They were all there, all but Vin and Ezra. Buck came over to him, concern clear in his eyes. He clasped Chris’s shoulder. "Hey, pard. Junior get home all right?"

"I made sure of it," Chris replied. He settled in Vin’s chair, looked around at his team. "What’s happening?"

Buck answered first. "There’s a briefing in Travis’s office in ten minutes. I’m sure glad you showed up for it."

"Thanks," Chris managed a wry smile. "But don’t think you’re getting out of it just because I’m here."

"Yeah, but at least I don’t have ta sit there bitin’ my tongue t’keep from lightin’ into the higher-ups."

"Chris, you want me there, too?" JD asked. "I mean, I was the one looking into Williams’s background, and me and Buck were the ones who put that file together." His dark brows were knit anxiously as he waited for Chris’s response.

Chris’s first instinct was to say no; he tended to say no a lot to Dunne. Those wide hazel eyes got to him every time, and sometimes he needed to be reminded that JD might be young, but he wasn’t a kid – he was as much an ATF agent as Chris himself – a bit wet behind the ears, but no innocent. "Thanks, JD. Yeah, it might be a good idea." The reward wasn’t a smile, but a nod so reminiscent of Vin’s that it took Chris aback for a moment. "Get your files together, and let’s get up there. I ain’t looking forward to this."

"Chris, if there’s anything I can do ..." Nathan said with a glance at Josiah. "Anything we can do – just say the word."

Chris swallowed the ache that had risen in his throat. Both agents had other commitments outside of the job, and they had already put in more time than Chris had any right to ask. He smiled slightly, gratitude in his eyes. "It’s been a long day. I don’t see any point in all of us being exhausted tomorrow morning. The best thing you can do for yourselves and for me is to get some rest and come in fresh. God knows, I ain’t gonna be the sharpest knife in the drawer."

Josiah showed his teeth in a knowing smile. A dull Chris Larabee was still lethal; quick in mind and in body, and Josiah wasn’t going to be the one to argue with him. "You need us, we’ll be there, Chris. You know that, right?"

"I do." Chris rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Do me a favor, though. Give Vin a call – just ask how he is. Don’t talk about the case, don’t ask about Ezra, just ... just ask him, okay?"

"And?" A grey brow lifted inquisitively. Hesitancy was not something Josiah normally associated with his boss.

"I’ll call you when I get out of the meeting."

Nathan gave Chris a hard study. "You take it easy in there, Chris. Y’ain't gonna do Vin and Ez any good if ya blow out that ulcer."

Beneath the familiar rub of irritation, Chris was grateful for the concern. "I’m all right."

Nathan set a hand on his shoulder. "You need *anything*, you call."

"Thanks, Nate. Josiah." Chris sighed and turned to Buck and JD. "I’ve got to get my file. I’ll meet you up there."

Buck was frowning at him. "Sure." He wasn’t Vin, and even after all the years he’d known Chris, he still couldn’t read his mind. He looked at his best friend and saw fatigue, worry, nagging pain, all under laid with anger and frustration. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Didn’t mean he’d stop trying, though. "C’mon, JD. Let’s get a seat up front. Don’t want to miss none of the dog and pony show."

Chris went into the small bathroom off his office. Nausea pulled at his stomach, made him feel dizzy and like he was going to retch. He turned on the cold water, wet several paper towels, and laid them against the back of his neck. When the vertigo subsided, he splashed more cold water on his face, cooling his hot cheeks and taking some of the fire out of his dry eyes. He couldn’t avoid looking in the mirror when he straightened up. A gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger gazed back at him. Too pale, too strained. Cheeks stubbled with a beard that might be blond, but more likely was showing as much silver as gold. Two years ago, he would have gone for the whiskey bottle in his drawer to drown out that sight. But he wasn’t the same man now. And he would never be again.

He tugged at the collar of his shirt, tightened his tie. Dragged a wet comb through his hair. He plugged in his electric razor and shaved the day’s stubble from his cheeks. When he had finished, he looked decent enough; still exhausted and pale, though no longer like a derelict. He felt the call of the whiskey bottle, but he had the strength to quell that siren song.

The file on his desk seemed to weigh a ton. Chris tucked it under his arm, like a gladiator taking up his shield and sword. He didn’t know what Travis would say – might be nothing more than the usual SOP when an agent was killed. Chris wanted it to be more. He owed it to Vin and Ezra.

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

Vin startled awake in his dimly lit apartment, his heart pounding, his hand reaching for the Sig strapped to his ankle before he reached a level of awareness that allowed him to realize that his cell phone was ringing. He fumbled for it on the coffee table, answered it in a voice that scarcely sounded like his, his throat was so dry and thick.

"Vin?"

Not Chris. "J’siah?" He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Somethin’ wrong?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, sure. I’s asleep. Thought maybe it was Chris callin’."

"He would have, under any other circumstances."

Panic hit. "What happened? What’s wrong?"

"Easy, son. He’s all right. And far as I know, so’s everybody else. He just wanted me to call you. You know why he’s bein’ so damn cautious, right?"

"Reckon I do." It was the same caution that had prompted Vin to walk home from Angel’s instead of taking a ride with Chris. "Thanks fer checkin’ up on me," he said softly, touched by the concern he heard in Josiah’s voice.

"You just keep yourself safe, brother."

"J’siah?"

"Nothin’ ... jist wonderin’ how Chris is doin’?"

"I’d need x-ray vision for that, Vin. Right now, he’s in Travis’s briefing. I’m praying it don’t get ugly in there."

"How much uglier c’n it get?" Vin sighed.

Josiah’s soft laugh held very little mirth. "I ain’t so sure I want to answer that."

"I ain’t so sure it needs answerin’. Jist tell Chris I’m alright an’ I’ll be in touch. You heard from Ezra?"

"No ... should we have?"

"Don’t know. It’s hard t’tell with Ez ... " Vin’s voice trailed off.

"Listen, you don’t hear from him soon, you call me."

The urgency made Vin’s skin prickle with a chill. "I gotta go, J’siah. Later."

Vin signed off and punched in Ezra’s number. Got Standish’s voice mail. Vin looked at his watch. It was early evening yet. He could be anywhere. "Ez, Vin. You git a chance, call me. I’ll be here."

He pushed himself up from the couch, every muscle aching like he’d gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. He went into the bathroom, flipped the light. He turned the shower on hot, stripped and got in, letting the streams of water beat on his back, and grateful that he had water pressure. He braced himself against the tile wall, the water sheeting down his body until the tiny room was filled with steam and the hot water began to run cool.

When he had dressed in clean jeans and a flannel shirt for warmth over a navy blue tee, he went into the kitchen. The heat had taken care of the knots in his muscles, but the ones in his stomach persisted. He had to eat, had to feed his body. He melted butter in a frying pan, threw in a handful of frozen hash browns, scrambled eggs, made a mess of an omelet with cheese grated on it and topped it with salsa. He toasted bread, spread it with butter. Wasn’t what Rain would call nutritious, but he figured it covered all the basic food groups, plus a couple that kept the docs in business.

He carried his meal into the living room and turned on the TV. Ed Williams’s death was the headline at the top of the hour before the networks started their line-ups. The anchor used all the right words – all the words that Ed Williams wasn’t – heroic, brave, patriotic. Vin listened to them, wondering what words Chris was using in the briefing, wondering if Buck was at his side to restrain that flash fire temperament of his. Maybe he shouldn’t be restrained, maybe it was time for the suits to remember what happened to agents on the streets. Williams might have been corrupt, but he hadn’t started out that way, and his death was a sobering reminder that the agents who worked undercover didn’t always surface alive.

He ate his food, tried Ezra again, got the same message, and didn’t like that one bit. He went to the window and looked out. The rain was still falling, quietly now, drops beading on the glass, gathering and sliding down like tears. He didn’t want to go out again, not beaten down with exhaustion like he was, but that itchy feeling between his shoulder blades wasn’t going to let him sit around waiting to hear from Standish.

He buckled on his Sig, tucked an extra magazine in his shirt pocket. He put on his scarred leather jacket and ghosted into the night.

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

The meeting was held in the fifteenth floor conference room rather than A.D. Travis’s office. By the time Chris arrived, most of the chairs around the long oak conference table were filled. He recognized the SAC’s from the FBI, Treasury, a captain from the DPD, the other agents from Williams’s team. Buck and JD were sitting mid-table, a chair between them saved for Chris; determined guardians, even JD, who was so pale that his freckles stood out on his skin like they’d been spangled on by a paintbrush.

Chris angled his way into the seat. "Thanks."

"If this show don’t start soon, I’m gonna complain to the management," Buck drawled. The flash of anger in his eyes took all humor from the comment.

Orrin’s secretary was passing around sheets of paper while her assistant set out pitchers of water and glasses at intervals along the table. What Chris wanted was coffee, hot, black, and thick. And it didn’t help that all government buildings were now smoke-free.

"Your agenda, Mr. Larabee."

"What?" Chris looked up.

"Agenda?" She held out the paper.

An agenda, for God’s sake. What the hell did they need one for? Bitterness soured Chris’s throat, and for a moment he thought he would be sick. He felt Buck’s hand on his arm and shrugged it off. "I’m all right," he said more sharply than he had intended. Buck raised a brow and settled back in his chair.

"Sure you are, pard."

Chris was about to make a reply when the door opened. Orrin Travis and Pete Nicholson, the Treasury supervisor came into the room. Silence fell as they stood at the head of the table.

Nicholson spoke first. "As you are aware, we lost one of our finest agents today when Ed Williams was gunned down. His leadership and investigative skills will be sorely missed by our department. He was a friend as well as a damn fine agent, and those of us who knew him well appreciated him for those qualities." He seemed to focus on Chris, as if he expected him to make some protest. Chris didn’t blink.

"We must now turn our resources to finding his killer. I have requested and received the assurances of AD Travis that all files pertaining investigations involving Agent Williams will be turned over to the FBI. I will expect those reports on my desk within twenty-four hours. Sooner, if humanly possible, so that we may apprehend and punish the criminals responsible for Agent Williams’s death."

There was a general nodding of heads. Not Chris’s, not JD’s or Buck’s. Chris looked down at the agenda in his hands. Opening remarks had been given. The next item was status reports, and Chris felt a shiver of apprehension. Of all agents gathered, Team Seven had the most to lose by revealing the details of their investigation – and killing the sacred cow at the same time. If they let on that Williams had been the focus of their own investigation, they’d be dead right along with him. Career suicide.

He felt JD fidgeting next to him, nothing visible from the waist up, but a nervous jiggling of his right thigh that communicated itself clear through the wood. Chris knew how he felt; years of experience holding him physically still while the tremors were all internal. JD’s way was undoubtedly healthier. But his was the way things had to be.

The status reports started with the Treasury since Williams was their agent. As he listened, Chris felt his anger rising. He’d heard whitewashes before; he hated them, occasionally understood them, admitted the need for them. Maybe this was true in Ed Williams’s case, but he had two agents – two friends – who were in danger because Ed Williams had turned his back on the oath he had taken, the same oath Chris held sacred and swore to defend with his life. He couldn’t accept the cover-up.

He moved uneasily, felt the weight of Buck’s study on him and the brush of his elbow, a warning to rein in his temper. Chris sat back and listened to Pete Nicholson’s statement.

"Agent Williams was involved in a deep cover investigation of money laundering operations in Denver. We believe that was the primary motive behind his murder. The criminal element he was investigating has a record of ruthless reprisals against informants and undercover agents. We will be looking very closely at his ongoing files in our investigation. All we know for certain at this time, is that Agent Williams received a call from an informant, went to meet that informant, and was gunned down. We are working to identify and question this person."

Nicholson looked to the SAC from the FBI who rose to continue the reports. Tom Wilks was brief, to the point. The FBI would open the files they maintained on informants and mob-related criminal activities. They were as anxious as every other agency to find the person who had murdered Agent Williams.

Then all eyes turned to Chris. His throat hurt. He took a swallow of water. He rose slowly. He looked at Orrin Travis, at Pete Nicholson. Travis was looking at him, grey eyes unreadable, but his posture so still that Chris could sense the tension. Nicholson, too, was watching him warily. He knew something. Maybe that Williams wasn’t as lily white as he was being painted. Or maybe he was afraid that Chris had been investigating on the side, and was going to tear down the dead agent’s reputation.

There were a number of paths Chris could take: the low road, or the easy way. He could have politely skirted the issue of his files, the way the FBI team leader had, or he could follow his own instincts, consequences be damned – and there would be consequences – if only Orrin tearing into him for not being a "team" player. He was a team player ... but the team was his.

Chris cleared his throat. "I have no status report to give at this time." That was it. Let them make of it what they would. He sat down, heard Buck breathe a chuff of admiration, and imagined that JD’s eyes were wide as saucers. Judging from the faces around the table, he hadn’t made any friends and had probably destroyed a lot of mutual trust between the various departments. But he couldn’t risk Ezra and Vin. If D’Amico had been willing to eliminate Ed Williams when he had outlived his usefulness, then Vin and Ezra were on the bubble of a highly volatile situation. Chris refused to be the match to that fuse.

Orrin rose, obviously furious at Chris but working hard to disguise it. "That will conclude this meeting. Keep me informed of any developments. Agent Larabee, a moment of your time, if you please."

"Ain’t no ‘please’ about it," Buck whispered. "Good luck, ol’ pard."

Chris gave him a wry smile. "Didn’t have much of a choice."

"Well, I always said ya got more balls than sense. See you downstairs?"

"If I’m not handing in my badge and gun."

JD heard the tail end of that exchange and gasped, "You wouldn’t ... I mean, he can’t ..." He shoved a hank of black hair off his forehead, shaken by the thought that Orrin Travis could, and very well might, suspend Chris Larabee.

"Go with Buck, JD. I’ll be all right." God, he wished JD didn’t have to see the tarnish on so many badges. The young agent was so much in love with the job, so single-minded and loyal, so determined to uphold the highest standards, that it had to hurt to witness so many betrayals. Thank God Buck was there. Thank God that Josiah and Nathan were at his back. That Vin and Ezra were out there like lights in the darkness. It never occurred to Chris that he was the gold standard in JD’s eyes.

He watched the others file out of the room, some giving him venomous looks, others stony, emotionless glances, or sliding away as if they were ashamed of being in the same room and could hardly wait to escape the taint of his presence. When the door had closed behind the last man, Chris turned back to Orrin Travis. "Sir?" His voice was formal and pitched low, reluctant; he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Travis on any level, as a superior or as a friend, but the decision had been made and he wasn’t going to back down without a fight.

Travis rounded on him. "Goddamnit, Chris! What sort of game are you playing here? Refusing to turn over your files! How the hell am I supposed to explain that?"

"I never said I was refusing to turn over my files. I just said I had no status report."

"A fine distinction." Acid etched Travis’s voice. "Will you turn over your files?"

"No."

Travis closed his eyes. "Our friendship is no defense in this matter, Agent Larabee."

"I never presumed that it was."

"Then why?" Travis leaned towards him, as if the force of his presence could make Larabee yield. "Give me something to work with here, Chris," Travis beseeched. "I have a dead agent, a killer on the streets, the entire Department of Justice out for revenge –"

Chris passed a hand over his forehead. His eyes fell on a manila folder on the table. JD’s file on Williams. As much as he hated using it as a bargaining chip, he had no choice. He was up against a stone wall and couldn’t risk suspension. He took a breath and a leap of faith. "Give me twenty-four hours."

"You can’t obstruct a criminal investigation!"

"I need twenty-four hours, Orrin. I’ve got to get Vin and Ezra out of Troy D’Amico’s sphere of influence. I don’t want to find their bodies in an alley."

Travis pounced on that oblique bit of information. "D’Amico killed Williams?"

"Most likely it was Ronnie Fazio doing the shooting." Chris picked up the file and shoved it towards Travis. "It’s all in here, Orrin. I was going to give it to you – but then we got the call about Williams, and everything went to hell. Read it. Maybe you’ll understand why I couldn’t give a status report. Maybe it will be worth those twenty-four hours." He rose, his body swaying slightly. "It’s not a lot to ask, Orrin. Not for Vin and Ezra."

Travis pursed his lips. He considered the file. He looked up at Larabee. Those haunted, weary green eyes tore into Travis. He sighed, surrendered. "Give me an hour to read this. I’ll get back to you tonight. Meanwhile, get something to eat before you pass out on my floor, son."

Chris smiled slightly. "Thank you."

"You put up a hell of a fight, Chris."

He nodded. "I choose ‘em carefully nowadays. I didn’t want to fight you on this one, but I had to. I just hoped you’d understand." He held out his hand, felt Travis’s strong, knotted fingers tighten over his. It was reassuring to know that something had been salvaged out of this long and ugly day.

He went down to his office. He stood in the doorway, moved beyond telling to see Nathan and Josiah still holding the fort. "Get something to eat, he ordered. "We have an hour before anything happens." He told Buck to field all calls, and not wake him unless it was Travis or Vin. He took a Tylenol and an antacid, and stretched out on his couch. It had been a toss-up between food and rest, and rest won out because he was too tired to eat. It was the soundest he’d slept in days. He didn’t even hear Buck come in to check on him, or feel the soft drift of the blanket Buck settled over legs.

It seemed only a few minutes had passed when Nathan shook him awake, but his watched showed that he had been sleeping for an hour. He sat up, rubbed his eyes. "What?"

"Travis is on line one. You up to talking to him, or should I take a message?"

"No. I’m fine. Give me two seconds, okay?"

"Sure."

Chris stumbled over to his desk and grabbed the phone. "Orrin?"

"You’ve got your twenty-four hours."

"Thanks, Orrin." Travis hung up, and Chris set the receiver back on the cradle. He laid his head down on his desk. Twenty-four hours. God, he could have slept for twelve of them, easy, then rolled over and slept for the other twelve. Wasn’t gonna happen.

He pushed his intercom. "Buck, get me the strongest, hottest cup of coffee in the house, and get some for the rest of us while you’re at it. We’re gonna be here for a while." He pushed the speed dial to Vin’s cell phone and was switched over to voice mail. "Vin, call me. Stat." He tried Ezra next, with the same result, and left the same message. He didn’t like the feeling of unease that was starting to shiver down his spine. He went into the outer office. "Josiah, you talk to Vin?"

"Yes. He was fine. Asked if you were fine, too."

"Did he say anything about going out, meeting Ezra?"

"Nope. Said he was going to give Ezra a call. That’s it."

Vin could be picking up dinner at Taco Bell. Ezra could be sitting in one of his fancy restaurants, sipping champagne and eating caviar. *Could* be. But Chris didn’t think so, not with his internal alarms clamoring. He grabbed a cup of coffee from Buck’s hands. "C’mon, cowboy. We’re payin’ Angel Ramirez a little visit. Nate, keep working on what we have. JD, you know what to do. Use your imagination, find out what’s happening in town, if any big shots are paying us a visit. D’Amico wanted Vin to shoot a particular target. I want to know who it might be. Josiah, if you can, talk to Pete Nicholson. He likes you, right?"

"As far as I know I haven’t done anything to antagonize him."

"Try to keep it that way," Chris said. He took a sip of coffee, felt the heat and caffeine jolt through him and drank the rest, even though it scoured his throat. "Let’s ride, Buck."

"Why are we going to Angel’s?" Buck asked when they were in the Ram.

"Because that’s the last place Williams was seen alive, the last place we know Ronnie Fazio frequented. And it’s in Purgatorio. We have a better chance of picking up Vin’s trail there ... wherever the hell he is."

"Sounds like a plan to me."

That was all it was, a plan. Jesus, Vin. Where are you?. Chris wheeled the Ram through a yellow light and around a corner. Vin’s building loomed just ahead of them. Chris pulled up to the front. "I’m just gonna take a look around."

"You want me with you?"

"Naw. Leg it over to Angel’s. I’ll be there in a few." He was out the door of the Ram and running up the stairs, grateful that the landlord never had installed automatic locks. He knocked once on Vin’s door, then pulled out his keys. Vin had given him a set for emergencies and they’d received more use than Chris liked to think about.

The apartment was quiet. No signs of a disturbance, which meant that Vin had probably left on his own. He prowled through the rooms, seeing nothing out of place. He picked up Vin’s phone. The stuttering beeps of the dial tone told him there was a message waiting. Chris punched in the code and listened. "Mr. Tanner, I fear we may have forgotten a meeting with Mr. D’Amico. I have been ever so gently reminded of it. Come to D’Amico’s offices as soon a possible. We’ll leave the light on for you." Ezra’s voice was strained, the words as clipped as his drawl permitted. Ezra was in trouble and Vin had never received the message.

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

Ezra’s condo was dark and his car was parked safely in the garage. Two facts which did nothing to ease Vin’s apprehension as he retrieved the key from the garage overhang. Still, he chided himself for his nerves, certain that he was about to make a fool of himself by busting into Ezra’s house only to find Standish sound asleep. Or worse, not alone. Ezra’d skin him alive in either case.

He bent and slid the Sig from his ankle holster. He fit the key in the door. He didn’t have to turn it. His heart thumped. The door swung open silently. Fitful moonlight filtered through the windows at the front of the room, sending shadows rippling across the floor; deceptive movements that made Vin’s finger twitch on the trigger. "Ezra?" he hissed softly. "Hey, Ez?"

The sigh of the wind through the bushes outside mocked him.

Soft-footed, he went up the stairs. Halfway up, he paused. A scent, not Ezra’s cologne, just the faintest tang of something foreign and raw; the reek of sweat and violence. There was a sound behind him on the stairs. Before it could register as something more than a flicker in his conscious mind, a heavy blow to the base of his skull drove him to his knees and he fell, slipping down six steps, coming to rest in a heap at the foot of the staircase. He didn’t move, scarcely seemed to breathe. Satisfied, his assailant shoved him over to his back with a hard kick, then left.

Vin lay there, sick and stunned, unable to move and afraid that if he did, he’d feel a tearing pain that would mean a lot more damage had been done to him than his body could bear. But when the pain faded to a dull throb and his head and stomach stopped rebelling in concert, he clawed himself upright until he was sitting on the lowest step and holding the turned spindle of the banister for support. He fumbled for his cell phone. His vision was blurry, but he knew which number pad would summon Chris and he pushed it, waiting for that voice that would anchor him to a quickly fading reality.

"Larabee –" A crisp snap of a greeting.

"C-Chris..."

"Vin? Jesus, where are you? Did you pick up Ezra’s message?"

"’M’at Ezra’s place ... Chris ... need ya. Hurry. Ezra’s g-gone ..." He slumped forward, his phone sliding from his hand. He heard Chris’s frantic voice fading like somebody was turning the volume down on a TV. Then the picture dulled to black, and he knew nothing more.

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

Chris locked up Vin’s apartment and loped down the stairs, unwilling to risk the elevator. He wasn’t surprised to see that Buck was still parked out front. He yanked the door open and hauled himself into the unfamiliar passenger seat. "Told you to get to Angel’s."

"And I figured it wouldn’t make much sense leaving you walkin’."

That wasn’t the reason, but Chris nodded in agreement, grateful for his oldest friend’s concern. "Thanks."

"Hell, might as well save yer achin’ bones some wear and tear."

Chris gave a soft snort. "Drive."

Buck put his foot to the accelerator and the Ram lurched forward like it had been goaded with a prod. "Whoa! Ya got enough horsepower here, pard?"

Chris laughed. "Ya got a heavy foot, Buck." He grinned, feeling the old camaraderie kick in as it always did – the lift that came from having Buck fighting with him. Bracing himself for the rocket ride, he was unprepared for the shrill chime of his cell phone. It took a moment for him to fumble it open.

"Larabee –" And then an abrupt, indrawn breath. "Vin? Jesus, where are you? Did you pick up Ezra’s message?"

There was a pause, and then a quiet cry. "Vin!" He turned to Buck, his eyes wide. "Get over to Ezra’s ... Vin’s in trouble."

Buck opened the console and took out the flasher that Chris kept there. They tore through the streets towards Ezra’s condo, neither man speaking, but both minds on their teamate whose voice had faded and whose life might be bleeding out even as they tried to reach him.

The drive nagged at Chris; achingly slow despite Buck’s smooth handling of the Ram. His fingers itched to take control, but to change places would only slow them down. He clung to the edge of the seat, leaning forward against the restraining seat belt, his green eyes focused on the road as if that could make the truck cover ground faster.

"Vin’s jeep!"

Buck wheeled the Ram alongside the jeep and both he and Chris were out at the same time, their weapons drawn as one as they covered the ground between curb and front stoop. Buck set his shoulder to the door, shoved, and nearly fell inside as it swung open. As he stumbled, Chris pushed through. "Vin!"

Darkness. Chris stopped short. Vin’s crumpled body was on the steps leading to the second floor. "Buck – call 911!" He went down on a knee, pushed aside the veiled tangle of long hair. His seeking fingers found a pulse beneath the warm skin, and he did a quick exploration of ribs, arms, back. Nothing, He probed Tanner’s skull beneath his hair and found the hard knot and a clump of hair sticky with blood from an abrasion where he’d been hit. *God, don’t let it be a fracture,* he prayed. He tapped Vin’s cheek lightly. "Partner, can you hear me? C’mon, Vin. Wake up. Ya gotta wake up."

No response. Chris raised one eyelid, caught the crescent rim of blue. He bent forward. Vin’s respiration was steady and slow. "C’mon ..."

Buck knelt beside him. "Paramedics are on the way." He touched Vin’s cheek. "How is he?"

"Out cold. He’s got a knot on his head like a golf ball. I’m hoping it’s not a fracture."

"Musta been quite a blow. Junior’s got a pretty hard head." Buck sighed. "No sign of Ezra."

"Vin said he was gone ..."

"Gone?"

Chris nodded. "Gone. Taken –"

"D’Amico?"

"That’s my guess." Chris rubbed his forehead. "God ... this should have been so simple!"

"Yeah, right." Buck stood up as he heard the sound of sirens. "I’ll watch for the ambulance."

Chris took his jacket off and laid it over Vin. He looked uncomfortable lying in that awkward position on the steps, but until the paramedics came with a backboard and cervical collar, he shouldn’t be moved. He just kept his hand on Vin’s head, careful and gentle, praying without any real faith that his prayers were being heard.

Vin started coming around just as the paramedics arrived. He groaned and stirred, opened a bleary eye. "C-Chris...?"

"Shh, easy there, partner. Ya gotta be still. The paramedics are on the way."

"’M’alright."

Chris restrained him with a firm hand. "You’re not. You let them check you out, take you to the ER for a CT scan."

"Gotta find Ez ..."

"You leave that up to Buck and the boys, okay? Just lie still, y’hear?"

A resigned sigh. "I’m okay ... jist got hit on the head." He swallowed hard. "Listen, Chris. Got a feelin’ that D’Amico took Ez ... maybe t’his office, maybe not. We gotta find him."

"I know. We’ll figure something out." Chris squeezed his shoulder. "Let’s make sure you’re okay, first." He moved aside as the paramedics came through the door. He gave them a quick rundown on what he had found. They put a cervical collar on Vin, strapped him to a backboard, and loaded him in the ambulance. He looked very slight, wrapped in blankets, and obviously uneasy, surrounded by strangers and confined. Chris knew how hard that was for him, how he struggled against panic and fear. His eyes locked with the Texan’s, willing him to stay calm. Telling him that he was all right, and not alone.

Buck set a hand on his shoulder. "You gonna ride with him?"

"Yeah."

"I’ll call JD, have him meet us at the hospital. What about Ezra?"

Chris gave Buck a look that made him shiver. "We wait. D’Amico wants something from us. He isn’t going to hurt Ezra without telling us what that is. He needs a bargaining chip." He saw Buck’s expression; part dismay, part anger. Suddenly it all seemed too much: the pain in his head, the burn in the pit of his stomach, the burden of responsibility. He snapped, the Larabee temper in full fire. "You tell me what to do, Buck! You make the decisions here – tell me who comes first – Vin or Ezra. You make that call if you don’t like what I’m doing. I’m going with Vin." Before Buck could respond, he swung into the front seat of the ambulance, leaving the medic to ride in the back with Vin.

Buck cursed and climbed into the Ram. There was no reasoning with Chris when his temper was running his logic. By the time they reached the hospital, he’d have cooled down enough for Buck to talk to him. Buck didn’t envy Chris his job at all. How did you make those decisions? To leave Ezra to D’Amico, to get Vin to the hospital, to wait, to charge in with guns blazing? Nope, there were no easy answers to those questions. He sure as hell didn’t like the idea of Ezra in D’Amico’s clutches, but Chris had a point in his argument. A damaged bargaining chip wasn’t worth much, and Ezra alive and in one piece was infinitely more valuable to both parties. Sickening but inescapable logic.

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

Chris was with Vin when Buck made his way to the ER. The doctors were doing a CT scan, and Buck, knowing Vin’s claustrophobia would make it nearly impossible for the sharpshooter to endure the test, figured Chris would stick with him as long as possible. Buck slumped in the chairs, wondering how long it would be this time. Vin had seemed in pretty good shape, so maybe it wouldn’t be too long. *Damn, Junior ...* Buck sighed and settled deeper in the chair.

JD arrived a few minutes later, worried and pale. "What’s going on, Buck? How’s Vin? Where’s Ezra? Why isn’t Chris here?"

"Easy, kid. Vin’s gettin’ a CT scan ‘cause he got a real good bump on the head. Chris is back with him, makin’ sure he’s okay."

"Ezra?"

Buck shook his head. "I don’t know."

"Whaddya mean, ya don’t know?" JD’s voice cracked.

"Listen, we think D’Amico has him. We’re pretty sure he’s all right –"

"Aw, shit!" JD sank down on the chair next to Buck. "How’d this get so fucked up?"

"Long story, kid. Remind me t’tell you sometime." He thrust his fingers through his dark hair. JD’s shoulder brushed against his as he leaned forward, mirroring Buck’s posture. They were still sitting like that when Chris came through the doors.

Buck looked up first, seeing the exhaustion etched in Chris’s face, but also the relief. "What’s the word?"

"No skull fracture. A concussion, took a few stitches to close the gash on his head. Bruised ribs from an apparent fall down the stairs. No further damage to his liver. He’ll be here overnight so they can keep an eye on him."

Chris passed a shaking hand over his eyes, swaying a bit as his fatigue and relief washed over him in a wave. Buck was up and at his side quickly. "Old pard, ya better sit down b’fore ya fall down."

Chris warded Buck off with a flat hand. "I’m fine." He didn’t look it. His face was paste-pale, eyes dark-circled and weary. The tremor in his hand wasn’t a good sign, nor was the way he was pressing his other hand across his stomach.

"When was the last time you talked to Rain about that ulcer of yours?"

"Don’t have an ulcer."

Buck snorted. "Yeah, ya do. Remember that damned hole in yer belly? Put ya in the hospital ‘bout three years ago? Well, it’s back – and if it ain’t – it will be real soon." He fixed Chris with a steely gaze. "Sit down."

Too tired to argue, he did. Sat and felt the pain burning in his gut, throbbing in his head. This job that he thought of as his life, was killing him. Or maybe it wasn’t the job, maybe it was that long-haired sharpshooter lying on a gurney in the ER, or the wily, exasperating undercover agent who was risking his life to bring down Troy D’Amico. Maybe it was his own responsibility for his team; for the life of his best friend, for the young man who made computers do magic things, for the quiet, philosophical profiler, and the former army medic whose patience and care had saved them all one time or another.

They might kill him, but they would never abandon him.

"Chris?" He looked up. Rain was crouched in front of him. "C’mon back with me. You need to see a doctor."

He blinked at her. "I’m fine."

"No. You’re not. You didn’t even notice Buck bringing me out here, did you?" she scolded gently. She stood up, taking hold of his upper arm and pulling him to his feet. "This won’t take long, I promise."

"Rain, not tonight."

"Yes! Do the words bleeding ulcer mean anything to you?" She put her hands on her hips. "Nathan is on his way over."

At that, Chris gave up the fight. "You have something that will help without putting me in the hospital?"

"Maybe."

He followed her back to a treatment room. She left him there and returned a short time later with a short, slender Chinese doctor in tow. "Chris, this is Dr. Richard Wong. He’s a gastroenterologist on staff here. He’s going to examine you."

Chris gave her a warning glare, angry at her interference. She returned the look, nodded to Dr. Wong, and left. Wong studied Chris. Chris studied Wong.

"Lie down," the doctor said quietly. His voice held a hint of a British accent, surprising Chris into compliance. He did a quick, gentle examination of Chris’s abdomen, uttering all the doctorly noises that set Chris’s teeth on edge. When he had finished, and Chris was sitting upright on the exam table, he crossed his arms and frowned at the him. "You ought to have a complete GI series, soon."

"But not tonight," Chris’s eyes narrowed, daring the doctor to order it.

"No. I suspect you’ve got an incipient ulcer, but you don’t seem to be bleeding from it. You’ll get a dose of what I call the house specialty. It’ll cool things down, ease some of the pain so you can eat and sleep. I’ll give you a prescription for some medicine, but I’m warning you – don’t ignore the symptoms. This is a serious condition, but it is treatable."

Chris buttoned his shirt. "I’ll call."

Wong smiled. "You’d better. Dr. Jackson doesn’t seem to be the sort of woman who allows her friends to neglect their health." He shook Chris’s hand and left.

Chris slid off the table and went into the hall. He inquired at the Nurses’ station about Vin, and was told Agent Tanner had been taken upstairs to Room 611. As soon as they came with the promised medicine, he’d have a talk with Vin. He’d been pretty woozy, but was maybe more sensible now. Chris wanted a lead on Ezra and hoped Vin had a few more thoughts on his whereabouts. He couldn’t let it go, not even for his own health.

Rain came in with a small amount of a milky green liquid in a cup. Chris eyed it suspiciously and sniffed. The scent of wintergreen barely disguised the medicinal aroma. "What is it?" he asked.

"Maalox, Donnatal, and lidocaine. Now you know as much as you did before. Drink it."

He grimaced, gagged it down, and felt the cool, thick liquid coating his esophagus and stomach. The pain stopped within minutes. Rain had watched him drink it, and held out her hand for the empty cup. She reached in her pocket. "Dr. Wong wrote a prescription for Prevacid. It will keep the acid level down until you can come in for a complete work-up. As your regular doctor, I will be making sure that you make that appointment."

"Yes, ma’am." He tucked the paper in his pocket. "Now can I see Vin?"

Suddenly gentle, Rain touched his arm. "Sure. He’s fine, Chris. And when I say it, you can believe me."

Chris grinned. "Room 611, right?"

"Yes. Now, go. We need this room for sick people."

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

His head hurt. His ribs ached, and his stomach was churning with nausea. When he opened his eyes the room tended to spin around, so he kept them shut and hoped that at least one of the symptoms would subside. He had to get out of here. He might be a bit hazy on a few details but he knew that Ezra was in trouble, and he knew who was behind it. Chris had said something about a message, hadn’t he?

Vin struggled to sit up despite the pain from his bruised ribs. He’d been lucky to have suffered nothing more serious than pulled muscles and aching bones. And a concussion. Again. Lord, Troy Aikman had nothing on him when it came to that department. But he’d worked through them before, and he’d survive this one.

Determined, he fumbled for the button on the bedrail that would raise him to a more upright position. He pushed it and the mechanism made a low whine and a grinding sound that didn’t inspire much confidence in the equipment his health insurance was supposed to be paying for. Figured.

Once he was semi-vertical, he risked opening his eyes. So far, so good. The room spun slowly, but not as dizzying as it had been an hour ago. He squinted against the glare from the overhead light. It stabbed behind his eyes like a knife so he closed them and lay back. Wasn’t good. Nope, not at all.

Maybe if he rested for a few more minutes, he could try again. A few minutes passed and then another few. He drifted, his eyes closed. Not sleeping, because they’d come and wake him in a few minutes just to make sure his head injury wasn’t serious enough to send him into a coma. As soon as they checked on him, he’d try again.

Despite his intentions, he dozed.

He was aware of the door opening, a drift of air from the corridor. "I’m awake," he said. "Y’c’n go bother somebody else."

"Ain’t nobody else to bother," Chris said, faint humor in his voice. "You mind talkin’ to me?"

Vin opened his eyes cautiously. Better. He pushed himself up farther on the pillows, wincing at his sore ribs. "You hear from Ezra?"

"No. He left a message on your phone, Vin. He said D’Amico had picked him up. He wanted you to meet him at D’Amico’s office."

Vin’s eyes opened wider. "You send somebody over there?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet! Jesus, Chris! Ya gotta git Ez outta there –"

Chris looked down at the floor." I can’t. If we rush in there now to close D’Amico down, we have nothing that will hold up in court. We have all these bits of information and nothing to link them together but you and Ezra. We’ve got to see this through to the end or we’ll lose it."

He sounded cold, controlled, but Vin could see beyond the words to the agony that Chris was battling. He studied Larabee’s face, saw pain there, exhaustion, the dogged determination and anger that burned in him, that burned through him.

"What about Ezra?"

Chris’s gaze came up to meet his. "D’Amico doesn’t really want Ezra. He wants you. He *needs* you. Ezra is just the means to the end."

Vin considered for a moment. His head tipped back against the pillows. "I’ll be outta here tomorrow. Got a feelin’ D’Amico’s gonna want t’talk to me."

"You think?" Chris mused.

Vin gave a weak chuff of laughter. "Troy ain’t stupid. He’s been usin’ me and Ezra all along. Been usin’ all of us one way or another."

Chris’s jaw tightened into a angle as hard as the blade of an axe. "It stops now." He rose restlessly. Paced a bit, feeling the weight of Vin’s gaze on his back. "You got something you want to say?"

"Ain’t no use yer wearing a hole in yer stomach over this."

Chris turned shot him a glare. "I’m fine."

Vin just snorted derisively. "Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with my eyes, cowboy." He tilted his head, appraised him. "Don’t kill yerself, Chris. There’s ‘nough bastards out there t’do that for ya."

Humor lightened the darkness in Larabee’s eyes. "Reckon you’re right about that, partner." He sat back down in the chair at the beside. "You want me to stay for a while?"

"Hell, no. If I’m gonna git waked up every hour, it’s gonna be by that pretty nurse, Sue. Not by yer mug." He smiled. "’Sides, you need t’rest, regroup. It’s gonna be a long day t’morrow." Resolutely, he closed his eyes. Heard Chris get out of the chair and stand at the bedside. Felt the light touch on his shoulder and made a determined effort not to show that he had. But the warmth remained, and he was grateful for it.

Chris looked down at Tanner’s pale face. There was a bruise starting on his cheekbone. A sore head and sore ribs; it could have been so much worse. Chris sighed softly. This job was gonna kill him, yet. But not tonight. Tomorrow, he wasn’t so sure about.

He closed the door and took the elevator down to the emergency room where the others were waiting, including Nathan, holding a small white bag from the pharmacy. He handed it to Chris, frowning. "You’re gonna take this, right?"

"You’ve been talking to Rain."

Nathan laughed. "The lady is my wife. Of course, I talk to her."

"What happened to confidentiality?" Chris scowled.

"It don’t take a genius to figure out why you need Prevacid." Nathan was capable of intimidation, but not this time. His dark eyes were soft with concern. "How’s Vin?"

"Good. He’ll be out in the morning. Slight concussion, bruised ribs. D’Amico didn’t want him hurt so badly that he was of no use."

"Ezra?"

"Vin thinks D’Amico has him safe."

Buck heard that and joined them. "He *thinks* Ezra’s safe? And if he ain’t?"

"We all take the risks, Buck. Hell, Ezra knows that better than any of us."

"It don’t make it any easier when some goon’s beatin’ on ya."

"What do you want me to do, Buck? We go busting in there and Ezra’s as good as dead. We wait to see what D’Amico wants from Vin – maybe we have a chance. That’s all we can do until tomorrow." His voice was raspy and taut with frustration.

Buck backed off, aching for his friend. He laid an arm around his shoulder. "C’mon. Y’ain’t wore your welcome out with me and JD yet." He caught Nathan’s nod of gratitude. Hell, he’d’ve offered that if Chris had been drunk and half out of his mind. He’d done that before, too.

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

Later, Chris sat on the edge of the bed in Buck’s spare room and watched the moonlight make a slow progress across the floor. He *should* sleep. He was exhausted – he felt it in his blood like a drug – but sleep stubbornly eluded him. At least the "cocktail" he’d drunk at the hospital was still soothing his irritated stomach and the pill he’d taken ought to keep the acid at a manageable level. Small mercy when his thoughts were chasing around his skull like greyhounds after a rabbit.

He pulled off his shirt, felt the night air whisper across his skin. Toed off his boots, stripped down to boxers and stretched out on the bed, the sheets cool and smooth beneath his tired body. He wanted a drink. Pushed that thought out of his mind, knowing that indulging in it would only cause more pain. He closed his eyes resolutely. Sleep.

The morning would come soon enough. Or maybe not.

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

At Mercy Hospital, Vin was waiting for the nurse to come in and check to see if he was still conscious. He didn’t want to drift off only to be startled awake; didn’t want to harm anybody with a reflexive action he couldn’t control. Wasn’t like he felt much like sleeping anyways. His mind was riled up six ways from Sunday.

There was a soft knock on the door. Time for Nurse Sue to appear. Vin shook his head. Didn’t know why they bothered. If he was supposed to sleep, it would wake him, and if he was unconscious, he wouldn’t hear it. "I’m good," he said, half-hoping that would send the Sue on her way to tend to patients who needed her.

Didn’t work. She came into the room and stood at his bedside. "That’s not what I hear," she said. "I hear you like to cause all sorts of trouble; sneaking out of bed, not asking for pain medications when you need them, making all the nurses fight over who gets to deal with you ..."

"You won, right?"

She grinned at him. "I lost." But she had pretty eyes that smiled into his as she took his wrist in her fingers. "Hmm, according to this, you should be dead."

"Fergot t’tell you. The ul-ulnar pulse works better."

He looked at her uncertainly, and she nodded and repositioned her fingers. "Ah, there it is." She wrote something down on his chart. "You must have been in a lot of hospitals to know that."

"Been in enough."

Blood pressure next, and he squirmed a bit as the cuff tightened around his arm. "Did I hurt you?" she frowned.

"No, ma’am. Jist never liked those things."

She fiddled with the IV tubing, checking the line. "Don’t call me ma’am. My mother is a ma’am. Sue works just fine." She pushed a few buttons on the pump. "There, I think you’re done. If you can think of anything I can get for you, just push the call button."

"I’m fine," he said.

"That’s what they all say." She patted his shoulder gently. "You *can* sleep, you know. You’ve been coherent now for several hours. I won’t need to check again for a while."

Vin gave her a brief nod. "I’ll try it. Thanks." He settled back and closed his eyes as obediently as a child trying to fake out a watching parent. Sue dimmed the light overhead and went to continue her rounds.

Exhaustion and medications finally kicked in and despite his resolve, Vin felt himself spinning slowly into sleep, drawn deeper with every breath. His last hazy thought was of Ezra; a half-prayer that his assessment of Standish’s value to D’Amico was right, and that he was enduring nothing more uncomfortable than a lumpy mattress.

When Sue checked on him a while later, he was curled on his side, a tangle of brown hair spread across the pillow and his face. Carefully, she brushed the strands aside and tested his temperature. Cool. Respiration deep and even. Pulse regular and strong.

He stirred, breath indrawn. "It’s all right," she said. "Just checking." His sleep-blurred eyes opened briefly, then closed, dark lashes fanned on his cheeks. She stroked a gentle hand over his hair. *Men*, she thought, with a wry smile. They believed they were so tough.

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

Trapped. Lord, how witless could he be? Ezra stared at the ceiling overhead. He stretched, feeling bruises on his still aching abdomen that matched the one on his jaw. His own stupid fault for attempting to dissuade Ronnie Fazio from strong-arming him into his car.

He turned his head on the pillow. It could be worse, he thought. He’d been incarcerated in less sanguine quarters than this. A tad small, but clean. Glass block windows high on the walls, industrial carpeting underfoot. There were lower-level executives laboring in cubicles that would consider this luxury.

He was lying on a collapsible cot, a bit low, but fairly comfortable. Not like his pillow-top mattress at home – so few were. Dinner had been a microwaved dinner from the supermarket. A chilled bottle of chardonnay would have made it more edible. At that, Ezra laughed silently at his own pretensions. He would consider this as he would a trip to an ATF convention – a duty to be done; nothing more, nothing less. And certainly not one where he expected pampering.

With a soft, inelegant snort, he turned on his side, wincing at the pressure on his ribs. There was the sound of a key in the door lock, and Ezra sat up, his hand going towards his ankle. Like there was something there ... his hand slipped away. The door opened and Carlo, one of D’Amico’s "assistants" entered, gun drawn.

"C’mon." He motioned with the gun.

"Might I ask where?"

"Mr. D’Amico doesn’t want you to piss in those expensive pants of yours."

"How kind," Ezra drawled. "I wouldn’t think of such a thing, though the thought of urinating on his walls has some sort of appeal." Carlo stared at him. "And here I thought bathroom humor would have been right up your alley." He stood up slowly, his hands held raised and open. "Lead on."

Carlo nodded at the door. "Guests first."

"My, my. Such lovely manners. I can see that I have misjudged you." A hard thump on his backbone made him stumble. "However, your people skills could use some polishing."

"I could just tie you down and let you stew in your own stink."

Ezra didn’t doubt that he would. He was marched down the hall to a bathroom, still windowless. His best guess was that he was still in the office building, perhaps on a lower floor where D’Amico’s underlings slaved away making his illicit millions. He used the facilities, washed up, ran damp fingers through his hair. His reflection in the mirror was washed out and pale, not entirely due to the fluorescent light fixtures. He tried to rearrange his anxious features into an expression of nonchalance.

He looked around for something to use as a weapon. Nothing. Electric hand-dryers, the toilet paper holders were bolted to the sides of the cubicles, and the rollers were inaccessible without some sort of key. Cost control. The soap containers were dry, which could be either unsanitary or cautious, and Ezra was willing to bet on cautious. He tapped on the mirror. Not glass. Highly polished steel like in prisons. Definitely cautious.

"You fall in?"

Ezra sighed. "Mother Nature can’t be rushed."

"Ya need me to come in there and scare the shit outta you?"

"I assure you that will be unnecessary." Ezra opened the door to find the gun trained on him. "As is that." Carlo gave him another nudge with the gun and they walked back to the office. Ezra stepped inside. "Do they serve breakfast in this charming establishment?"

Carlo grinned. "If you’re still alive." He closed the door and locked it.

Ezra sank back down on the mattress. That certainly had an ominous ring to it. Enough to keep him wide awake for a very long time. He couldn’t keep his mind from wandering in circles. Had Vin heard his message? Had he contacted Chris? Had he gone to the house? And if he had, what or who had been waiting for him? But then, if he hadn’t heard the message, he was undoubtedly sleeping the sleep of the blissfully ignorant. But surely he would have checked messages, and if he had ... Ezra firmly suppressed that turn of thought after chasing it for the third or fourth time. By then, the glass squares were showing a pale light that he imagined was dawn.

And he was still alive.

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

Vin woke to the same pale light; false dawn, not true sunrise. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. Not dizzy, slight throb in his temples and behind his eyes, nothing to write home about. His ribs ached fiercely. A hot shower and some Tylenol would take care of that. Once he got out of here. Still too early to call Chris.

He lay back down. The bag of fluid hanging on the IV pump was nearly empty. From past experiences, he knew it would beep soon, and when the nurse came to replace it, maybe he could convince her that she could unhook him. He hated being tethered to the damn pole, and it wasn’t like he couldn’t drink water.

He watched the drip from the bag into the plastic chamber below it. Steady as his heartbeat. It seemed to take forever before the alarm sounded. Sue came in to silence the pump. When she reached to change the bag, Vin tugged on her sleeve.

"Think ya could free me up?" he asked.

"Are you planning a quick getaway?"

"Was kinda hopin’."

"I’ll check with the doctor, but if he says you need another IV, you’ll have to put up with it." She looked at him. "I’ll unhook you so you can move around for a few minutes, while I talk to him."

Vin blushed at her tact. "I appreciate it." He held on to his hospital gown, and to his dignity as he made his way to the bathroom. When Sue returned, he was back in bed, waiting. "Well, ya gonna hog-tie me again?"

"No." She carefully pulled the tape from the back of his hand and removed the IV needle quickly and painlessly. "Try to get some more rest, though. It’s still very early."

Vin settled back as she dimmed the lights. He wouldn’t sleep, but he would try to rest. At least until Chris showed up to spring him from this place. First thing he’d do was pay a call on Troy D’Amico.

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

Chris was already awake when Buck tapped softly on his door the next morning. He had spent the last hour and a half watching the digital minutes on the bedside radio advance. They wouldn’t let Vin out of the hospital until at least ten, and he was in no shape to go into the office, barring a summons from Orrin Travis or a state of national emergency. When he heard Buck, he sat up. "I’m awake," he said.

"You want breakfast?"

He didn’t, but he could hear Rain’s cautions in his mind. "Yeah. I’ll be down." He swung his legs out of bed and went into the guest bathroom across the hall. Showered and shaved, he felt better, but still queasy. His reflection in the mirror was little solace. Fine bones too stark beneath the skin, and his jeans were hanging loose. His belt was tightened two notches from where it had been ten days ago. Had been a while since that had happened without a conscious effort at diet and exercise.

He went down the wrought iron spiral staircase from the loft, lured to the kitchen by the seductive aroma of brewing coffee. Buck was frying ham in a skillet. JD was setting out boxes of cereal and bowls on the table. He gave Chris a glance from beneath his fringe of bangs. "Hey, Chris. How’re you doin’?"

"Better." JD looked a little skittish over having to deal with him that early in the morning. "Easy, son. I’m just paying a visit," he said, smiling at the blush rising on JD’s cheeks. The humor worked, and JD grinned back.

"You want cereal, Chris?"

"Coffee." Buck turned from the stove and fixed Chris with a look. Chris gave him a deliberate glare, daring him to say something stupid. JD set a mug on the table, oblivious to the stand-off. Chris took a sip, still watching Buck. Wilmington rolled his eyes and turned back to his ham and eggs. Chris reached for a box of corn flakes, poured some in a bowl with milk, and, in deference to Rain, added a dollop of milk to his coffee to blunt the acid.

As the clock ticked to eight AM, Chris felt his nerves tighten in anticipation of something. He wasn’t quite sure what, but his instincts were gearing up for battle. At the hour, his cell phone rang.

JD jumped and Buck paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. Chris swallowed and answered. "Larabee."

"Agent Larabee." The number on the display was Ezra’s, but the voice wasn’t.

"Who is this?"

"You wound my pride. We met at the Sportsmen’s Club – or perhaps I should say, we were both watching Agent Tanner display his talents."

"Troy D’Amico." Shit. He’d been made and hadn’t even known.

"Very good. How is Agent Tanner?"

Enormous anger swept through Chris. "Concussed, but alive. I would have thought you’d protect your interests in that regard."

"That was ... regrettable. But I understand he is to be released later today."

Chris cursed beneath his breath. Someone at Mercy Hospital was going to pay for providing any information on Vin to unauthorized parties. "I find it regrettable that he’s there at all, D’Amico. And I’m not a man you want to cross."

"Threats, Agent Larabee? When I’ve got one of your men in my custody? I’d be very careful. Agent Standish is in a very precarious position."

"Let me talk to him."

"He is unharmed."

"I want proof of life. I’m sure you’re familiar with that term."

There was a pause, then Ezra’s voice, slightly breathless, but remarkably calm under the circumstances, came on the line. "Mr. Larabee, I am unharmed aside from being a bit stiff from sleeping on a less than satisfactory mattress."

Chris closed his eyes. "You hang in there, Ez."

"I assure you, I am going nowhere –"

The cut-off was abrupt, and D’Amico came back on the line. "Proof of life, Agent Larabee, as requested. Now, you do something for me or I’ll be sending you a proof of death. Do you understand?"

Sickened, Chris replied. "I understand."

"Good. When Agent Tanner is released from the hospital, I want him to come to my offices. Alone. No wires, no taps, no tricks. You’re a smart man, you know what I mean."

"What if he’s unable to comply? When I left him last night, he wasn’t exactly at a hundred percent," Chris hedged.

"Unless he’s incapable of walking, he’d better be here. There will be consequences, if he is not."

Dead air. Chris nearly threw the phone against the wall. JD was looking at him with wide eyes and Buck was standing at his shoulder. "What is it?" he asked.

"D’Amico has Ezra. He wants Vin for that job, whatever it is. If he’s not there today, D’Amico’s threatened to kill Ezra."

Buck uttered a foul epithet. "Ya gonna tell Travis?"

Chris pushed away from the table. "No. You are. I’m going to get Vin and take him to D’Amico’s office. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do next, because I swear to God, I don’t know."

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

Freed from the hated IV line and still unable to spend the nervous energy that was about the only thing keeping him upright, Vin paced his hospital room. Ten meager steps from wall to wall, a turn, and ten more. He was wearing the clothes he had worn the day before; jeans, navy tee shirt, leather jacket. Fortunately, he had managed not to bleed on them for a change. His head still throbbed, but at least he was steady on his feet. The pacing had started as a test of his stability, and now was just a nervous habit.

Where the hell was Chris?

"Mr. Tanner!"

He halted mid-pace. Dr. Elizabeth Stone stood in his doorway, her brows drawn level in disapproval. "Hey, doc. You here t’spring me?" Hopefully, his blue eyes wide and innocent, as if that would fool her.

"You are incorrigible, you know that?"

"Don’t know about that, ma’am. But I am lookin’ forward to gettin’ out of here."

She came into the room, his open chart in her arm. She frowned and read. "Admitted last night at 2100 with a concussion, abrasions and contusion, and a scalp laceration. Patient was unconscious upon arrival but soon recovered. Patient exhibited signs of confusion and agitation upon recovering consciousness. Disoriented state dissipated quickly and by 0100, Mr. Tanner was lucid and calm, at which time he was discharged from the ER and taken to a medical floor for overnight observation and continued IV hydration."

"This is becoming the story of your life," Elizabeth Stone sighed. "Don’t you know that repeated concussions are extremely serious injuries?"

"Hey, doc. It ain’t like I’m asking t’be hit over the head," Vin objected. "Jist happens."

"Well, stop it!" She came to his side. "And sit down so I can examine you."

He did, and she took out her ophthalmoscope and looked into his eyes. "Good. Pupils are normal and equally reactive. Do you have any blurred vision, dizzy spells, nausea?"

"No, ma’am."

"Are you telling me the truth?"

Vin looked offended. "Yes, ma’am!"

She took his pulse and blood pressure. Then wrote on his chart, and sighed. "Well, there’s no reason to keep you here longer. You were lucky this time."

"Yes, ma’am."

"You are the most aggravatingly polite patient I have ever had," she smiled. "Please, Vin. Do us both a favor and be careful."

"Cain’t wear a helmet every time I go out on a case, doc."

She laughed. "Why not? You wear bulletproof vests, don’t you?" He grinned back, crooked and endearing, and she touched his shoulder lightly. "Take my advice, hmm?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Sign here and you’re sprung, then." She handed him the papers, and made an "X" on the signature line. She always did, aware of his dyslexia, and he gratefully scrawled his name and took his copy of the discharge orders. "Take it easy," she warned, knowing that he wouldn’t.

She left with a swish of her white coat, and a faint fragrance that for a moment dispelled the hospital odor of disinfectant and filtered air. Vin tied his shoes, wincing as his bruised ribs were compressed. It was nearly nine, and there was still no sign or word from Chris. No telling when he would show up. Vin took out his wallet and counted his cash. Enough to take a cab to Ezra’s and get his jeep. He looked at the display on his cell phone. Out of juice. He called the ranch from the hospital phone. No answer.

Hell.

He took the elevator down to the hospital lobby and had the valet hail a cab. It was twenty minutes from the hospital to Ezra’s, another twenty back to Purgatorio. He wheeled into his parking space and stepped out into the sunlight. He had to close his eyes for a moment as the glare from the pavement and parked cars sent fresh pain darting into his skull. Shading his eyes, he took refuge in the dimly lighted lobby of his building. He leaned against the wall, trying to marshal the strength to make it up five flights of stairs.

"You could always use the elevator."

The low, raspy voice from the shadows set Vin upright fast. He looked at the dark figure sitting on the steps. "How’d ya know I’s here?" he asked.

"Called the hospital." Chris unfolded his body. "C’mon, partner. Let’s get upstairs before I start ragging on you about what the hell you thought you were doing."

"Thought I was comin’ home," Vin grumbled. He eyed Chris. "You hear from Ezra?"

"He’s all right. At least his biggest complaint so far was the lumpy mattress he was forced to sleep on."

"You b’lieve him?"

Chris didn’t answer until Vin had followed him into the elevator, using his answer like a lure to a wild creature. He pushed the button to the fifth floor and prayed that the motor would work. It did, wheezing to life like a tired old man gathering himself to get out of his rocker. "Yeah, I believe him."

Vin made a non-committal noise in his throat and closed his eyes, willing the elevator to get to his floor before the confined space started to choke him. Even with Chris there, it was hard to breathe. They reached the fifth floor and the doors slid open with an arthritic creak. But they opened, and his apartment was just a few steps away.

Chris deftly plucked the keys from Vin’s unresisting fingers and opened the door. "Sit down before you fall down, Tanner."

He did, collapsing in a thin, boneless slump on his couch. Chris went into the kitchen and came back a minute later with a tall glass of orange juice. "Drink." Chris stood over him, blond hair falling over his forehead and his mouth drawn straight and serious. Vin wasn’t about to argue with that look. He tipped the glass and drank. The sweet juice raised his blood sugar and gave him a boost of needed energy so that in a few minutes he was able to return the look without flinching. "Thanks, Chris."

Larabee sighed and sank down in the chair opposite. He pushed his hair back. "D’Amico is expecting you at his office. If you don’t show up – alone – he’ll kill Ezra."

"I’ll be there," Vin said quietly.

Chris shook his head. "You can’t do it."

Too tired for that hot blaze of anger that Chris’s adamant statement would normally raise, Vin just returned that steady assessment. "You gonna stop me?"

"This isn’t about me countermanding you, Vin. This is about the man I see sitting opposite me. You look like shit on a bad day, Tanner."

Vin just laughed softly. "Hell, I look like shit on a good day!" He pushed himself off the couch with his hands, a grimace of pain twisting his mouth. "But that don’t mean I’m willin’ t’let a friend die." He paced to the window and looked out. It was so clear that he could see the pale grey stone column of the building housing D’Amico’s offices. He half imagined he could see the small dark slits that were windows, and if he had a sniper scope to his eye, he might be able to pick out the exact one. Then he shrugged off that much conceit and went back to the couch to sit opposite Chris.

"So if y’ain’t gonna stop me, what are ya gonna do?"

Chris leaned forward, his hand gripping Vin’s slim, hard wrist. "I’m going with you."

Vin leaned his head back against the cushions. "No. D’Amico means what he says, Chris. Believe me, if he says he wants me alone, I’d better be alone. This ain’t no time to play games."

"No games, Vin. I’m not walking into D’Amico’s office with you, but if his attention is focused on you, maybe ... maybe ... I can find out where he’s keeping Ezra. And maybe we can find out what this master plan of D’Amico’s is."

"And maybe one a’ his goons’ll shoot ya on sight. I cain’t let that happen."

Chris raised a brow. "Don’t make me pull rank on you, Tanner. You know I will."

"Shit, Chris ..." Vin’s head dropped into his hands and he dug the heels of his palm into his aching eye sockets.

"Look at me, Vin. You are not going into this alone, so suck it up and accept it."

Vin’s dragged his eyes up to Chris’s. The hard edge of command he saw there was implacable, but it was also softened by friendship and concern of a depth and certainty that he had never known, but from this man.

"All right," he conceded. "I warned ya, and I reckon that’s all I c’n do."

Chris gave him a wry grin. "I’ll keep that in mind."

Vin levered himself off the couch. "Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change." He started down the hall towards the bathroom. "There’s eggs ‘n sausage in the refrigerator – " he said over his shoulder. "Don’t want ya wiltin’ on me, Larabee."

Chris, watching Tanner’s slightly wavering progress down the hall, thought that it would take a minor miracle for either of them to emerge from this day alive.

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

Ezra watched in silence as D’Amico closed the cell phone, cutting the connection to Chris, and what felt to Ezra like his link to life. He wished he could have held on to that tenuous electronic wisp. He knew he was wilting and he stiffened his spine both physically and metaphorically, sitting up a bit straighter despite the grip Carlo retained on his shoulder.

He kept his eyes fixed on D’Amico’s face. The handsome features, so elegant and refined at first acquaintance, were overlaid with a hard cruelty that distorted them into an ugly mask. Ezra had the same sinking feeling he felt when he knew he had badly underestimated a poker opponent’s bluffing ability. This time, the stakes were much higher than a stack of chips on a table. But he could bluff as well, so he relaxed his shoulders and settled into the chair as if he had no concerns over the continuation of life as he knew it.

D’Amico turned to him with a half smile. "Do you know the one thing of value my uncle taught me, Mr. Standish?"

"I’m sure I am about to find out," Ezra drawled.

"Gianni was a great manipulator ... of money, of men, of circumstance. It was the base of his empire. He knew men; he knew what makes them act and react. He taught me many things, including the one great weakness in the soul of an honest man. Honor. Gianni told me, ‘Honor makes fools of honest men. You find what an honest man values and he will do anything to preserve it. *Anything.*’"

"Did he also tell you that there is no honor among thieves?"

"Perhaps that is why we are less vulnerable ... and more ruthless." Narrow grey eyes bored into Ezra’s. "Carlo, take him away. I’ll let you know when to bring him back."

Carlo muscled Ezra out of the chair, no longer cautious of leaving bruises, fingers digging like iron claws into Ezra’s arms. Ezra failed to suppress his wince, and saw the bright, hot pleasure in D’Amico’s eyes at his discomfort. His chin came up defiantly, and D’Amico froze him with a look of utter contempt.

Carlo pulled him out of the office, twisting his arm behind his back. Ezra’s shoulder, prone to slipping out of its joint, screamed in protest and a gasp of pain escaped from his lips. In response, Carlo ratcheted the armlock higher, and this time Ezra’s knees nearly buckled.

"Can’t take much, can you?" he sneered.

Actually Ezra could, and had, taken quite a lot from men of Carlo’s ilk, but he wasn’t about to tell *him* that. Stupidity would cost him more pain than a clenched fist. So, armored with the knowledge that Carlo would probably hurt him some more, but not beyond repair as long as D’Amico found him valuable, Ezra played the weak-kneed wimp to keep Carlo’s sadistic tendencies in check.

Meanwhile, he hoped Vin would ride in with the cavalry, or at the very least, Chris Larabee, in tow. He was not looking forward to the hours ahead.

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

Chris had plates of scrambled eggs and sausage on the breakfast bar when Vin came into the kitchen. His eyes were clearer than they had been, and he moved more easily. Hot water and pain medication had eased his aching ribs, but he was under no illusions about his fitness – he was in sorry shape. He just had to keep Chris from seeing exactly how sorry.

He looked at the food, not really hungry, but knowing that he had to eat to shore up his dwindling physical resources. Hell, Larabee didn’t look much better: sheet-white and drawn with worry deepening the lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. Looked like he could use a good meal, too. Vin sat down on one of the stools, picked up a fork and started eating. He gestured to Chris. "You gonna join me, cowboy?"

Chris swung a long leg over the other stool and settled closer the counter. "Guess I’d better."

"It’s pretty good. Reckon I won’t shoot the chef t’day." The humor was forced, and the look in Chris’s eyes told him he knew it.

They ate in near silence, tension drawing things out more than usual between them, but not entirely overwhelming their rapport which had never been dependent on words. Vin ate quickly, scarcely tasting the food, his mind racing on towards Ezra and D’Amico. Chris was eating more slowly and Vin wasn’t about to rush him, knowing the reason wasn’t cussedness, but necessity. When Larabee sighed and set down his fork, Vin spoke.

"You still set on comin’ with me?"

"Yeah."

Blue eyes met green. Vin nodded briefly, grave and steady in his regard. "Thanks."

Chris knew it wouldn’t change a thing if he said he was only doing his job; Vin would see right through to the heart that spoke so much more clearly than logic and duty. "So, you got a plan?"

A smile, small and grim, touched Vin’s mouth. "All I know is yer gonna have to carry the arms, because there’s no way on earth I’m gonna get within a hundred yards of D’Amico with any sort of weapon."

"I can do that."

"Figured as much." He sighed, stood up and stretched out his back, sacrificing his ribs to ease the ache in his spine. "Might be a good idea t’git JD workin’ on exactly what floor the other offices are on. See if he can’t pull up some sort of schematic." He paced to the living room, and cast Chris a look. "If you c’n think of some other way t’do this, I’m listening."

Chris gave a soft laugh. "That’ll be a first." When Vin gave him an irritated look, he shook his head. "Hell, I’m just making this up as we go along."

"Yeah, you ‘n me, both." He tossed Chris’s jacket to him, slipped his own over his shoulders, wincing as his bruises and sore muscles made their presence known even over the dulling analgesic he had taken. He patted his pocket to be sure he had remembered to take the pills with him. "Let’s see what happens next," he said.

Chris caught his jacket. His sidearm was a comforting bulk against his ribs. He had another pistol in an ankle holster, though it was not his favorite rig to shoot from. Vin did it as naturally as breathing, but Chris felt awkward and inaccurate from that stance even if his record didn’t show it.

They loped down the stairs, side by side. When they reached the front door, Vin held Chris back. "I’m takin’ the jeep, Chris. I cain’t risk D’Amico thinkin’ I’m not coming in alone." The implication that they were, or could be watched, made the hair on the back of Chris’s neck rise. Vin was watching him, gauging his reaction to the announcement, half expecting an argument, almost hoping that Chris would convince him otherwise.

Chris didn’t try. He wouldn’t risk Vin’s life for his own peace of mind. He nodded. "I’ll watch your back."

"I know ya will, partner." Vin held out his hand solemnly, and Chris clasped his forearm. "You be careful out there, Chris. I’ll have D’Amico in my sights, yer gonna be in there blind." He dug his keys out of his pocket and walked towards his jeep.

Chris watched him, noting every hitch in Tanner’s normally fluid movement, the way his knuckles tightened on the door frame when he braced himself to swing into the seat. The engine of the jeep choked and roared to life. Then Vin was pulling out of the lot and into traffic.

Chris jerked the Ram’s door open. He sat for a moment behind the wheel, pressure building behind his eyes and throbbing in his temples. The familiar flutter of impending action curled in his stomach, nerves fine-tuned to the highest pitch. He closed his eyes and did a few deep breathing exersizes he recalled from his time with the SEALs. He pulled his phone out and called JD to ask him to check out D’Amico’s office space and get back to him ASAP. He had lost sight of Vin’s jeep, but he hadn’t intended to follow him too closely. He knew the route, knew Vin wouldn’t alter it without alerting him. JD called back quickly, and by the time he was in the business district Chris had a fairly clear picture of the layout of the building and two floors housing D’Amico’s business concerns.

Vin was parked in a lot across from the building, opting out of the parking garage. Chris followed his example, choosing a spot several rows away from the jeep. He made a final check of his weapons, went over the mental map of the building in his mind, said a thought that was as close to a prayer as he ever got these days, to a deity who had no name but fate. And one to Sarah. He was long past any fear of death. He knew she was waiting on the other side with Adam. His angels. In a poignant, uncharacteristic afterthought, he hoped that Vin’s mother and grandfather were watching after the stubborn, reticent sharpshooter, his friend, his brother in all but blood.

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

If he were physically capable of climbing twelve flights of stairs, he would have done it rather than get in that elevator. For one thing, he wouldn’t put it past D’Amico to have a camera in the car and the thought that he’d be under surveillance made him want to crawl out of his skin. He didn’t know what kind of access he’d have from the stairwell to the penthouse: he was fairly certain that there was none, D’Amico not being the type to ignore his vulnerabilities. So, reluctantly, he pushed the button to the penthouse suites and tried to look like he didn’t care that he was being watched.

The doors slid open, and lo and behold, there was Ronnie Fazio in all his glory, scowling at him. "You took your fucking time, Tanner," he growled.

Vin gave him a cool appraisal. "I’s in the hospital ‘til two hours ago. Woke up yesterday in the ER. Reckon that didn’t make Troy too happy," he smirked. "Me bein’ damaged goods ‘n all."

Fazio looked like he wanted to haul off and hit him, which confirmed Vin’s suspicions. He stood close to Vin. "Raise your arms."

Vin did, knowing he was clean, and hating the touch of Fazio’s hands on his body, more intimate than necessary just to see if he could be rattled. When the search was over, Fazio turned sharply and headed towards D’Amico’s office. Vin followed. They went through the sliding panel door into the secretary’s domain. The chilly Margaret wasn’t at her desk today. Not a good sign.

The inner sanctum of D’Amico’s office was brightly lit by the morning sun, but the dark walls and carpeting absorbed the light, making the room seem dim and cool. Troy was seated behind his desk. He looked up when Fazio and Vin entered.