Chris Larabee sat a lonely vigil in the hospital room, surrounded by the eerie semi-darkness that robbed him of all sense of time, hearing nothing save the steady beeps and soft hums of the machines monitoring the condition of the too-still figure on the bed before him. Swallowing past the hard knot that had taken up permanent residence in his throat, he leaned forward and reclaimed his hold on the bruised and bandaged hand that lay unmoving on the bed.

"Come on, Vin," he said yet again, his voice sounding unnaturally loud and harsh in the heavy quiet of the room, "come on back. It's time to wake up now."

But there was, as there had been for almost twenty-four hours, no response, no sign that Vin Tanner heard the summons - the plea - to rejoin the world of the living. He remained utterly silent and unmoving, lost in an unconsciousness so deep not even his closest friend's voice could rouse him from it.

Chris leaned further forward still and reached out to brush gentle fingers through Vin's long hair, his heart aching at the all-too-visible evidence of the brutal beating his friend had endured. Vicious blue-black bruises covered Tanner's entire face, and the swelling of his left eye, cheekbone and jaw distorted his finely-drawn features. Beneath the oxygen mask, his lips were split and swollen, and the deep cuts at his hairline just above his right temple, above his left eyebrow and along the right side of his jaw had all required stitches.

Yet far worse than these, though mercifully hidden by the hospital gown and bedcovers, were the hideous contusions that covered Vin's chest, abdomen and lower back, and the numerous gashes that had been sliced into his chest and sides. The wounds had been intended not to kill, but to torture, to break a man's spirit by inflicting unbearable abuse upon his body.

"Jesus, Vin, I'm sorry!" Chris whispered brokenly, racked by all the torments of sorrow, fear and guilt. "We fucked up, and you're payin' the price."

Paying for the mistakes of three agencies...

He groaned thickly and bowed his head, feeling the exhaustion in every part of his body. He had been so tired for so long, working desperately to make sure they got Edmond Monroe, working to make sure his men succeeded where others had failed, working to ensure that Team Seven pulled off one more miracle...

Never realizing that getting Monroe would mean almost losing one of their own.

He swore harshly and released Vin's hand, thrusting himself to his feet to pace about the small room in angry frustration. And they'd almost lost him to no better cause than petty interagency rivalries! The ATF, DEA and FBI had all been after Monroe, each agency working without the knowledge of the others to nail the slippery bastard. But once they'd all stumbled upon each other, they'd temporarily lost sight of their common objective and sunk to fighting over who got to be top dog.

Jesus, it had turned into a bad episode of "Survivor," with federal agents trying to vote each other off some goddamned island!

But all Larabee and his men had wanted was to stop the deluge of illegal weapons flooding three states, a deluge that seemed to originate in the Denver area. Their investigation had led them to a network of warehouses and trucking companies whose legitimate operations masked the storage and distribution of weapons, and to Edmond Monroe, a greedy son of a bitch with fingers in lots of nasty pies. The two were connected, and everybody knew it. Team Seven set out to prove it.

Ezra Standish, the team's incomparable undercover man, concentrated on Monroe. He went under as "Eric Sinclair," a "broker" newly arrived in Denver from Atlanta. He made all the right social and business contacts, and carefully brought himself to Monroe's attention. And Monroe, dazzled by "Sinclair's" impressive network of connections in the U.S. and abroad, had been completely taken in.

Meanwhile, one of Buck Wilmington's countless snitches was able to get Vin Tanner a job inside the warehouse operation, giving the agents access to the distribution side of Monroe's operation. It had appeared that Team Seven was working its usual magic.

Until the ATF agents began tripping over DEA and FBI agents also out to get Monroe, and a bitter pissing contest ensued. The case degenerated into a turf war, with all the field agents pretty well stopped dead in their tracks while their bosses fought over jurisdiction.

The FBI and DEA both argued they had tenure. The FBI had opened its case three years ago, the DEA two, and both had already invested enormous resources in it. But neither agency had anything to show for its efforts. Neither one had been able to get an agent deep enough into Monroe's organization or close enough to the man himself to come anywhere near making a case. And the DEA was especially frustrated, because all their best leads seemed to tie into gun deals rather than drug deals.

So Assistant Director Orin W. Travis of the ATF stepped into the fray and demanded that his agency take the lead on the case. They already had two men securely in place inside the operation and were close to wrapping it up from both ends. Ezra Standish had gotten closer to Monroe in three months than the FBI or DEA had in three years and was already setting him up for a fall, while Vin Tanner was just as close to tying the warehouse operation to him. The arms case was strongest, Travis argued, and should be given priority. And if it fell into place as expected, then the other agencies would very likely have their cases made for them as well.

Not even the bureaucrats could argue with such logic. The ATF was given the lead, with the FBI and DEA relegated to backup, and all the agents were asked to play nicely with each other. Time that could have been spent in the field was spent in meetings where agents had their bruised egos soothed, their roles redefined and strategies revised. With a reasonable facsimile of interagency cooperation established, it seemed certain the case would proceed without a hitch.

Until Tanner's cover was blown.

Everyone involved knew Monroe did not directly run his own warehouse and distribution operation. To protect himself, he entrusted that part of his business to someone else, someone whose job it would be to take the fall if ever it came to that. And crucial to making the case against Monroe was identifying this unknown intermediary and linking him to his boss. But the son of a bitch was as careful as Monroe, and had his own cushion of go-betweens protecting him from discovery. Peeling away all the layers was a frustrating, maddening challenge, but Vin Tanner was a patient man, and Larabee knew if anyone could track down the shadowy bastard, it would be him.

What Larabee didn't know, however, was that the FBI already had the name, though it was buried so deep in the Bureau's reams of intelligence that it never got passed along to the ATF. And when this omission came to light in subsequent debriefings, Chris had to be forcibly restrained to keep him from killing the agents whose oversight he considered directly responsible for almost getting Vin killed.

For the man Vin was after was Charlie Castro, and six years before, while still a bounty hunter, Tanner had nailed him on an outstanding warrant. Castro had neither forgiven nor forgotten, and on a visit to the warehouse where Tanner "worked," Castro spotted and immediately recognized the slender, long-haired Texan. With a little digging, he discovered the former bounty hunter was now an ATF agent, and knew the threat had to be neutralized.

While six ATF, DEA and FBI agents sat outside the warehouse in three vans and bickered over whose job it was to watch what, Vin Tanner was called into the office, greeted by Castro, clubbed in the head, tied up and taken out in the trunk of Castro's car. And for three long days, Castro and his thugs tried to get Vin to tell them exactly what the ATF knew about the operation.

When it became clear something had happened to Tanner under the eyes of six agents, Chris went ballistic. He and his team had wanted nothing more than to start tearing apart Monroe's warehouses in a search for their missing friend. But the same three bureaucracies that had nearly destroyed the case with their territorial bickering now came together in a united front and decreed that getting Monroe remained the primary objective, and that Tanner was, sadly, expendable. Team Seven was ordered to forget about him, and focus on Monroe. And no amount of shouting or threats from an enraged Larabee had budged the brass from their stance.

In the end, though, the decision ensured Monroe's downfall. It focused the team's rage, its pain, its fear, harnessed the remaining members and fashioned them into a deadly weapon. When the final "buy" was arranged, Monroe sold his guns to a cold-eyed Chris Larabee.

And that part, at least, had gone perfectly. Deeply wounded by the loss of Tanner, and made grimly determined by its pain, Team Seven took Monroe down by the book, by the numbers, and by the short hairs. Ezra's brilliance had assured that the case against him was air-tight. Unless the federal prosecutors screwed it up, the man would rot in prison.

And Charlie Castro would rot in hell. Chris had pumped four bullets into Castro himself when the bastard had drawn a bead on JD Dunne. Later, when he discovered Castro was behind what had been done to Vin, he would wish he had emptied his clip.

But it had been JD, Buck and Josiah who had scored the day's true victory. On a sweep to secure the second level of the warehouse where the bust had gone down, the three avenging angels had burst into a small, cramped office and found their lost soul. Vin Tanner lay in the room where he had been held and tortured for three days - tied, brutally beaten and bleeding into the dirty carpet, unconscious, almost unrecognizable, but alive.

And only when he had raced upstairs and taken his cruelly battered friend into his arms, holding him until the medics arrived, had Chris Larabee emerged from hell.

But, God, how close it had been! Vin had lost so much blood - Chris could still see the clothes they'd cut from him soaked with the stuff - and the list of injuries rattled off by the doctor with such clinical precision had been staggering: skull fracture, fractured left brow- and cheekbone, ligament damage in his shoulders resulting from having been tied with his hands behind him so long, broken ribs, a punctured lung, the knife slashes, deep wounds in his wrists from the ropes and his struggles against them, internal injuries, a fractured left kneecap and torn ligaments there...

Chris sighed exhaustedly. On the bright side, the doctors had managed to save the kidney they had first feared Vin would lose. And, after stabilizing his broken ribs, they had determined that the puncture to his lung was not severe enough to warrant the additional trauma inserting a chest tube would cause.

God knew Tanner had suffered enough trauma already...

"Christ, Vin, come on!" Chris urged harshly, returning to his friend's bedside and staring down at him through anguished eyes. "Come on, pard, wake up and tell me how much you hate this crap they've got you hooked up to! Open your eyes and let 'em know you're okay! Goddamn it, Tanner!" he shouted hoarsely, his eyes brimming. "Wake up and let me know you're gonna live!"

That same eerie silence, broken only by the sounds of the monitors, was all that met his plea. Chris groaned brokenly and dropped into the chair.

Buck Wilmington stood in the doorway and stared into the room, his heart breaking at the sight before him. Vin lay still as death, swathed in bandages and with more tubes in him than Buck could count, looking for all the world like a porcelain doll too fragile to touch. And Chris...

Chris sat in the chair like a marionette whose strings had snapped, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. Every line of his sagging body spoke volumes of the pain and fear gnawing at his soul, and Buck ached to see him in such torment.

"Mind if I come in, pard?" he asked softly.

Chris lifted his head and turned, fixing a ragged stare on his oldest friend. "Thought I told you boys to go home."

Wilmington smiled slightly and stepped into the room, going to the bed but moving carefully around it, afraid of disconnecting one of the lines that seemed to be keeping Vin tethered to this life. "You know us," he said at last, "followin' orders ain't exactly our strong suit. JD's raidin' the candy machine, Nathan's flippin' through some damn medical journal, Josiah's in the chapel arm-wrestlin' with God, and Ezra's got up a card game with some orderlies."

"And you?" Chris asked with a feeble attempt at a grin. "Lemme guess - you're collectin' the names and phone numbers of all the new nurses."

Buck grabbed a chair and dragged it in place beside Larabee, then settled his big body into it. "Hell, pard, a man's gotta do somethin' with his time," he said with his customary grin. "And I figger these sweet ladies spend so much time tendin' others' needs, they need someone to tend to theirs."

"And you're just the man to do it, is that it?"

Wilmington winked. "I been told I give a helluva back-rub!" His gaze flickered once more to Vin, and his smile faded. He leaned forward and laid a big but gentle hand on the unconscious sharpshooter's leg. "How's Junior?"

Chris exhaled unsteadily and ran a hand through his hair. "The same," he murmured. "It's been twenty-four hours since they brought him up, and he's hardly stirred at all."

"He's been through a lot, Chris," Buck said softly. "He's weak, tired. Lost a lotta blood, got as many hurts inside as out. You can't expect him to just sit up and start talkin' to ya right away."

"He's dehydrated," Chris said absently, his blood-shot gaze traveling slowly over Tanner's bruised and swollen face. "Bastards who had him didn't even give him water... He tried to claw the ropes off. They found his own skin and blood under his fingernails. Like an animal in a trap, tryin' to gnaw its own damn paw off to get free..."

"Don't do this to yourself, pard," Buck pleaded softly, torn by the pain pouring from his friend. "None of this is your fault. You couldn't've known-"

"I should've known!" Larabee spat. "Castro wasn't just some fuckin' driver, Buck, he was Monroe's goddamn right-hand man! How is it that his name never came up in the briefings? The FBI knew who he was! And we sent Vin in blind-" His voice broke, and his anger left him, replaced by wrenching pain and fear. "Jesus, Buck," he breathed, turning tortured eyes on his friend, "what if he doesn't wake up? What if he dies without ever knowin' we found him, without knowin' we're here? I just-"

"I know," Buck finished sadly. "Vin's been alone most of his life. And it hurts like hell to think how scared he must've been of dyin' alone, too. But," his sorrowful gaze traveled from the unconscious sharpshooter to the tormented team leader, "he's not alone, Chris, and nobody knows that better than Vin. Took him a while ta get used to the idea, and I know sometimes it still scares the hell out of him, but he knows now he's got six friends who'd go ta hell and back for him, same as he would for us. Knows he's got friends - hell, a family - who'll back him no matter what-"

"But we weren't there when he needed us," Chris rasped, tortured by that knowledge. "We let him down, Buck. He trusted us to watch his back, and we let him down. We let 'em take him right past us... I can't even imagine what he went through," he whispered tightly, his soul aching fiercely. "How scared he must've been... You saw that room, Buck. It was so small, not even a window... You know how he h... how he hates..." His voice broke and he swallowed hard, bowing his head and covering his eyes with a shaking hand.

"Don't, Chris," Buck pleaded quietly, leaning over and reaching out to grip Larabee's shoulder firmly. "You did everything you could to find him. Yeah, I know," he breathed, his blue eyes clouded by sorrow, "we never shoulda lost him in the first place. And God knows I've mentally kicked all our asses for that. But - and here's the important thing - we got him back." He leaned closer and, with his other hand, forced Chris's head up until their gazes locked. "We got him back, pard," he said again, voice and eyes compelling. "He held on for us, Chris, he held out for us, because he knew, he knew, we were comin'. Even though we screwed up, he never lost faith in us, never gave up on us. But now it's our turn. We gotta have faith in him. Vin's showed us before how tough he is. We can't give up on him just yet."

Chris's eyes flashed at that inference. "I'm not givin' up," he said in a low voice . "I'd never give up on him, you know that."

"Good. 'Cause I'll tell ya somethin'." Buck stared at Chris, but jabbed a finger toward Vin. "I don't think that boy's gonna die. He's already fought too long and too hard ta stay alive, and we all know Junior just ain't got any give-up in him. So don't you start shuttin' down yet. Because when he does pull outta this, he's gonna need us. Gonna need all of us. But he's gonna need you most of all."

Chris stared at Buck for long moments, as grateful for the conviction in the man's voice and eyes as he was for the strength of the big hand that still gripped his shoulder. That strength now seeped into his own tired body, into his tired soul, and gave new life to his flagging spirit. "And I'll be there," he vowed firmly. "I won't let him down."

"Never figgered ya would, pard," Buck said. "And I'm bettin' Junior's countin' on that."

7~7~7~7

Voices echoed through his head, alternately hissing in whispers or rising in shouts, battering as mercilessly at his tired mind as the fists did at his hurting body. Questions, threats and insults mingled with blows, kicks and cuts, until he could no longer separate one from the other, until the mere sound of a voice would cause him to cry out in pain.

Tell me what Larabee knows, Tanner. One voice, cold and hard, parted the muddy waters of his thoughts and coiled about his mind like a snake. Tell me, and I'll make all the pain go away.

He moaned and tried to escape the voice, but couldn't. A hand wound itself through his long hair and yanked his head back, increasing the hideous pain crashing through his skull. Unseen arms imprisoned his own behind him, all but pulling them from their sockets, and still more hands continued their vicious assault upon his body. And always, always there was that voice, taunting him, tormenting him, asking questions he could not understand, demanding answers he could not remember.

Oh, God, God, why couldn't he remember?

Stupid bastard ... stupid bastard ... Oh, God, he'd fucked up again!

Larabee ... Chris? Sweet Jesus, where was Chris?

Oh, no, no, not him! They'd promised ... Christ, they'd promised!

The voice changed, grew harsher, deeper. And with that voice came the hands, the big, hard, hurtful fists that slammed into him without ceasing, punctuating every word.

Panic poured through him as the familiar pain assailed him. Jesus, where had he come from? He shouldn't be here ... they'd promised ...

Voices and hands tortured his mind and body, and in the darkness Vin Tanner screamed.

7~7~7~7

Chris watched through the glass window as the nurses cleaned Vin's many wounds and applied fresh bandages. They changed out his IV's, adding an antibiotic to combat the fever he'd developed, and checked the output from his catheter. Still bloody, still too low. They increased his fluids.

Chris turned away and closed his eyes, bowing his head and raising a hand to massage his aching neck. He'd fallen asleep in that damned chair at Vin's bedside, and now his body was making its displeasure known. Neck, shoulders and back all ached, and his head felt like a blacksmith had taken up shop inside it.

And he was in desperate need of coffee...

"Let me guess," drawled a quiet voice behind him. "You fell victim to that chiropractically incorrect device so tragically misnamed a chair."

Chris turned and smiled tiredly at Standish. At 5:30 p.m., after a full day of work following an all-nighter at the hospital with only a few hours of sleep in between, the man was immaculate. "Damn, Ezra, how is it that you always look like you just stepped out of the pages of GQ?"

"Good breeding and a deep closet," the Southerner quipped with an upward flick of one chestnut eyebrow. "Besides," he swept a vaguely disdainful glance over his disheveled boss, "right now I could clothe myself in burlap and still outshine your decidedly unkempt appearance." He held out a tall cup. "For you. The elixir of life, the ambrosia of the gods, that divine nectar so necessary for our survival-"

"You can't just say 'coffee'?" Chris growled, taking the cup. The appreciative gleam in his eyes, however, removed the sting from his words. "I may promote you for this."

Standish's face fell into a mask of horror. "Dear Lord, Mr. Larabee, and send me up to the bureaucrats? Have I earned no respect at all?"

Chris had to laugh at that, easily able to imagine what havoc the Southerner could wreak at that level. "Yeah, but just think what you'd do for their sartorial image."

"God knows any improvement there would be welcome!" Ezra drawled. "Perhaps I could be 'supervising agent in charge of haberdashery'."

Chris almost choked on his coffee. "There's not enough money in the treasury for that, Ez," he rasped. "And I don't see the Bureau funding your buying trips to Milan and Paris."

"Ah, but one can dream, Mr. Larabee," Ezra sighed, laying a well-manicured hand over his Zegna-covered heart. He watched Chris a moment, noting that the man actually seemed to be relaxing, then said quietly, "Well, while you are enjoying the best that Starbucks has to offer, I believe I shall slip in and see how Mr. Tanner is faring. Our associates should be joining us momentarily, and I have no doubt they shall demand all the minutiae of his present condition."

"Ez, wait," Chris said quietly, reaching out to grab the Southerner's arm. At Standish's questioning gaze, he went on, "I just want to say that I consider you personally and completely responsible for the success of this case. If you hadn't managed to get close to Monroe in the first place, and then keep his confidence after ... after what happened with Vin, the bastard would still be on the streets. You're the only reason this thing worked, and I want you to know that I know that. I've put you in for a commendation, and Travis has assured me it'll go through without a hitch. And I want to thank you."

Ezra was stunned, and, for once, his face clearly showed it. Surprise flooded his dark green eyes, and his sculptured jaw dropped. For longer than he could ever remember being, he was utterly speechless.

Not at the thought of the commendation - good Lord, he had enough of those to re-paper his townhouse, almost as many of them as he had disciplinary write-ups - but at the senior agent's frank, unstinting and unqualified praise. And gratitude. Chris Larabee had actually said "thank you" to a man he was often only moments away from strangling. Such words from the team leader meant more to him than any commendation ever could, because he knew Larabee rarely uttered their like, and never, never lightly.

"I think ... perhaps ... I owe you some gratitude as well," he said at last, his voice soft, his eyes devoid of pretense. "For believing in me, in my skill, enough not to pull the plug on this when you could have. I am not accustomed to such faith."

Chris let his hand fall, but smiled slightly. "I thought I owed it to you," he admitted. "I know you took what happened to Vin personally, even blamed yourself for it ... I wanted you to have the chance to prove yourself to the bastards who fucked this whole thing up from the get-go, I wanted them to see how a real undercover agent operates, and, most of all," his gaze caught and held the younger man's, "I wanted to show you that I don't blame you. None of this is your fault, Ez, and I've never for a moment thought it was."

Standish dropped his gaze as sudden pain wrenched through him. "I only wish I could share your certainty, Chris," he murmured. "But, as you said, I'm an undercover agent. It's what I do. It's all I know how to do. I've made a career, a life, out of reading the other man, calculating the odds, weighing the risks, considering the stakes ... Monroe wasn't nearly as clever as he believed. I can't help thinking I should have seen something, noticed some sign-"

"You couldn't have, Ez, trust me," Chris assured him. "None of us knew about Castro. FBI intel never mentioned him, our intel never mentioned him, Monroe never mentioned him, and the bastard stayed in the shadows during every meet. We did what we always do - we worked with what we had. Granted, what we had was shit, but we do the best we can with what we're given. In a perfect world we'd know these things. Hell," he snorted, "in a perfect world you and I would be out of jobs. But the world ain't perfect, Ez, and neither are we. All we can do is the best we can and pray to God it's enough."

"But it wasn't enough for Vin, was it?" Ezra said bitterly. "Platitudes fall painfully short of the mark when one of our own lies in a hospital bed because we fucked up and failed him!" Fury ignited in his eyes. "They had him for three days, and in that time they beat and tortured him without mercy!" he spat. "We knew Monroe had him, and we should have been moving heaven and earth to find him! At the very least, I should have been able to manipulate Monroe into telling me-"

"And risk blowin' your cover?" Chris put in quietly. "What would we have done then, Ezra? Losin' Vin was bad enough. Losin' both of you would've been too much. Even for us."

Ezra dropped his gaze to the floor and grimaced. "I still think I should have been able to do something," he murmured.

Chris remained silent for long moments and gazed worriedly at his undercover agent. All this, he knew, had hit Ezra hard, almost as hard as it had hit him. And he was not at all surprised.

He knew of the unlikely friendship that had developed between Standish and Tanner despite the vast wealth of differences that lay between them. The sophisticated, verbose Southerner and the streetwise, nearly-silent Texan had somehow forged a deep rapport that often astonished those about them, but that, to them, seemed as natural as breathing. They understood each other completely, trusted each other completely. Chris suspected it was because the two were actually far more alike than they were different.

Vin had grown up an orphan, pushed and pulled from one foster home to the next and learning at an early age not to put his trust or his heart in people, places or things, because all three were fleeting and destined to be taken from him. And Ezra, despite having a mother, had never been treated as much more than a foster child, rotated from one relative to another and claimed by Maude only when she needed him. He also mistrusted people and places, but dearly loved his "things," if only because they had never betrayed him. And all at once, both had found themselves part of something for which nothing in their lives had ever prepared them, and which they still could not always understand or accept - a tight circle of friends, of family, against whose bonds the two lifelong loners still sometimes chafed.

God, was it any wonder they understood each other so well?

"It's not your fault, Ez," Chris said again, firmly. "You have to believe that. Vin would be the first to tell you that."

Standish raised his head, knowing Larabee spoke the truth. Tanner had a way of accepting and forgiving more than anyone with his hard and hurtful past should ever be expected to. "Well," he said at last, squaring his shoulders and managing a slight smile, "let us hope, then, that he awakens soon to do so. Although at this point, I'd be satisfied to hear him say anything."

Larabee smiled and reached out, again gripping the Southerner's arm. "Why don't you go in and see if you can rouse him, then? Tell him you had his Jeep washed and waxed. That oughtta get a rise out of him."

Ezra sniffed disdainfully and toyed idly with one gold cufflink. "God knows the sorry thing needed a thorough cleaning! Although I did caution the boys at the shop not to work too hard at removing the rust. For all we know, that's the only thing holding the lamentable excuse for a vehicle together!"

7~7~7~7

"... and you will no doubt be glad to hear that Mr. Dunne has completely de-bugged your computer and removed all traces of that insidious virus," Ezra was saying, sitting at Vin's side and speaking as casually as if they were sharing lunch. "Though the virus would never have appeared at all had Mr. Wilmington not tried to cover his tracks by using your computer to download those rather questionable photographs in the first place. And I personally made him remove the Miss July wallpaper he had left for you as a surprise. Somehow, I do not think you would have been comfortable with such a brazen display of the young woman's rather remarkable assets!"

He reached out and gently pushed a stray lock of hair away from Vin's bruised and swollen left eye. "I meant to tell you, I attended a so-called 'poetry reading' at the Java Coast the other evening." He grimaced and gave a dramatic shudder. "Execrable stuff it was, too, an unforgivable insult to the genre. Nothing at all on par with your incomparable pieces. You know," he arched a brow at the unconscious sharpshooter, "you really must get over your fear of public speaking and show those cretins what true poetry is. There's a contest coming up; you should enter. I dare say you would easily walk away with the grand prize. The next time I'm in there, I'll pick up an entry form. I'm certain I could be persuaded to act as your agent. For a small percentage of your winnings, of course."

He paused and waited out of habit for some quietly-drawled smart-assed retort, then sighed sadly when none came. "Really, Mr. Tanner," he murmured, "I know you have quite the reputation for silent stoicism, but this is taking it a bit far, don't you think? And while I do appreciate the sound of my own voice, I am beginning to find this monologue rather tedious. I would much prefer some sort of repartee, perhaps even one of your quaint Texas witticisms. What was that one you uttered the other night after consuming two plates of Inez's tamales? Oh, yes, I believe you said you were 'fuller than a tick on a hound's back.'" He grimaced delicately. "Crude, but it did get your point across."

He shook his head slowly and leaned closer to the bed, gazing intently into the slack, expressionless face before him. "God, Vin, where are you?" he asked sadly, his drawl thickened by emotion. "You've got to come back to us! Don't you know we're all here just waitin' for you? We're not whole without you. That magical, mystical circle that Josiah is forever prattlin' on about is broken. And Chris ..." He winced at the memory of the raw hell that was Chris Larabee's stare. "I don't have to tell you what this is doin' to Chris ..."

Still there was no response, and a sudden anger flared within him. "I know you're in there, Vin Tanner," he said fiercely. "I know you can hear me. So I suggest you pull yourself out of whatever hole you've slunk into and get your ass back here where it belongs! We're broken, do you hear me? We are broken, and you, Mr. Tanner, are the only one who can put us back together again. Not all the king's horses and not all the king's men, but you! So you get back here and do that, because I do not intend to lose the only family I've ever had to the likes of Edmond Monroe!"

7~7~7~7

The voice was angry, was shouting, and the familiar terror gripped him.

He wanted to curl up, away from the anger, but couldn't move. Was too afraid to move. If he moved, the bastard would see, and it'd all start again ...

The words reached him through the pain and the terror, catching at his mind, at his heart. The voice ... He knew the voice ... It wasn't his voice, wasn't threatening, wasn't hurtful. It was soothing ...

A sliver of light penetrated the darkness that engulfed him, that hid him, and he instinctively turned toward it, knowing with a certainty rooted in his very being that no harm would ever come to him through that light. A sudden longing surged through him, a need he could not name, and he felt his whole soul rise sharply at the understanding of what that light meant.

The sheer joy of it banished the pain, the fear, and led him from the darkness. The bastard had been wrong. He wasn't alone; they hadn't forgotten him.

They'd come to take him from the darkness.

7~7~7~7

"... want you to listen to me!" Ezra demanded angrily. "You are not one for hiding, and you never ... have ... been ... My God!" he breathed as shock jolted through him. "Sweet, merciful Jesus ... Vin!"

Even before he heard the quickened beeping of the heart monitor, he saw the single tear sliding from one closed eye and rolling down a bruised cheek. "Good Lord, you do hear me! Come on, Vin!" he called sharply, taking the sharpshooter's hand and holding as tightly to it as he dared, his brilliant jade gaze intent upon Tanner's face. "You can do this! I need you to do this. You have to come back to us!"

The rate of the monitor continued to increase as Ezra kept on with his promptings. And all at once Standish could have sworn he felt Tanner's fingers close ever so slightly about his. "Yes, Vin!" he cried. "I'm here, I'm right here. Come back to us now-"

The monitor rate increased sharply, and the sound of the shrill alarm suddenly filled the room. At the same time, Ezra felt Vin's fingers close convulsively about his and the sharpshooter's breathing deepened, grew more labored.

"Vin-"

The door burst open and a nurse hurried into the room, followed closely by a panicked Chris Larabee.

"He's comin' around!" Ezra said sharply as the nurse tried to hustle him away from the bed. "He- No!" he cried in protest as she pried Tanner's fingers loose from his and began to push him back. "He needs to hear us- You have to let us speak to him!"

The nurse quickly reset the monitor, silencing its shrieking, then turned and bent over her patient, who was growing agitated. His breathing was quickening and his head was moving against the pillow, his hand plucking feebly at the be, as if seeking the touch that had been stripped away.

"Mr. Tanner!" she called, leaning over him and putting her hands on his shoulders to quiet him. "Relax, please! You're all right. But you have to relax-"

"What's going on?" Dr. Elizabeth Stone demanded as she hurried into the room. Going at once to the bed, she glanced at the monitors, then down at Tanner, who was struggling weakly against the nurse. "Vin," she called. "Vin! Stop fighting-"

"Let me," Chris said firmly, stepping forward. As the trauma chief nodded and moved aside, he went to the bed and leaned over, gripping Tanner's hand in one of his and cupping the other around his friend's neck. "Listen to me, partner," he said slowly, clearly. "You gotta relax, quit fightin'. You're safe now, Vin, but you're hurt, and you don't need ta be thrashin' around like a fish on land, all right?" Fingers closed about his and he smiled. "Yeah, pard, it's me. I'm right here. You stop fightin', now, y'hear?"

Vin ceased his weak struggles and relaxed, and the monitor's beeping settled into a regular rhythm. "That's real good," Chris said with a smile, lightly stroking Vin's throat to keep him relaxed. "Glad to see you're comin' out of it, pard, but we could use a little less drama. Can't you just open your eyes and say 'howdy' like normal folks?"

Dr. Stone tossed a quick smile at Larabee as she checked her patient's vital signs. "Do any of you ever do anything like normal folks?"

Chris chuckled as Ezra smirked. "You've got a point there, Doctor." He glanced over his shoulder. "Ezra, why don't you go round up the boys, give 'em the good news?"

Standish smiled until his gold tooth gleamed. "Mr. Larabee, it would be my pleasure to communicate such propitious tidings to our motley assortment of-"

"Just do it!" Chris growled before the Southerner's words could get any longer. "And, Ez," his voice and eyes softened, "thanks for bringin' him back."

Standish gave his customary two-fingered salute, then hurriedly left the room, his face still wreathed in that brilliant gold-toothed smile.

"I should've known the whole crew would still be somewhere close," Dr. Stone commented dryly, arching a dark brow at Larabee. "I guess that means we're all in for some lively days."

"Just tell me if they get too lively," Chris answered, "and I'll take 'em out back and shoot 'em." As she laughed, he returned his attention to Vin. "And as for you," he growled, "you get your sorry ass back here right now, or I'll climb down whatever hole you're hidin' in and drag you back myself! You've lazed around long enough. I ain't doin' no more of your goddamned paperwork!"

Pale fingers tightened about his and the heart monitor quickened again for several moments, then settled back into its regular rhythm. Chris leaned closer to Vin, their foreheads almost touching.

"I heard that," he said menacingly, though his green eyes gleamed. "Tell me ta go ta hell, will ya, Tanner? Well, let me tell you somethin', you sorry, long-haired, no-account, Texas-sized pain in the ass, I've already been there, and I don't plan on goin' back!"

7~7~7~7

The hand on his was strong, warm, immensely comforting. The grip held him, guided him, anchored him. And he clung to it for all he was worth.

He knew that grip, felt it on his soul even more surely than he felt it on his hand. It was unshakable, unbreakable, as fierce as the hand itself was gentle.

With a soft sigh, he at last abandoned the darkness and let that hand pull him into the light.

7~7~7~7

Chris heard the faint change in breathing and immediately leaned forward. With a shock, he found himself staring into the one eye Vin could open, even if only partially, and grinned with undisguised delight.

"Hey, partner!" he greeted quietly, forcing the words past the hard lump in his throat. "Wondered when you'd decide to join us. Ssh, hush," he said quickly as Vin's lips moved soundlessly beneath the oxygen mask. "Don't try to talk. You just lay there, rest, and let me do the talkin'. And don't fight so hard to breathe. Don't worry, that mask is makin' sure you get all the air you need."

A confused frown furrowed two bruised brows as Tanner tried to force his sluggish, clouded mind into action. Mask?

Chris saw the frown and understood. "Don't know what's goin' on, do ya, pard? Don't know where y'are, probably don't remember what happened ..." He smiled wryly. "Well, for starters, you're in your home away from home, Mercy General, in the critical care room they keep reserved for you. Good news is, no bullet holes this time. Bad news, you've had the shit beaten outta ya, been carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and nearly lost a kidney. Need ta be more careful with them body parts, Tanner. Ain't like you come with spares."

Vin stared up at the shadowy, indistinct figure above him, knowing it was Chris but wondering why he couldn't see him. Chris's voice, too, was fading in and out, some of his words clear, some of them little more than a formless, meaningless buzz. Even so, it was Chris, and that meant everything was all right.

Chris nodded as the younger man relaxed. "Tired, aren't ya? I guess I should tell you to rest, but I'd hate to see that eye close now, as long as I've been waitin' to see it open. You think you could stay with me a while longer?"

Vin nodded faintly, just as reluctant to leave Chris, and the protection he offered. With Chris, here in the light, he was safe. But in the dark ...

"You had us worried, y'know," Chris went on, determined to hold Vin with him by sheer force of will. "You've been out almost forty-eight hours now. It's not like you to sleep so long. Doctors were worried you weren't comin' back. And we were beginnin' to wonder, too." He chuckled quietly. "I'm sure you won't be surprised to hear that Ezra had a pool goin'." He winked, though he doubted Vin could see it. "And I'm sure he managed to rig it somehow so he'd win." He felt Vin's sigh, and recognized it as laughter. "That man can work an angle on anything! But it was him that brought you back to us. You remember hearin' his voice?"

Vin tried to remember, tried to force his muddied mind to function. He'd heard so many voices, could hear some of them even now ...

But there was one he'd heard, or thought he'd heard, soothing instead of hurtful ... Silk an' molasses an' fine sippin' whiskey.

He sighed and nodded faintly. Ezra.

Chris felt Vin's hold on him begin to weaken. "Guess maybe it's time you went back to sleep after all- Hey!" he gasped in surprise as Tanner's grip suddenly tightened, as his battered body tensed. "What's wrong, pard?" He leaned closer and recognized the fear in that bruised face. "It's all right, partner, I'm not leavin'," he assured his friend. "I'll be right here with you. But you need to rest, get your strength back. Dr. Stone'll have my hide on her office wall if I over-tire ya. So you just relax, go to sleep-"

But Vin only clung tighter still to Chris, tried to sit up and groaned thickly as pain and panic raged through him. "No!" he gasped, clutching at Chris with both hands. "Cain't ... He's w ... waitin'-"

"Stop it, Vin!" Chris ordered, easily holding his friend against the bed. "Settle down, now. You're gonna hurt yourself! You got more stitches in you than one of Nettie's quilts, and you can't afford to lose any more blood by bustin' 'em loose. So you just settle down and behave, you hear?"

Vin relaxed, more from weakness and pain than anything else, and let his eye close. But not before a tear slid from its corner.

"Jesus, Vin," Chris breathed, wiping away the tear. "Don't you know you're safe now? We got the bastards who did this; they'll never hurt you again, I promise. They're gone, and they're not comin' back. You're safe. I swear it."

But the words meant to comfort sent only despair and hopelessness crashing down upon Vin's soul. Never hurt you again ... I promise ... not coming back ... promise ...

He'd believed those words once before. He'd never believe them again.

7~7~7~7

Pain.

Oh, God, he hurt everywhere! The pain assailed him in waves, in torrents, flooding through every part of him with a hideous force, threatening to tear screams from him. He tried to turn onto his side, to curl up, to protect his hurting chest and stomach. But even the smallest movement brought still more of the terrible pain, and when he tried to move away from that, hands gripped him and held him with a ruthless strength.

Panic ripped through him and he tried to fight, tried to break the hold those hands had on him, but couldn't. He struggled all the harder, awash in raw, cold terror. Voices shouted all about him and he knew the blows would soon start falling. His heart pounded frantically, painfully, against his aching ribs, and the screams rose-

He was choking, gasping desperately for air that wouldn't come. He tried to raise his hands to his throat, but they were caught, tangled in his bonds-

The voices raged about him, hard hands held him without mercy, and still his hurting body craved air. He tried to push away the hands, tried to get up, tried to run. But he couldn't do it, couldn't fight when he had no strength ...

When he had no air ...

His heart pounded heavily against his ribs, the frantic sound of it filling his ears and adding to the hellacious throbbing in his head. His chest was growing painfully tight, his lungs burning. His terrified mind recoiled from the pain, the darkness, the fear, and it, too, began to burn, along with his lungs, as his body tried desperately to suck in the air it needed but could not find. Breathing too hard, too fast, too much, but not enough. Never enough.

Because there wasn't enough ...

Blackness - the hot, close, heavy darkness - swept over him and engulfed him, dragging him down beneath its surface into its airless depths. He thought he cried out, but couldn't be sure. Not with the pounding in his head and the racing of his heart.

And just as the darkness claimed him, he heard the voice he'd been promised he'd never hear again.

7~7~7~7

"Vin, Vin, it's all right!" Chris called, leaning over the weakly thrashing sharpshooter and easily holding him down against the bed. "It's all right, Vin, I'm here. I've gotcha. Come on, partner, settle down. It's just a dream. It's just a bad dream, Vin! Come on, come on back to us now!"

But Tanner showed no sign of recognizing, or even hearing, Chris's voice and continued to struggle with what little strength he had. Sweat was pouring from him, and the monitor began to scream as his heart rate shot ever higher. Breathless, anguished cries escaped him as he fought against whatever unseen enemy tormented him.

"Buck, grab his hand!" Chris shouted as Vin reached again for the central line inserted under his collarbone, as he swatted and grabbed at the various IVs delivering blood, fluids and medications into his system.

"Stop that, Junior," Buck ordered calmly, taking Tanner's hands in his and holding tightly to them. "Yank them out, and we'll have a helluva mess on our hands. And all over you."

A nurse raced into the small room, followed closely by Vin's chief physician. "What's going on here?" Dr. Stone demanded as the nurse hurried to reset the monitor.

"Nightmare," Chris said tersely. "Just started thrashin'- Easy, Vin, easy!" he soothed, leaning closer to his friend and trying to hold him down without hurting him. But, God, where wasn't Vin bruised or stitched?

Tanner soon began to weaken, unable to sustain such frantic activity. His body arched one more time, then he shuddered and lay still as, mercifully, unconsciousness claimed him.

"Sleep, Vin," Chris soothed, tenderly stroking the long, sweat-dampened hair, remembering the tortured cry that had torn from his friend as the nightmare had engulfed him. "It's over, partner. It's all over now. The bastards who did this are dead or behind bars. We got 'em, Vin. We got 'em for ya. You're safe now. They can't hurt you anymore."

Buck watched Chris for long moments, saw the exhaustion in his face and the sadness in his eyes, and knew he had to get the man out of this room if only for a while. The rest of them had slept, had eaten, had allowed themselves some time to recover from the adrenalin rush of the bust and their anxiety for Vin. Chris, however, had been here some fifty-two hours straight, tearing himself away only for the mandatory debriefing this morning. And Travis had nearly had to send the U.S. Marshals out for him then.

"Come on, pard," he said quietly, walking over to his friend and prying Vin's hands out of his. "Let the doc here look at Junior, make sure he's all right. Let's you and me go outside, sit down, take a breather."

"Can't," Chris rasped, trying to push the bigger man away. "I gotta stay here. If he has another nightmare-"

"He's worn out, Chris," Buck said firmly, taking Larabee by the shoulders and pulling him away from the bed. "Besides, the doctor's with him and I reckon she'll know what to do if he starts fightin' again. But you gotta come with me, or you're gonna be needin' a room here yourself pretty soon."

"Buck-"

"You're not stayin'," Buck declared, leading him away from the bed.

Chris wanted to turn back, to see Vin, but Buck wouldn't let him. The big agent kept his hands firmly on Larabee's shoulders and propelled him out of the room, determined to take care of the man, even if he had to cold-cock him to do it.

They went to the small waiting area the team knew far too well, and Chris collapsed into the nearest chair. Leaning forward, he dropped his head into his hands and rested his elbows on his thighs, exhausted to the very center of his bones.

"What time is it?" he asked in a gravelly voice.

Buck glanced at his watch. "Ten o'clock, Friday night. You've been here since Wednesday." He settled his big frame into the chair next to Larabee's and looked worriedly at his old friend. "You all right?"

"He was so scared, Buck," Chris breathed, grimacing at the memory of Vin's cries. "He didn't know where he was, or who I was ... He thought he was still there, with them ... Shit, what kind of animals were they?"

"Well," Buck said quietly, "some of 'em are dead animals now, includin' that bastard Castro. And the others will pay for what they done. Includin' Monroe. But they're not our concern right now; Vin is. And no matter how much we want to hurt them, we gotta concentrate on helpin' him. Monroe's in the prosecutors' hands now. But Vin's in ours."

"He was scared of me, Buck," Chris whispered, his rage gone and replaced by an aching sorrow. "He was lookin' right at me, and he was terrified of me!"

Buck grimaced in pain and reached out, laying a strong, brotherly hand on Chris's bowed shoulder. "I know it hurts, pard," he said softly. "But you gotta remember what he's been through. What he's still goin' through. Hell, he may be awake now, but you know as well as I do that he's still not really with us. Dr. Stone said that head injury's gonna keep him confused for a while. And we got no idea what all those bastards did to him while they had him."

Chris's eyes snapped to Buck's face at that and glittered with a sudden and deadly rage. "You don't think they-"

"Doctors said there was no evidence of anything like that," Buck put in quickly, knowing at once what Larabee feared. "But that don't mean that what they did do wasn't brutal in its own right. Hell, all ya have ta do is look at the boy to know he was in the hands of monsters! Monsters who enjoyed their work! And, yeah, I know Vin's strong, and I know he's tough, but, shit, even he has a breakin' point, and it looks to me like those twisted sonsabitches found it." He leaned over and snared that tortured green gaze with his own determined blue one. "And now it's up ta us ta help him put the pieces back together."

Chris groaned and scrubbed shaking hands over his unshaven face. "I'm so tired, Buck," he breathed. "I can't think anymore-"

"Then go home," Wilmington said quietly, firmly. "Shit, Chris, look at yourself! I bet you haven't had more'n two or three hours' sleep at a time since Vin got here, and I know for damn sure you ain't had a real meal. And your collapsin' won't help him at all." He stretched out a long leg and dug in his pocket for his keys. "Here," he said, holding them out, "go to the loft, get a shower, get a meal, and get some sleep. I'll stay here tonight with Junior, and if anything happens I'll call ya. I promise."

Chris stared at the keys, sorely tempted. He knew he was no good to anyone, no good to Vin, this way, his brain fogged with exhaustion and his every nerve raw and on edge. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten something that hadn't come from a machine, couldn't remember the last time he'd slept lying down. And Buck was right. He couldn't help Vin if he made himself sick, or drove himself to a collapse.

But if Vin should need him and he wasn't here ...

Buck didn't push the issue, knowing Chris would have to come to a decision on his own. And he could understand the man's reluctance to leave. Hell, he knew how he'd be if that were JD lying in there, knew nothing short of physical force would be able to wrest him from the kid's side. And he just wasn't up to wrestling Chris Larabee right now.

When Buck said nothing more, Chris slumped back in the chair, let his head fall back and closed his eyes. He had no intention of dozing, but couldn't fight it when it crept up on him ...

"Chris."

He snapped awake at Buck's summons, then lurched immediately to his feet as Dr. Stone approached.

"How is he?" he demanded harshly.

She swept her keen dark gaze over the tall, glowering agent, taking in his blood-shot and hollow eyes, his lined, haggard face and slumped shoulders. "I could ask the same about you," she said pointedly. "You're a mess, Larabee. Why don't you spend some of that concern on yourself?"

He straightened with an effort and fixed a tired version of his infamous glare upon her. "I asked about Vin," he growled.

She sighed and shook her head slowly, well familiar with these men and their devotion to one another. "He's out," she said at last. "I increased his morphine dosage slightly, and, as weak as he is, he should sleep all through the night. And, no, he didn't do any further harm to himself," she said, answering the question before he could ask it. "Now, go home, or go somewhere, and get some sleep. You won't do him a bit of good if you push yourself into a collapse."

He smiled wryly. "That's what Buck was sayin'."

She arched a dark brow at Wilmington, who grinned broadly and winked. "That so? Then I guess he's smarter than he looks."

7~7~7~7

To his surprise - and to the complete astonishment of everyone else - Chris didn't arrive back at the hospital until 9 a.m., the "couple of hours" of sleep he had promised himself having stretched into eight. When he returned, though, he found Buck in the waiting area, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper, instead of sitting with Vin.

"Hold on, pard," Buck said before Larabee could speak, having caught the warning flash of anger in those green eyes. "Junior's not alone, and he ain't been alone. Nurses are in there now, and they threw me out so they can tend him. Ezra stopped in about midnight, stayed with him while I caught me a couple hours of sleep in the residents' lounge." He winked roguishly. "Seems they've changed the lock on the nurses' lounge since last I was here."

Chris's anger faded at once, and he smiled. "Can't imagine why. Couldn't be because you kept walkin' in on 'em by 'accident,' could it?"

"Can I help it if I got no sense of direction?" Buck asked innocently.

"Hell, Buck, you got no sense at all!" Chris snorted. Then, growing serious, he asked, "How's Vin?"

Wilmington sighed and shrugged his broad shoulders. "Still sleepin', if that's what you wanta call it. Hasn't had any more nightmares, but he hasn't been real peaceful, either." He grimaced and shook his head. "His fever's up, too. Not real high, but enough to be worrisome. Seems that kidney they worked so hard to save is tryin' its best to get infected. They're uppin' his antibiotics, hopin' that'll turn the trick." His blue eyes clouded with sorrow. "Just one more battle for him ta fight, and him without the strength for any of it. Don't seem right."

"None of this is right, Buck," Larabee said bitterly, "and none of it's fair. But when's the last time you heard of life bein' fair?" He looked closely at his friend then, and saw the weariness lining the big man's handsome face. "Hell, Buck, go home! Get some rest, some real food. You look awful!"

"Now, Chris," Wilmington admonished gently, "we all know that's damn near impossible!"

"Go home," Larabee growled. "I haven't shot anybody all day, and you're just too big a target ta miss."

Wilmington laughed and clapped a brotherly hand to Larabee's shoulder. "Can't shoot me, pard," he said with a wink. "That'd leave you with Vin and JD both ta raise. And I don't think you're quite ready for that yet."

Larabee scowled, though his eyes gleamed warmly. "Maybe I just oughtta ask you ta shoot me."

"Nope." The big agent shook his head soberly. "'Cause I ain't about ta explain to a pissed-off sharpshooter why I had ta go and kill his best friend. I got about six inches and at least fifty pounds on that boy, and I'm still willin' ta bet he could take me apart with his bare hands if he tried." He leaned closer to Chris and said conspiratorially, "I don't know if you've noticed, pard, but Junior don't always fight fair. And ol' Buck's a lover, not a fighter."

"Ol' Buck's fulla horse shit," Chris grumbled fondly, knowing Wilmington enjoyed a good fight almost as much as he did a good woman. "Now, get outta here! And," he smiled up at his friend, "thanks for stayin' with him."

Buck's teasing humor faded, replaced by his true warmth. "Hell, Chris, where else would I have been? He needs ta know he ain't alone, that he's got somebody with him. I might not be you, but I reckon I'll do in a pinch."

Chris reached out and gripped Wilmington's arm. "You'll do in more than a pinch, Buck," he said quietly, his whole heart in the words. "Always have, always will." He squeezed the big man's arm affectionately before releasing it, then turned and walked away.

7~7~7~7

Larabee quickly came to appreciate the full night's sleep he'd gotten. Vin drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the day, though he was never really what Chris would have called "aware." He seemed unable to retain the memory of where he was or why he was here, seemed unable to understand that he was safe, was kept in a perpetual state of confusion by his head injury and fever. Panic accompanied every awakening, and Chris had to spend long minutes holding him down, restraining his weak struggles and quieting his terrified cries.

It tore into Chris like a knife to see his friend warding off invisible blows, to hear him plead brokenly not to be hit again or to be let out of what he called "the closet." He also had to keep Vin from pulling at the various IV lines going into his body, suspecting that in his confusion Tanner was mistaking them for the bonds he had endured for so long. Such frantic awakenings were as exhausting for Chris as they were for Vin.

Yet even after Chris managed to urge some measure of calm upon him, to get him through the initial panic, Vin was denied any true peace or rest by the pain that racked him, that never left him, that the morphine could do no more than dull. There was no way he could move without sending it shooting through some part of him, without heightening the constant hurt that filled his every waking moment. At times he almost longed for sleep to take him away, until he remembered what awaited him in the dark.

So he clung to Chris like a lifeline, needing that solid, unfailing presence and the deep bond that existed between them to make the pain bearable, and to keep at bay the unconsciousness that was even worse than the pain. He held as tightly as he could to Chris's hand, tried to concentrate on and follow the thread of his words, and, when that failed, merely listened to the sound of his voice and took comfort in the warmth and strength of his grip, knowing nothing and no one could hurt him while Chris stood watch over him.

But while Chris was guardian during his wakefulness, another force held sway while he slept. Each time his weak and wounded body delivered him back into the darkness, the doors of hell opened and spewed forth the cruel and angry ghosts that turned his mind into a torture chamber. And there was no help, no comfort for him here. Not even Chris Larabee could vanquish the demons that raged in Vin Tanner's mind.

7~7~7~7

Jesus, he was hot! And he hurt so...

"Chris?" He waited for the familiar hand to take his, for the familiar voice to slip through his aching head. Neither came, and the fear seized upon him again. "Chris!"

He forced open his eyes, and found himself in darkness. Fear gave way to panic and he struggled to sit up, raising himself only halfway before collapsing with a weak cry. Pain crashed through his chest and gnawed sharply into his back, down low. He tried to see, tried to breathe, and could do neither.

Oh, Jesus, why was he so hot?

"Chris?" He knew it was no more than a whisper, but couldn't manage anything louder. He was too scared, and in too much pain.

Why wasn't Chris here? He had been here ...

Hadn't he?

Scream all ya want, boy. The voice jeered at him from the darkness. Won't nobody hear. Won't nobody come. It's just you'n me.

"Chris?"

Nobody ever came ...

And he was so hot ...

It had to be - this small, dark space, with the air hot and heavy and stifling about him, and him hurting so badly he couldn't move. This was where the beatings always got him. Engulfed in darkness, alone with his pain, he felt again the crippling rush of cold dread that such confined spaces always awoke in him. The walls were close, too close, and he was sickeningly aware of the dank, dirty, musty odor of the carpet filling his nostrils and invading his mind. And now and then - oh, Jesus! - he could feel whatever lived in the closet skittering over his bruised and bleeding flesh.

It always ended here, except it never really ended. He'd thought it had, when they promised - they'd promised! - he'd never come back, never be able to hurt him ... But they'd lied; they always lied. He should've known, he should never have believed them ...

He'd thought ... with Chris and the others ... he'd be safe ...

But he'd been wrong. He'd been stupid.

Pain and terror combined with the horrible smell of his prison to make him sick.

7~7~7~7

Chris came back into the room, then raced toward the bed as he heard Vin gagging. Grabbing the basin off the stand with one hand and dropping it onto the bed, he just managed to get Tanner up and over it and yank off the oxygen mask before the younger man began retching violently. Choking, strangled cries, barely human, emerged as the sharpshooter threw up repeatedly, his whole body convulsed by the force of his vomiting. Chris held him all the while, wondering just how many ways there were for one man to suffer.

When he was certain Vin had finished, Chris eased him back onto the bed and rang for the nurse. Within moments she appeared, and they worked together to get Vin cleaned up and changed. Josiah came in then to take his turn at Vin's bedside, and, while he easily held the barely-conscious man in his strong arms, Chris helped the nurse change the bedding.

At last Vin lay on cool, fresh sheets, drifting in and out of sleep. Chris and Josiah bathed his fevered skin with damp cloths, doing what they could to ease him. In his confusion, though, he would alternately cling desperately to or fight against them, pleading brokenly for whoever tortured him to stop and apologizing for God knew what. And when he cried to be let out of the closet, the hearts of both men broke.

When Vin finally lay still and quiet, Josiah placed strong, kind hands on Larabee's shoulders and guided him back to his chair, pushing him into it. For long moments Sanchez stood behind him, his big hands still on the slumped shoulders, offering the same comfort to Chris that Chris had lent to Vin.

"Jesus, Josiah," Larabee said hoarsely when he could manage to speak at all, "how much more of this can he take? He's hangin' on by a thread as it is ... How the hell's he supposed to get any better when he can't even rest?"

Josiah sighed heavily, then pulled up a chair next to Larabee and sat down. "Hard to rest when you're fightin' demons."

"But he's safe now!" Chris said harshly. "We got him back, and we got the bastards who did this! They can't hurt him anymore-"

"We know that," Sanchez said quietly, "but Vin doesn't. Not yet. Remember what he's been through, Chris," he urged patiently. "He didn't get beaten up in some bar brawl or by some street punk. He was very nearly beaten to death by men who knew what they were doing. Somethin' like that... it's bound to take a toll. It's not somethin' you just bounce back from. Not even if you're Vin Tanner."

Chris scrubbed his hands over his face, then raked one through his hair, trying to clear his thoughts. Hell, he knew Josiah was right! But ...

"I know," Sanchez said in his deep, gentle voice. "Vin's in pain, and therefore you're in pain." He sighed and shook his graying head slowly. "We thought we'd found him, but it turns out our young brother is still lost. Lost in some darkness that refuses to yield to the light, lost in some pain that refuses to yield to healing."

"Somethin' more happened to him than just the beating," Chris said with instinctive certainty. "And more's been hurt than just his body ..." He sighed sharply and shook his head. "Goddamn it, if only we'd found him sooner-"

"Don't, Chris," Josiah interrupted firmly. "Don't do that to yourself. You know as well as I do that 'if only' is a treacherous road, and one that leads nowhere. We found Vin, and we found him alive. And where there's life, there's hope. It's still early yet; it's only been four days. You can't expect him to be all right immediately. Vin's been through an ordeal that damn near broke his body. It would be too much to expect him not to carry wounds on his mind and soul as well."

"So what're we supposed to do?" Chris asked softly, sadly, his gaze again going to Vin. "Keep pouncin' on him every time he moves? Keep screamin' at him and hopein' he wakes up, really wakes up, before he hurts himself? Jesus, Josiah," he asked strickenly, his voice breaking, "how can we help him when we can't even reach him?"

"We'll reach him, Chris," Sanchez said gently. "We love him, and he loves us, too much for us not to. Vin's tryin' to get free; he's tryin' to get back to us. We just have to be here waiting." He fixed grave, wise eyes on Larabee. "There's really not much we can do for his bodily hurts, Chris. That's what the doctors and nurses are here for. Our job is to see to his mind and soul." He smiled slightly. "After all, that's what family's for."

"Really?" Chris retorted in frustration. "I thought it was just to drive me crazy!"

Josiah chuckled quietly. "Well, yeah, that's part of it. Just remember, though - family may drive you crazy, but they also provide entertaining company on the journey."

7~7~7~7

Chris pressed his hands to the small of his back and leaned backward. Goddamn it, why couldn't they get some decent chairs in this place? Seemed a hospital would have something better than those orthopedic nightmares designed to cripple whoever sat in them!

Then again, he had to concede, most folks didn't spent all damn day in them, either ...

He glanced at his watch and grimaced. Shit! 6:30 p.m. ... Saturday? Yeah, Saturday. He frowned in disbelief. Had it really been only four days? Felt more like a week ... or a month. But it had only been Wednesday that they'd nailed Monroe, that he'd killed Castro, that they'd gotten Vin back ... Had to be the longest four goddamn days of his life!

And it wasn't nearly over yet ...

"Chr...is?"

Larabee immediately ceased his restless pacing at the weak, raspy summons and hurried to the bed, leaning over Vin and taking a too-warm hand firmly in his. "I'm here, cowboy," he said.

Vin struggled to open his eyes, and groaned softly at the pain caused even by that simple movement. But he managed as best he could - which was not very well at all - and stared through the one eye he could halfway open at the blurred, dark figure hovering over him.

"Chris," he breathed with certainty.

Larabee smiled. He'd much rather be looking into two eyes, but he'd take what he could get. "Yeah, it's me," he answered. "How ya feelin'?"

Vin frowned painfully at the question, not certain he understood it, and tried to think. But his head hurt so damned much ... he hurt all over ... couldn't see ... "Feelin'?" he croaked at last.

Chris winced at the hoarse, scratchy voice. "Hang on a sec." He turned to the small bedside table and retrieved the cup there, then slipped the straw under the oxygen mask. "Drink," he ordered gently.

It took a moment for the command to register, for Vin to recognize the thing scratching against his lip as a straw. But as it was pushed a bit harder, he opened his mouth reflexively and took it in, then began sucking down something cool and wet and infinitely soothing.

Water, he decided, rather pleased at having made even so basic a connection.

Chris let him have several sips before pulling the straw away. "Hold on, partner," he urged when Vin frowned and made a small sound of protest. "Gotta go slow. Gettin' kinda tired of seein' whatever we put down you come back up." He leaned closer and peered into that half-open eye for some sign of true coherence. "You with me here, pard?"

Vin frowned in confusion as the words filtered through the thick lumpish oatmeal that was his mind. "I b ... I been ... gone?" he rasped.

Chris chuckled and gave him more water. "Shit, Tanner, you've been all over the map! Every time you wake up, I feel like I need to mark a new 'you are here' spot." He took the cup away again. "Uh-uh, don't get greedy. Like I said, we're gonna go slow and try to avoid any more ugly accidents."

Vin swallowed the water and stared at the indistinct form he assumed was Chris, trying to see, trying to think, and failing at both. "Where ... I been?" he asked faintly, not even knowing where he was.

Chris sighed tiredly and shook his head, growing increasingly discouraged - and frustrated - by Vin's inability to retain such basic, and repeatedly imparted, information. "Think maybe you could tell me?" he asked, deciding to take a different tack.

Hell, maybe it was time to force Tanner to think!

Vin let his eye close and licked dry, painful lips, trying to sort out the jumble of confused thoughts and hazy images clouding his tired and aching mind. Chris was here, wherever here was, so that meant he was safe.

But ... safe from what?

Chris watched as Vin's brow furrowed in thought, as he absently raised a shaking hand and pressed it to his temple. All at once, he grew angry with himself for pushing the younger man to remember when he clearly was not ready to, and when the effort obviously pained him.

"It's all right, pard," he said quietly, "don't worry about it. I'm sorry I asked. You just relax. It'll come when you're ready."

But Vin didn't hear him. The jumble was growing worse, with images half-rising and then dissolving before he could identify them, and voices humming and buzzing through his mind like the droning of angry bees. Now and again he heard shouting, and flinched violently as the sound sent jolts of pain through his head; and sometimes he heard laughter, which sent cold tendrils of terror through him. Worst of all, though, was the darkness, the thick, airless blackness that rose out of nowhere and suddenly engulfed him-

Oh, God, he'd been in the closet!

He gasped strickenly and clutched at Chris as it hit him, as the sickening odor of the filthy carpet washed over him, as the hot, heavy darkness pressed against him. He couldn't breathe in so small a space, with the walls so close he could feel them, and the foul odor of that carpet suffocating him, and his head throbbing heavily in time to the frantic pounding of his heart ...

Oh, Jesus! Jesus-

"Chris!" he screamed, sitting up abruptly and trying desperately to get to the one person who'd never failed him.

And he was there. Before that cry died away Chris was on the bed, enfolding Vin tightly in his arms and holding him, cradling the shaking, battered body close against his chest. Fighting back his own raging fear, and his bitter fury at the bastards who had done this, he stayed silent until he could control his voice, and contented himself with stroking Vin's back until he felt his friend's violent tremors lessening.

Vin knotted his fingers in Chris's shirt and clung fiercely, desperately, him, burying his face against that solid chest and trying to hide himself in the unyielding arms that held him. Chris was here ... Chris had him ... Chris would protect him ... Chris was here ...

Another cry tore from him as a sudden alarm went through him.

No. It was another lie. Chris couldn't be here. Bastard had said so ...

Nobody'd come. Nobody ever came.

But Chris was here ...

"Chri...is?" he croaked in confusion, trying to open his eyes, trying to raise his pounding head, trying - God, it hurt! - to see. "Chris!"

"Ssh, hush, Vin, hush," Chris soothed, still stroking Tanner's back. "It's all right, you're safe now. You're outta that room, you're free. And I'm right here. Nobody's gonna hurtcha."

"I c ... couldn't breathe!" Vin whispered. "Closet ... so small ... I c'd feel ... walls ... closin' in ... Oh, God, why cain't I breathe?" he gasped, fighting for air that was reluctant to come.

"You got broken ribs, Vin, and one of 'em punctured your lung," Chris explained gently, patiently. "Just slow down, don't try so hard. Relax, Vin," he urged, still stroking Tanner's back. "Just take it easy, and breathe slow."

"I's so scared in there! I hurt so, an' it was so dark ... He s ... he said ... wouldn't nobody come fer me," Vin rasped, clinging fiercely to Chris's shirt. "Said ... I's his ... He said wouldn't nobody come!"

Chris tightened his hold at the anguish in that broken voice. "He was wrong, Vin," he said softly. "We came for you, remember? We found you and got you outta that place, and now you're safe. You're safe, Vin, do you hear me? He can't hurt you any more."

"Thought that ... once," Vin breathed, resting his horribly throbbing head against Chris's shoulder. "They promised ... said he wouldn't never come back ... Shoulda known it was a lie."

Chris winced at the pain he heard in those words. "Come on, Vin, lie down," he urged, easing the younger man back onto the bed. As Tanner groaned thickly, his bruised face contorting into a mask of torment, Chris reached out and hit the button that would deliver a dose of morphine into his system.

"'S my fault," Vin murmured, reaching again, instinctively, for that unfailing hand. "I fucked up again ... done somethin' wrong. He put me in there ... t' teach me my lesson. Stupid ... too stupid ta learn ... 'S all my fault."

"No," Chris countered, gripping Vin's hand and stroking his hair, hoping the morphine took effect soon. "You didn't fuck up, Vin, you didn't do anything wrong. None of this is your fault."

Vin clung to Chris and let his eye close, relaxing as the pain racking every part of him began to lose its edge. He tried to remember where he was, why Chris was here when he shouldn't be, how he had gotten out of that dark and horrible place.

Bastard wouldn't have let him out for Chris ... wouldn't have let Chris in... Maybe he didn't know Chris was here?

But if he caught him ...

"You shouldn't be here," he moaned weakly, now trying to push Chris away. "He'll git you, too ... hurt ya ... fer helpin' me. I ain't... s'posed ta tell anybody ... what he done. Y' gotta go ... leave me be ... git t' where you'll be safe!"

"We are safe, Vin," Chris assured him, fervently wishing Tanner's mind would clear. "It's over. Monroe's in jail, Castro's dead, and you're here, safe, in the hospital. Believe me, nobody's gonna hurt you!"

Monroe ... Castro ... The names meant nothing to him, though Chris seemed to think they should. He just couldn't remember ...

"It's all right, Vin, don't think about it now," Chris said, seeing the confusion in his friend's face. "It'll come back to ya when you're ready. When you're stronger. All you have ta remember now is that you're safe, that I'm here, that the others are here, and that we're not gonna let anybody hurt you. That's all that matters."

"He'll come fer me ... He always does ..."

"Bastard ain't comin' for anybody," Chris said grimly, remembering the four slugs he had pumped into Castro. "I took care of him for ya, Vin. Son of a bitch is in hell, where he belongs, and he ain't ever gettin' out."

In hell ... Jesus, what'd Chris done? And why? For him?

"I ain't worth it!" he rasped in torment, terrified for his friend. "Y' shouldn'ta done it ... Not fer me ... Jesus, now he's gonna git you ... an' it'll be all my fault ... I ain't worth it, Chris! I ain't worth it!"

"Don't say that!" Chris shouted, grabbing Vin's shoulders and staring furiously into that terrified, uncomprehending face. "Goddamn it, Tanner, where are you?"

The shout unnerved him, and the hands that had been so comforting suddenly turned cruel, gripping him hard and shaking him, tearing a sharp, pained cry from him. Terror coursed through him in cold waves as he realized he'd fucked up again.

Oh, shit, how could he be so stupid? He'd thought it was Chris, but Chris wouldn't hurt him like this ... Chris wouldn't keep him in the dark ... in this little room ... Chris knew how he hated such places ...

"Git away from me, you sonuvabitch!" he screamed, lashing out wildly at the bastard who was hurting him, fighting to fend off the attack he had never seen coming. "Chri-i-i-s-s!"

The tortured cry went through Larabee like a knife, even as the ferocity of Vin's desperate struggles took him by surprise. He held him as carefully as he could, trying not to hurt him, trying to keep Vin from hurting himself. But adrenalin was giving Tanner a surprising strength - for a few minutes, anyway - and Chris constantly had to tighten his grip if only to keep his friend from lurching out of bed. He knew he had to be hurting Vin, heard it in Tanner's curses and howls, but also knew he didn't dare let go.

But nothing, nothing hurt Chris like hearing Vin screaming in terror for him, never realizing it was Chris who held him, who was being forced to hurt him.

Christ, why didn't Tanner just pass out and spare them both?

Though Chris never heard it, the heart monitor was shrieking again, and a nurse hurried in to investigate, followed closely by Dr. Stone. The doctor took in the sight of the two men struggling on the bed, rapped out a terse order to the nurse, then raced forward to help Larabee restrain Tanner.

"What happened?" she shouted, grabbing one of Vin's arms and helping Chris push him back against the bed.

"Hell if I know!" Larabee snarled, still holding Tanner down. "One minute he was calm, we were talking, and the next ... he just snapped! He keeps screamin' for me- Goddamn it, be still!" he shouted, climbing atop Vin and using his body to hold him down as Tanner tried to twist and buck free. "You're gonna hurt yourself!"

The nurse was back in moments. Without a word, she hurried forward and administered the sedative ordered by Dr. Stone.

They continued to hold him until it took effect, until his thrashing and screaming ceased, until he collapsed and lay still and silent. And while doctor and nurse began looking him over to make certain he had done no further harm to himself, Chris backed away from the bed until he came to the wall, then slid slowly down it and sat on the floor, drained of every last vestige of strength.