was out on probation?"

"They caught him with a brick of marijuana in his truck. Couldn't convince the judge that it wasn't his. Pretty hard to do when you test positive in a big way."

Buck snorted. "Hope springs eternal in their tiny little minds. So what does Ace have to do with Ronnie Fazio?"

"A friend of a friend of a friend told me that Ace *might* have some information on Fazio."

"That's a wish and a prayer, Josiah, and a mighty slim one at that."

"You and I know it, Brother. Question is, who's gonna drive down to Florence to find out?"

"Reckon you pull that duty, Josiah. I think I'm pretty tied up here. Don't know where Chris is, or when he'll be back."

"He's gonna be thrilled that I'm cutting out of here," Josiah said with a wry grin.

"Hell, just do it. I'll tell Chris later. You know there ain't a thing he wouldn't do for Junior." Buck picked up the file Josiah had set aside. "This is back-burner stuff."

Josiah grinned. "I'll let you know ASAP. Could be a wild goose chase."

"Could end up with the golden egg." Buck's eternal optimism flashed out in his smile. Josiah threw his jacket on and left the squad room.

The drive to Florence was uninspiring - flat for the most part, and not much traffic at mid-day. Josiah usually used the time for meditation, pondering his own flaws. This time, he found himself trying to put together a puzzle with too many missing pieces: Who had informed on Ezra? Why was Vin included in Williams' vendetta? What part did Ace Gutierrez play in this, if any? Josiah couldn't help his cynicism. Too many snitches had wormed their way out of a sentence by promising information that was inaccurate, unreliable, or made up of whole cloth.

He got to the prison in the late afternoon, and was shown to the conference room where low-security inmates met with their attorneys. It seemed Ace had found himself a pretty good place in the prison hierarchy. Josiah sat down on a hard chair, and waited for them to bring Gutierrez from his cell. Took about fifteen minutes, and then the door opened, and a guard came in with a short, well-muscled man in his early thirties. His dark hair was cut close, and he looked like he spent a lot of time outdoors. The cuffs of his denim shirt were rolled up over muscular forearms that were heavily tattooed with reptilian figures that looked like snakes, or maybe dragons. He waited for the guard to leave, and then asked Josiah for a cigarette.

"Sorry, don't smoke."

"It figures." Gutierrez grinned, showing white teeth. "So, what's the deal here?"

"Right now, there is no deal. "

"I don't talk without a deal, man."

"Really?" Josiah leaned forward. "And I don't deal without talk, so we seem to be at a stand-off. Maybe we should just play a little game here and see if we come up with something in common. You know word associations?"

Gutierrez laughed. "You some kinda shrink?"

"Some kind."

"Fed?"

"ATF."

Gutierrez's eyes widened. "Man, I don't know nothin' about that shit. Drugs, yeah. But no guns and bombs. Isn't that what you guys do?"

"Sometimes. I'm not here to talk about your transgressions, Ace - may I call you that?"

"Sure, man. It works."

"Okay." Josiah paused before he spoke. "Ronnie Fazio."

"He's a prick."

Josiah laughed. "I agree with you there. Sounds like you know him pretty well."

"Ronnie's been around. Used to deal dope, but he said he didn't like the 'clientele,' Those're his words not mine."

"Gianni D'Amico."

Gutierrez's eyes flickered. "Big time stuff. Him, I unnerstand you going after."

"He's dead."

"No shit!" Gutierrez seemed surprised. "Who offed the old man?"

"How do you know he didn't die of a heart attack?"

"That old hombre? He's too mean." Gutierrez laid his hands on the table. "You sure you ain't got a smoke?"

Josiah stood up, knew Gutierrez's eyes were following as he unfolded his big body. He knocked on the door, and when the guard came, he asked for a pack of cigarettes. The guard looked disgusted, but returned a few minutes later with a pack and a book of matches. "Keep the matches," he said.

Josiah sat down, pushed the cigarettes over to Gutierrez and lit one for him. Ace drew in deeply, breathed out. "Fuckin' cancer sticks, but they're the only thing keepin' me sane in this place." He drew in some more smoke, then relaxed back in his chair. "So D'Amico is dead. Too bad."

"Why?"

"Man - I don't expect you t'unnerstand this, but old man D'Amico, he was like, you know, a legend. Shit." He shook his head sadly. "What happens to the business?"

"Troy D'Amico."

"Aw, shit ... you mean it?"

"Him and Ronnie Fazio."

Gutierrez drew in smoke. "Poison, man. Jes' poison." He laughed softly. "Hope you got a lot of guys out there. It's gonna be a fucking war." He fixed Josiah with a dark study. "You ain't tole me why you're here."

"How does Ronnie Fazio get in good with Troy D'Amico if he's such a prick?"

Gutierrez shrugged. "He got somethin' Troy wants?"

"You asking or telling?"

Another shrug. "Ronnie's a backstabbing shit." He blew out a thick stream of smoke, stubbed out the butt on the scarred tabletop, picked up another cigarette and waited for Josiah to strike a match. "He was snitchin' on one hand, informin' on the other."

"Pretty hard to prove," Josiah suggested. He was trying not to look eager, trying not to sound like Gutierrez had come up with something important, though he was pretty sure he had hit on information that could lead them to answers.

"Man, I ain't gotta prove nuthin'."

"Who was he snitching for?"

Gutierrez's eyes narrowed. "You want that, we gotta do more than play games."

*Damn*. "You know I don't have that authority, Ace."

"Then maybe I wanna talk to somebody who does."

Josiah made a gamble that was more in line with Ezra than with his own convictions. "I could suggest some sort of deal to Assistant Director Orrin Travis - no promises, mind - but something to be considered when your time comes for parole again. You stay clean, Ace and anything is possible." *God help me,* he prayed silently.

Gutierrez laughed, and Josiah's heart sank. "Travis don't know when his own house is burnin' down, amigo."

Josiah didn't even try to control his reflexes. His big hand closed hard over Gutierrez's wrist, pinioning it to the table, his great strength making the other man's struggles useless as a pinned moth. "You tell me what that means, *amigo,"* he growled or all deals are off."

Gutierrez looked like he was about to shout for the guard. He twisted futilely against Josiah's grip. "Shit, man. Lemme go."

"I'm done dealing, son. You explain what you meant about the house burnin' down or you won't be walking free anytime soon. I can do it. And I will."

Gutierrez licked his lips, looked into Josiah's heavy-jawed, hard face and harder eyes and relented. Josiah knew the instant he won as the man sank down into the chair, defeated. "Fazio used to go to Angel's - you know, man - Angel Ramirez's joint. Said he met a man there - said he had an insider lookin' out for D'Amico's interests, and that's why the old man'd never been caught running his guns."

"I want a name," Josiah said, soft and serious.

A scrawl of sweat gathered and trickled down Gutierrez's cheek, though the room wasn't hot. "Man, I tell you that and my life ain't worth shit."

"How much is it worth now?" Josiah asked.

Gutierrez's dark eyes were haunted. "I don't got a name - not one you'd know. Fazio said his man was called Mohawk."

"Mohawk?" Didn't mean a thing to Josiah. "You sure about that?"

"I'd lie about a lotta things, amigo, but not that."

Josiah wasn't sure he believed that. He looked deeply into Gutierrez's eyes and saw fear there; fear of him, or of what would happen if the shadowy Mohawk discovered he had been betrayed. If this Mohawk were still involved in the ATF, then nothing of this conversation could leak out, and Josiah was very glad that he and Buck were the only ones who knew he had made the drive to Florence. Josiah called for the guard, and stood, looking down at Gutierrez. "I'll request a watch on you, Ace. If you want it."

Gutierrez laughed harshly. "I don't trust no one here. Don't need your protection, don't want it."

Josiah nodded. "Might be better that way. I'll do what I can for you."

"Sure you will." The guard came in and herded Gutierrez out of the room. He paused in the door, looked back over his shoulder. "So, who killed D'Amico?"

"His nephew, Troy."

Gutierrez paled, breath hissing in sharply, and for a moment, Josiah thought he had more to say. Then the guard prodded Gutierrez along, in a hurry to get him out of the room, like he was afraid Josiah would spirit him away from incarceration.

Josiah picked up the matches and stuck them in his pocket. He collected his gun and personal effects from the officer at the entrance to the prison and went out into the free air outside. He drew a deep, cleansing breath and offered a prayer for forgiveness. He didn't like what he had done to Gutierrez, and was more than half-afraid that he had set the man up to be murdered. D'Amico's shadow had a long, dark reach.

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

Chris couldn't say that the pizza did his stomach one bit of good, but evidently it was just what the doctor ordered for Vin. There was some color in his face, the lines of stress were fading, and his slim body wasn't drawn up into a tight knot of misery, but curved into an easy slouch against the high arm of the sofa. There was a semblance of normalcy to the scene; just the two of them, sharing a meal and a beer, watching mindless TV. They didn't talk much, and Chris figured that was for the best seeing as the topic of conversation would inevitably turn to work. And that was the last thing either of them needed.

He was about to settle himself into a more comfortable position when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number. "Josiah," he said. Then answered. "Yeah?"

"Chris, don't know if Buck told you, but I got a lead on Ronnie Fazio from Ace Gutierrez down in Florence."

"What lead?"

"Seems like Ronnie liked to hang around in a bar called Angel's - Angel Ramirez's place - says he met up with someone called Mohawk. Ace is pretty damn sure that Mohawk was inside the Bureau."

"Shit." Chris looked at Vin, who was watching him expectantly.

"You want me to go down there and check it out?" Josiah asked.

"No. I'll handle it. You and Buck need to keep an eye on things at the office."

"We are beset by enemies, Mr. Larabee," Josiah's voice held apprehension, a hint of amusement, a warning of caution.

"We are, indeed, Agent Sanchez." Chris clipped the phone back on his belt. He sat up, turned to Vin with a raised brow and a nasty curl to his mouth. "You feel like slumming, Vin?"

"Maybe." Vin's eyes were bright with interest. "Where?"

"You know Angel's?"

Vin snorted. "Y'cain't live in Purgatorio and not know that place. Had a bad rep fer a while, seems to have settled a bit," he said. "What're we lookin' for?"

"Not a what, a who. Josiah got a lead on Fazio from a snitch doin' time in Florence. He said that Ronnie had several meetings with an informant - possibly a federal agent."

"Shit." Vin echoed Chris's sentiments.

"Makes you kinda sick, doesn't it?"

Vin gave him a thoughtful look. "Makes a sick sort of sense, though, with all the stuff that's been goin' wrong. We knew there had to be a leak." He shook his head. "Though leak jist don't seem to say it."

"The name Mohawk mean anything to you?"

Vin frowned. "Nope. Might try runnin' it past JD, though." He pushed himself upright with an effort and eyed Chris's attire. "Gotta get you set for slummin' around here. That Brooks Brothers jacket a' yours is a dead giveaway." He disappeared into his bedroom and emerged a few minutes later with a pair of worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and one of his flannel shirts over his arm. He dumped them on the couch next to Chris. "Got a bandanna there, too. Tie it around that blond head. "

Chris grinned at the instinctive planning that had gone into the camouflage." You've been hanging around Ezra too much, Tanner."

Vin laughed. "Hell, Ez wouldn't be caught dead wearin' a do-rag! Leaves that kind of work to me." A bright blue eye glittered in a wink. "Be with ya in a few."

Chris changed quickly into the clothes Vin had given him. He made a face at the bandanna, but tied it around his head. Still waiting for Vin, he called JD and put him on the trail of the elusive Mohawk. He was strapping on his holster when Vin returned.

"You ready?"

Chris looked Vin over. He was wearing oil-stained jeans and a long-sleeved grey Henley, covered by a ragged sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out. His hair was slicked back, tied in a ponytail, and covered with a bandanna. Disreputable, even for him. "Let's ride," he said, sounding more grim than excited, even though that was there, too, running like an undercurrent in his blood. He watched as Vin checked his ankle holster. His spare Sig - the one the Bureau didn't need to know about - was secured, then he straightened and grinned at Chris.

"Vamanos."

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

Angel's. The battered sign looked like it had been shot more than once; pock-marked with bullet holes and bleeding rust from the wounds. The neon tubing barely flickered with life, and the uncertain crimson light stained the crumbling brick walls the color of dried blood. The bar was a low, one-story structure tucked between two taller, now abandoned buildings, though Chris thought he saw figures looking out of the broken windows of the building on the right. It was the sort of place the homeless used for shelter; too dilapidated for regular inhabitants, but still structurally sound. Great place for an ambush, he thought, and had to keep himself from touching the gun at his side.

Vin was on alert, slim body tensed and balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, poised for action. He was seeing the same things Chris saw, and didn't like them any better. "Ready to move in?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be." The vibration of music playing too loud thudded through his chest and seemed to envelope his entire body. "Jesus, how'd Fazio even understand what his contact was saying in this racket?"

Vin gave him a crooked grin, and pushed the door open. It was so dimly lit that Chris was temporarily disoriented. Then he understood. The loud music, the darkness, the uncertainty he felt; they were all meant to disorient *intruders* into this place. People like him. Like Vin. They might look like they belonged, but they were the enemy. They couldn't forget that. Not for a heartbeat.

Vin brushed past him, taking point. He strolled towards the bar, and Chris was pretty sure every eye in the place was on him, taking his measure. Chris tried not to be too obvious in his scrutiny. Just scoped the place out casually. His gaze drifted past a pool table with a scarred slate surface and a light that didn't illuminate much but a small portion of the action. Scattered tables and broken chairs crowded against the walls. The rest of the bar was lit by grimy recessed spots and the dim red glow of an exit sign. Legal. Nice to see that somebody paid attention to the finer points of the building code. Kept the inspectors at bay and trouble off the doorstep. Made it easy to ignore the other illegal activities the bar was a cover for.

The patrons looked as rough and scarred as their surroundings. Not too many here at this time of day. The sort of patrons Angel's attracted didn't come out until after dark. Two leather-clad, bearded men - bikers, maybe - occupied one table. A skinny, hungry-looking hooker at the table closest to the bar gave Chris the eye, then Vin. Hopeful for a moment, then disgusted when the interest wasn't returned. A couple kids, hanging on to legal by their fingernails, were playing pool and drinking beers. They were all enveloped in a blue miasma of smoke that made Chris's breath catch in his throat and his eyes sting.

Vin walked among them like he belonged there; that damned easy carriage of his like the lethal prowl of a panther. No one spoke to him, but they watched as he and Chris made a slow progress towards the bar, weaving around empty tables and consciously avoiding eye contact.

Vin leaned forward on the worn and faded wood. The bartender was a tall, thin Hispanic male, hair greased back from a hard, acne-scarred face. "What d'ya want?" he asked.

"Corona." Vin glanced at Chris. "Two."

Two bottles were set on the bar, two grudging slivers of lime on a small plate set between the bottles. "Pay now. I don't run tabs." The bartender stood with his arms folded across his chest, waiting.

"You Angel Ramirez?" Vin asked. He pulled a twenty out of his wallet and set it on the bar.

"No."

"He here?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Maybe a friend. Maybe somebody he don't wanna tangle with. 'S up to him to find out. Tell him I ain't out t'cause him no trouble. Jist got a couple of questions that need answerin'." Vin took a suck of lime and a swig of the Corona like he didn't give a damn if Ramirez decided to come out or not. His fingers rested lightly on the twenty dollar bill.

The bartender licked his lips, and slid his palm towards the money. "I'll tell him. But he ain't too sociable." The man's lip curled in what might have been a smile, if his eyes hadn't looked so hard and hunted. Vin lifted his fingers from the bill. The bartender stuck the twenty in his pocket and disappeared into a doorway leading to the back of the bar. Chris leaned close, as much to give physical support to Vin as to hear him.

"Cost you a pretty penny if he decides not to talk."

Vin gave him a lopsided grin. "Hell, jist put it on my expense account at the end of the month." Then as he remembered his suspension, he shrugged. "Maybe y'oughtta put it on yours." He drank more beer, and then set the bottle down as the bartender came from the back room.

"Come with me."

Vin straightened and walked around the end of the bar. He felt Chris at his back, a solid shadow of support. It was the only thing that kept him moving forward as a wave of premonition struck him like a hand flat against his chest. *What the hell is this?* he wondered, and hoped Chris had his weapon cleared in case things got hot and heavy.

They went down a narrow hallway lit by two bare bulbs, and stopped before a dark wood door. The bartender knocked, then opened it. "Angel, they're here."

Vin walked past the man and went into the room. The walls were peeling plaster, the desk nothing more than a metal cast-off from some less fortunate business; grey and dented, chipped paint. The man sitting behind it had the wide shoulders of a boxer, receding black hair, a broad face with thin, cruel lips. A scar curved from above his brow to below his left eye. Looked like somebody had taken a punch at him with the seamed edge of a boxing glove. Must've bled like a sonofabitch, Vin thought.

Angel Ramirez studied them with narrowed, black eyes. After a moment he leaned back in his chair. "I don't think you are a friend of mine, Mr. ... ?"

Vin ignored the leading ending of Ramirez's statement. "Somebody told me we got a mutual friend. Ronnie Fazio."

Ramirez raised a brow. "Ronnie's no friend of mine. Seems like somebody told you wrong."

"Seems like ya know him well enough t'call him Ronnie." A wicked smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "I's told he used ta hang here."

"*Somebody* should keep their mouth shut." There was a cold hint of wry humor in Ramirez's voice.

Hearing it, Vin laughed softly. "Shit. They was jist tryin' t'work a deal same as anybody else. Same as you and same as me."

Ramirez leaned forward over the desk, suddenly menacing. "What deal are you working, senor?" The humor died quickly, replaced with a spill of malignant suspicion. Vin didn't reply immediately, as if he knew Chris had something he wanted to say.

Chris wasn't about the lose the opening Vin had found. He had to find a way to force the door wider, maybe get a few answers. He knew Ramirez's type; knew that this bar was maybe more than a livelihood. He'd seen enough to know that Ramirez was careful to keep things legal. At least on the surface. The place was basically clean, hard-used, but not in disrepair. Kind of like Ramirez. Chris flicked a glance at Vin. *Let me take it from here,* it said, and Vin's tension let back a little to allow Chris to step in.

He took out his wallet, opened it to his badge. "Special Agent Chris Larabee. ATF. You talk to us and maybe I'll overlook some violations going on here."

The bullet hit home. Ramirez's face stilled, then darkened. "There are no violations here. I run a clean place."

"Oh, I'm *sure* I could find some that would shut you down before you could say 'por favor,' so let's not make this difficult." He leaned forward on the desk, braced inches away from Ramirez. "Answer our questions and we're outta here."

Ramirez faltered slightly beneath that intense glare. He looked away from Chris, back to Vin. "Fazio used to come here to collect for Gianni D'Amico, back when he was a messenger boy." He gave Chris a defensive look. "I don't pay D'Amico no more. Told him I got my own protection."

"When?"

Ramirez shrugged. "Five, maybe six months ago. Fazio'd still come in to buy a drink, hang out. Nothin' illegal there, right? And I figured if he's here, D'Amico ain't about to torch the place. So I left him alone. Then he started meeting this guy. They'd get a couple of beers, talk. Then leave separately."

"What did this other man look like?" Chris asked.

"Like you."

"What?" Chris was clearly startled.

Ramirez laughed beneath his breath. "Not *like* you, but the same look. Too tight - too clean. Not the type to pick this place for a drink and a game of pool."

Vin laughed too, a soft chuff from where he sat. "Anything else? Eye color, hair color?"

Ramirez shrugged. "Maybe taller than average. Not young. He had tinted glasses, hard to see his eyes. Usually wore a plain, dark cap. Dark jacket. Real quiet. "

Chris stepped back a bit. "He ever leave a name?"

"No. He'd come in, sit at that corner table, wait for Ronnie."

"Did he order anything to drink?" Vin asked.

"Yeah. Different for around here. Scotch."

"Did Ronnie ever mention his name?"

Ramirez frowned. "Not his name. Not to me."

"You ever hear Ronnie call him 'Mohawk'?"

"Like the Indians? No."

But Vin thought he saw a flicker of something in Ramirez's eyes. He moved then, so quickly that Ramirez had no chance to counter or reach for a weapon before Vin's hand clamped over his wrist. "You wanna rethink that answer, amigo?"

Ramirez's dark face paled, even though his expression remained impassive. He licked his lips, wouldn't look at Vin, but kept his eyes on Chris as he spoke. "I never heard Fazio use that name, but Ramon - the bartender - called him that once."

Vin's mouth hardened. "Gracias." He released Ramirez's wrist. "When was the last time they were here?"

"Two, maybe three days ago."

Chris's breath hissed through his teeth. He hadn't expected it to be that recently. Two days ago someone had taken a shot at him. Two days ago Vin had met Troy D'Amico at the Sportsmen's club, and Fazio hadn't been in sight on the outdoor range. Had he been here, meeting with Mohawk? Probability and coincidence were too tightly meshed for Chris's comfort. He looked hard at Ramirez. "Anything else you want to tell us?"

Ramirez shook his head. "Nothing more to tell."

Vin stepped away from the desk. He looked at Chris, apparently satisfied with the answers. "Let's get outta here."

Chris nodded. He would have asked Ramirez to keep in touch if Fazio or *Mohawk* showed up again but he figured they had done enough damage already. Ramirez wasn't on their side in any way, shape, or form. If they pushed this, he never would be. Better to walk away. He gave Ramirez one last look and left the office, Vin close behind him, and even though he couldn't see Tanner, he knew that his right hand was poised and ready to draw at the slightest hint of a threat.

Then they were out the front door and onto the street. It was a shock to see that the sun hadn't set yet, that the streets were active; rush hour even in this part of the city. They walked quickly back to Vin's jeep. When they were settled and driving, Chris called JD.

"Kid, you have anything on Mohawk yet?"

JD gave a frustrated sigh. "Everything from high school football teams to towns to campgrounds."

"You look in Williams's personnel file?"

"It's not where he went to school, spent vacations, lived. No geographical connections."

"Bring your gear to the ranch. Now. Tell the others. Vin and I will meet you there. And ask Buck what Williams drinks. Yes, you heard right." He cleared the line, hit Ezra's speed dial. "Ezra, Chris. Get out to the ranch. Nah, we're all right. Just need to caucus." Exasperation crept into his tone. "Cancel it!" A moment of what had to be colorful invective from the undercover agent before Chris responded. "Well, hell. Maybe I just like my own whiskey better. Be there."

Vin was laughing when Chris hung up. "I figure Ezra ain't too happy about drivin' out to your place."

"He had scheduled a massage," Chris snorted.

"Ya should'a asked him to bring the feller along. Cain't say the idea don't sound good." Vin rotated his neck. "Must be gettin' old as you, Larabee."

"You all right?" Chris turned towards him. "Truth."

"Yeah. Been a long day, is all."

"We've got time to stop at your place, pick up the Ram. I'll drive."

"Thanks."

That Tanner didn't argue was a worry in itself. Chris studied him. He was stubborn enough to keep going when most men would have crashed hours ago, but that couldn't stop him from looking fragile. The color that had been in his face earlier had faded, the shadows under his eyes had darkened like bruises, and the way his fingers were holding onto the steering wheel and clutch told Chris that he was fighting pain, fatigue, or some combination of both. Damn stubborn Texan wouldn't admit it, though.

"Might wanta stop and change back inta yer own clothes, 'les ya plan on givin' Ezra more fuel fer that fire ya lit under him," Vin laughed. "You in that do-rag, an' all."

"Good thing you're already on suspension, Tanner," Chris growled amiably, his worry slightly lessened by Vin's wry humor. He tugged the bandanna from his head, wincing as the knot pulled at his hair. He rubbed at his forehead, easing the tight feeling that lingered from the pressure of the bandanna. He brushed his fingers through his hair. Caught Vin grinning at him and grinned back. "What?" he asked.

"Musta felt good being out from behind that desk."

"Yeah, it did. Makes me feel like I've got some control over things, that I'm not just sitting around waiting while things happen all around me. To me. Christ, I hate being helpless."

Vin pulled the Jeep into his parking slot and turned the ignition off. He didn't open the door immediately, just turned in his seat and looked at Chris. "I wanna thank you."

"For what?"

"Fer not makin' me sit this out. I'd be goin' crazy if ya did."

"You think I don't know that?"

Vin's blue eyes darkened. "I know ya, Chris. But I also know how the brass thinks, an' I reckon Orrin wouldn't be too happy with what me and Ezra 're doing. Or what you're lettin' us do. It could cost ya. And it shouldn't."

"It couldn't cost me more than losing you and Ezra, no matter how you look at it. If we can't figure this out, I'll leave the bureau rather than stay without you."

Vin swallowed. He knew what the job meant to Chris, what he had invested in it; time and emotions that had cost him dearly in so many ways. That pledge of faith was as solid as the strength of the man behind it, and Vin was always a little humbled that somebody like Chris called him friend and partner. He figured they all were. That's why they were fighting back. That's why they had to win.