Smoke and Mirrors

Part 2 (see part 1 for disclaimers)

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

<Mirror Image>

According to schedule, Jim called the station at 8:00 a.m. the 
following morning. In harsh, clipped phrases, his captain read 
him the riot act about his behavior the previous day. The 
Sentinel maintained his posture of surly insolence and Banks 
gave him 48 hours to rethink his attitude. 

Having showered and dressed earlier, Jim flipped on the 
television and headed to the kitchen to fix breakfast while he 
caught the morning news. As he stirred the eggs in the frying 
pan, his thoughts turned automatically to his partner. Making 
breakfast was normally Blair's task and a time when the two of 
them connected, planning their days and comparing schedules. 
No matter how late the grad student had been up studying, he 
always managed to crank himself out of bed to prepare 
something for the detective even if he himself wasn't ready to 
face food. 

The Sentinel was acutely aware of his Guide's absence. He'd 
woken throughout the night keenly aware that the young man's 
steady, throbbing heartbeat was missing from the bedroom 
below his. The usually comforting morning ritual of breakfast 
felt as hollow as the rest of the loft, which had been stripped of 
Blair's possessions the day before.

There was some solace in the fact that during the haranguing 
phone call, Simon had used one of their prearranged code 
words to let him know that all was well with the younger man. 
Having monitored the evidence of his Guide's distress with his 
senses the previous night, the Sentinel doubted that Blair was 
indeed *well*, but for the moment, he would have to rely on 
his captain's assurances.

Breakfast was dispatched quickly; the plate and coffee mug 
rinsed and left in the sink to be washed later. Glancing at his 
watch, he nodded absently--Blair would be at the university by 
now, going through the motions of his regular class and 
teaching schedule. It was time to get himself moving as well.

Jim's own plan for the day was to keep himself visible and 
accessible. He wanted to give Jenson every opportunity to 
make his move. Hanging around in the loft wasn't going to 
make that happen.

The faint crackle he'd picked up through the ear piece when 
he'd talked to Simon had confirmed that the line was tapped. 
Satisfied that the captain's announced 48-hour window had 
broadcast his availability, the detective packed a bag with his 
workout gear and headed downtown to the small gym that he 
frequented on his days off, or when the precinct facilities were 
too crowded. 

A few hours of exercise in a public place suited his tactics and 
would have the added bonus of helping him burn off some of 
the tension while he waited.

Waiting...

It was never easy; never had been.

Action was what he needed. What he wanted.

But he wasn't in control of this round of the game. Jenson was. 

He'd have to bide his time. For now.

Moments after he pulled the truck out into traffic, he picked up 
a tail. Not the vehicle from the night before, but the same 
driver: Smithson.

Jim spent the next three hours at the gym, working easily 
through several full circuits on the weights, using the sauna and 
taking a second shower. Over the course of the morning he 
noted several vaguely familiar faces. He'd catalogued each man 
by sight and scent, storing the information away for future 
reference. 

The car that had tailed him from the loft was parked three 
blocks away when he stepped out into the bright midday sun. 
He paused and slipped on his  sunglasses. Behind the black 
shades, his eyes glittered with suppressed anger. He allowed a 
trace of the ugly emotion to surface as an arrogant sneer and 
sauntered to his truck. 

Smithson followed him to his next stop--the grocery store--but 
was nowhere in sight when he exited a half-hour later. Jim 
casually loaded the two bags of food he'd purchased into the 
passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. Within a few minutes 
of leaving the lot, he caught a glimpse of a dark green sedan 
hanging three car's back. 

*Trade off...they're being cautious...same car as last night, 
different driver...Harris this time...that's two accounted for...*

His tail stayed with him all the way back to the loft, passing by 
and turning to stop just around the corner, as it had the 
previous night. Jim carted his groceries upstairs. A quick scan 
of the loft revealed nothing out of order. He made himself a 
sandwich, grabbed a beer and went out to the balcony to eat 
his lunch.

He hoped he appeared calmer than he felt. 

The Sentinel let his gaze drift, his enhanced sight picking up 
Harris, standing in the shadows of a nearby alley. He put up his 
feet and leaned back in his chair, donning the dark glasses once 
again.

He spent the next hour sitting there, ostensibly absorbing the 
warm early afternoon sun, while surreptitiously running his 
own surveillance. His watcher never moved, the phone never 
rang. 

*Come on...come on...enough of this already. Let's get this 
show on the road...*

His silent demand went unanswered for another fifteen 
minutes. Recognizing the inherent danger of his own impatient 
thoughts, Jim sat up, collected the remains of his lunch and 
went back inside. 

*Just keep moving...change locations again...keep sharp...* he 
reminded himself.

He placed the three-quarter's full bottle of beer in the kitchen 
sink and let the golden fluid chug down the drain while he 
rinsed the plate and set it aside. Retrieving the bag of garbage 
from the kitchen wastebasket, he grabbed the now-empty 
bottle and headed out again. An unhurried trip to the dumpster 
at the back of the building gave him another opportunity to 
check on his watcher. Harris was no longer in the alley.

With a casualness that betrayed none of his tension, Jim 
crossed the street to his truck, sweeping the area with his 
senses. It took a few moments to filter out the ambient noises 
from the traffic and the pedestrians that filled the busy street. 
Mentally picturing his Guide at his side and the soothing timbre 
of the young man's voice helped him find his focus. 

Dialing up his hearing, he concentrated. A few seconds later his 
efforts were rewarded: the distinctive chugging noises of a 
rough engine--the same one he'd heard the previous night--
pounded against his eardrums. 

The rest of the afternoon was spent leisurely attending to 
mundane errands. He made a lap of the city, stopping at his 
regular haunts. At the hardware store he picked up a gallon of 
semi-gloss enamel to use in repainting the bathroom. A stop at 
a small garage on the east side yielded a part he'd had on order 
for the truck. He purchased a half-dozen new fishing lures at 
the outfitter where he consistently bought his camping gear. 

His tail changed just before dinner time. Harris had been 
replaced by Martin Randolph in a non-descript beige van. 

Jim stopped for a hamburger, a large order of french fries and a 
cup of coffee at a fast-food spot that his partner had once 
referred to as 'Artery-clog King'. He smiled to himself at the 
memory of his friend's horrified expression and caustic tone of 
voice when the younger man had remarked on Jim's food 
preferences. It caused him to wonder whether Blair had made 
time to eat over the course of the day.

*Probably not. If Sandburg grabbed more than a can of juice 
out of the vending machines at the student union this morning, 
I'd be surprised,* he mused grimly.

Schooling the frown from his face, Jim took a seat near the 
expansive windows of the busy restaurant. He had a good view 
of the street from that position and Randolph had one of him as 
well. He took his time; for all appearances a man with no 
worries and no place he had to be. 

Concern for his partner rippled under the surface of his calm 
demeanor. Unflaggingly energetic as his Guide normally was, 
even Blair needed to stoke the fires occasionally. It wasn't 
unusual for the younger man to go for hours on a cup of tea 
and a toasted bagel, working off some invisible reserve, but the 
Sentinel feared that the enervating stress of the last few weeks 
had emptied that tank. From all indications, Sandburg was 
cruising on pure will power and adrenaline. A major crash was 
only a matter of time.

The second cell phone was a heavy weight in his left jacket 
pocket. There had been no call from either Simon or Joel all 
day. For safety reasons, Jim had the responsibility of initiating 
contact with the two captains--they would call him only in an 
emergency. The lack of communication should have been 
reassuring, but the detective knew it simply indicated that 
things were proceeding according to plan. It didn't give him 
any insights to his partner's *actual* well-being or mental state.

Finishing his meal, Jim tucked his worries close to his heart and 
forced himself to concentrate on the role he had to play. 
 
He stopped at a video store down the street from the loft and 
took his time browsing the selections, killing more time. The 
detective steered clear of the foreign film section, even though 
he had several favorites in that genre that he wouldn't have 
minded renting again. 

*Further evidence of Sandburg's insidious, pervasive influence 
on my life,* Jim thought fondly, grabbing a couple of action 
flicks and turning toward the checkout.

He parked and locked the truck outside the apartment building, 
five minutes later. The beige van had turned left at an 
intersection two blocks back. The Sentinel didn't have to 
search for Randolph's replacement--Smithson's now familiar 
heartbeat echoed from the alley where he had stood watch 
earlier.

Jim felt the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes--
the result of using his senses so intensely for such a prolonged 
stretch of time. Once inside the loft he flipped on the lights and 
locked the door, slipping the safety chain noisily into place for 
the benefit of whomever was listening. He wanted them to 
believe that he was *in* for the night. 

There was only one call on the answering machine--an offer 
from another long-distance carrier. He rewound the tape and 
set the unit to pick up on the fourth ring. A quick sensory 
check revealed that the bug was still in place and active, but 
that no new little surprises had been added during his afternoon 
away.

Placing his jacket within easy reach on the arm of the couch 
instead of in its usual place on the rack near the door, Jim 
pulled the second cell phone from the pocket. He turned on the 
TV and slipped a video into the VCR, thumbing the volume 
slightly louder than he'd left it at earlier that morning. While the 
previews ran, he went to the kitchen and started a pot of strong 
coffee. 

A grumbling burble and hiss of steam announced the end of the 
brewing cycle just as he emerged from the bathroom and 
tucked the cell phone back into the jacket. His check-in with 
Simon had consisted of a single code word that signaled his 
return to the loft and his lack of contact with Jenson. Banks' 
reply had been a bit more elaborate--Blair's day had been 
blessedly uneventful and he had returned to the motel for the 
night. 

Returning to the kitchen Jim filled a large mug with coffee, 
savoring the aroma of the dark, rich blend. He didn't add his 
customary dollop of milk--he wanted this dose of caffeine full 
strength and unadulterated.

Jim started to head back into the living area, but found himself 
hesitating, strangely reluctant to take his regular spot on the 
couch. It took him a moment to realize that he was again 
sensing the void generated by his partner's absence. The nearly 
constant activity of the day had kept that sensation at bay. 
Now, with nothing except what he suspected would be a long, 
solitary vigil ahead of him, he felt the disturbing sense of 
loneliness. It had been nearly three years since the apartment 
felt this empty.

Although their caseload and Blair's university schedule had 
made quiet evenings together at the loft a rarity, those 
companionable sessions were firmly etched in the Sentinel's 
memory. The anthropologist--whose incredible mind was 
seemingly never comfortable with processing only one thing at 
a time--would typically be seated at the kitchen table or on the 
floor in front of one of the couches, tapping the keyboard of 
his softly humming laptop with one hand while deftly wielding 
a red felt-tip marker across an open exam booklet in  broad 
strokes of praise or encouragement with the other. Half-buried 
by stacks of his student's papers or chattering away about some 
obscure tribe, Blair would still be unerringly tuned in to Jim's 
presence--as if he had some instinctive Guide-radar that 
allowed him to pick up on the Sentinel's mood shifts at the 
blink of an eye. 

*It never ceases to amaze me how you do that, Chief. If 
anyone here has an enhanced 'sixth' sense, it's got to be you. Is 
that a result of your being my Shaman? Or is it simply a sign of 
how committed you are to all of this--to helping me with my 
senses...to our friendship...*

They were questions that he'd asked himself before, and like 
always, he had no firm answers. Shaking his head in wonder at 
the quirk of fate that had brought the younger man into his life, 
he forced himself to cross the short distance to the sofa. 
Plunking himself down, he resolved to sit out both movies he'd 
brought home before he headed upstairs to bed. As much as he 
missed his friend, the loft was a potential war zone. Right now, 
the safest place for Sandburg was the motel on the far side of 
town.

At 11:30 p.m. he turned off the VCR and the television. 
Flipping the switch at the base of the stairs, he killed the lights 
and trudged up to his bedroom. Lying in the dark, he knew that 
sleep would be a long time in coming. The oppressive silence 
that hovered thickly in the shadows was magnified by the 
missing heartbeat of his Guide.

*We're going to get these guys, Chief,* he vowed, staring up 
through the skylight at the star filled sky above. *If they don't 
make a move by mid-morning, I'll take the game to them...Just 
keep it together...*

////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

"...keep yourself safe."

Blair murmured the soft prayer to the twinkling stars before 
closing the drapes on the east window of his motel room. If the 
forecast was correct, there would be rain shortly before dawn 
and the thought of waking to a gloomy, overcast sky was too 
disheartening.

He turned and wandered listlessly to the bed. Arranging himself 
in a half-lotus in the middle of the lumpy mattress, he let his 
gaze drift around the room, seeing, but not really focusing on 
his surroundings. 

Papers were strewn at one end of the bed, spilling out of the 
stuffed folders that he'd pulled from his backpack hours earlier. 
They represented his one remaining active link to the case. 
There were still reams of information to plow through on the 
insurance angle. He'd hoped to make some progress identifying 
Jenson's other cohorts, but so far all he'd managed to do was 
exacerbate the headache that had become his constant 
companion.

Retaining the data had been risky--if Jenson or one of his 
buddies discovered the printouts, they wouldn't hesitate to kill 
him. Of course, if they did come bursting through the door, it 
would mean the game was up anyway.

*And that Jim was probably already dead.*

The anthropologist shied away from that line of thought 
immediately and tried to ignore the mocking white sheets. The 
flat, rectangular Styrofoam container at the end of the bed 
caught his eye. He snagged it and pulled it into his lap. Flipping 
the lid, he stared down at the remains of the salad he'd 
purchased for dinner. The lettuce and vegetable concoction had 
tasted like cardboard when it was fresh. Now, wilted and 
soggy after sitting for hours, it was truly an unappetizing sight.

He closed the container and pushed it away with a shudder. His 
eyes tracked across the room again, seeking something to 
occupy his mind. The meaningless drivel of late night television 
would have been welcome, but the cheap motel room had no 
TV. The manager had one in his attached apartment and he'd 
made it clear that he was more than eager to share it, and 
more, with the anthropologist--the man had blatantly 
propositioned Blair in the parking lot when he'd returned for 
the night. The grad student had scurried to his room and had 
no plans to set foot outside until the safe light of morning. He 
was desperate for a diversion, but not that desperate.

His portable CD player, three disks and a set of headphones lay 
near the pillows. Music was usually his distraction of choice, 
however he'd already played two of the disks to death--he was 
sure the lyrics to the songs were permanently engraved on his 
brain at this point. The third CD was one he often used for 
meditation, and he was leery of even pulling that one from its 
case.

He glanced at the piles of boxes. Somewhere in that mess was 
the rest of his CD collection. He sighed and looked away. The 
idea of digging through the jumbled odds and ends of his life 
was less than appealing.

He found himself staring at the telephone. He knew it wouldn't 
ring. The cell phone in his pack was his link with the outside 
world, and right now that universe consisted of Simon and 
Joel. There had been one brief call from the captain, filling him 
in on Jim's status, and that was all he expected for the night.

Blair pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms 
around them, hugging himself against a shiver that had nothing 
to do with the temperature in the stuffy room. His body and 
weary spirit craved the respite of sleep, but his frenetically 
active mind didn't share that desire, relentlessly walking him 
back through his day one more time.

He'd always believed that time was a fluid entity and today had 
proven that hypothesis. It had rushed past like a storm swollen 
stream during his morning lectures. Unfortunately, it had 
slowed to the speed of a sluggishly draining sink over the 
course of the afternoon. 

*This would be the day that none of my students decided to 
take me up on my extended office hours,* he mused 
humorlessly.

He'd tried to keep busy, sorting through the unending piles of 
papers and university forms that the anthropology department 
bureaucrats produced like rabbits. The reports had reminded 
him too much of what he'd typically be doing at the station if 
he were there, so he'd abandoned them to his already 
overflowing in-basket and spent some time rearranging the 
artifacts on the shelves. 

He'd caught himself grumbling out loud and pacing the 
confines of his office at one point. He'd quickly seated himself 
at his desk with his mouth clamped tightly shut, doing his best 
imitation of his partner's clenched jaw routine. His office, like 
his motel room, was bugged. Not wanting either Simon or Joel 
to descend on him like worried mother hens, he'd flipped on 
the radio and forced himself to pick up a book. 

After staring at the same page for over twenty minutes, he'd 
given up on the pretense of reading and had simply stared out 
the window. Watching the students criss-crossing the grounds 
had been a soothing way to occupy his time, but the moment 
Blair had felt himself starting to nod off, he'd packed up his 
belongings. He'd announced his intentions to the empty room, 
locked his office and headed out to his car. 

He'd stopped for dinner at a favorite Indian restaurant a block 
from campus. It was on his *approved* itinerary, and he'd held 
hopes that the intriguing menu would stimulate his appetite. It 
had turned out that the salad was all he could stomach, and 
he'd ended up bringing more than half of the meal back to the 
motel with him.

* And here you are, safely ensconced in a haven for the morally 
deprived. Having come full circle and accomplished absolutely 
nothing over the last eighteen-plus hours, you now have the joy 
of another day just like this one staring you in the face.*

He stifled a groan and closed his eyes, resting his forehead on 
his knees. The only good thing that could be said about the day 
was that the flames and firewall of his vision had not deigned 
to make an appearance. Cynically, Blair thought that its 
absence was a conspicuously bad thing and that it was just 
waiting until he lowered his guard before it came calling.

He felt the tense tightening of already stressed muscles and 
wished he had a way to relax. A tiny voice in his head 
reminded him that he had a proven way to make that happen. 
Throughout the day, he'd managed to silence that nagging 
tongue by drowning it out with the sound of his own voice or 
blaring music. It had grown stronger and more insistent as his 
spirits had plunged and now it was demanding to be heard.

It whispered seductively, promising peace. A Shaman 
journeyed into the spirit world in search of healing and truth, 
murmured the voice. Knowledge, power and guidance waited 
in that altered state. All he had to do was open the door and it 
was his. 

Blair raised his head and opened his eyes. Warily, he reached 
for the player and headphones. His hand trembled as his fingers 
closed around the third CD, a collection of drumming songs. 
As if compelled, he opened the case and lifted the disk free. He 
inserted it in the player and settled the headphones over his 
ears.

Shifting into a full lotus position with practiced ease, he took 
several deep breaths, trying to compose himself. Normally, he 
would have lit a candle or burned some incense, but those 
implements were packed away and a flame was the last thing 
he wanted to see anyway.

Concentrating on the path the air followed as it surged in and 
out of his lungs, he closed his eyes. When he'd reached a point 
where his breathing was even and unhurried, he slid his finger 
across the raised buttons and pressed play.

Four solemn drum beats called the powers of the Four 
Directions to the Medicine Wheel. A soundless prayer for 
thanks vibrated on Blair's lips along with a plea for help during 
his journey. The unmistakable flutter of a spirit rattle merged 
with the disappearing echoes of the drums. The imagined 
aromas of sweet-grass and sage filled his nostrils. Another 
smell intruded, and the small, rational part of his mind that had 
yet to be swayed by the crooning rhythm identified it...

Smoke.

Searing tongues of fire flared and burned their sinuous image 
on the inside of his eyelids.

*NOOOOOOOO!*  

The reverberations of his scream--and a sudden earsplitting 
clap of thunder--chased the vision away and left him gasping 
for breath. He jerked off the headset and flung himself from the 
bed. Panicked, he scrambled backward, eyeing the still running 
player like it was a poisonous snake. A solid, unyielding wall 
halted his mindless flight. He stood half-crouched and shaking, 
his breathing harsh and horrible to his own ears. 

He waited, certain that at any second, either Simon or Joel 
would be forcing the door open in response to his blood-
curdling cry. The only visitation was in the form of the rain that 
tapped against the door and windows, announcing the onset of 
the anticipated storm. Finally, when neither the wall of flame or 
either of the two captains appeared, he allowed himself to slide 
to the floor.

It took a bit longer until his brain started functioning in 
something other than escape mode. Profoundly weary, he 
rubbed at his temples. The headache was pounding with a 
vengeance. He knew he needed to get up, get some water, dig 
through his stuff for some aspirin or something else to relieve 
the pain, but he didn't have the energy.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he stared at the ceiling. 
Hopeless. That's how he felt. And tired--physically tired down 
to the marrow of his bones; emotionally tired of worrying 
about Jim's safety; mentally tired of having to deal with things 
that an anthropologist had no business in the middle of; so very 
tired of being separated from his Sentinel.

He lowered his head and his gaze drifted toward the bug 
hidden in the floor lamp. He was still stunned to realize that he 
hadn't screamed out loud. He was certain that he had. While a 
part of him would have been mortally embarrassed if Joel or 
Simon *had* shown up, another part of him fervently wished 
that they had--or, more specifically, he wished that Jim had. 
Right now he wanted nothing more than to have his 
Sentinel/Blessed Protector/friend/partner/roommate physically 
*here*, ready to shield him from everything that was 
happening--real and imagined. 

One word was all it would take. A single cry for help and the 
troops would come blasting in. Whoever had drawn his 
surveillance for the night would call Jim before the shout was 
fully out of his mouth. It was a toss-up to say who would 
arrive first--but his money was on his partner. A threat to his 
Guide would bring the Sentinel running, as if the devil himself 
was at his heels.

*...his heels...a tail...Simon said he was being 
followed...Jenson...*

He bit back a groan, the horrifying scenario that his outcry 
would set in motion playing out in his mind all too vividly. 

*Jim would come...Jenson would follow him...Jim's cover 
would be blown...*

And shortly thereafter, his Sentinel would be dead.

Destroyed by his Guide's cowardice.

"No way," he vowed, the whispered promise too soft for even 
the ultra-sensitive listening device to pick up.

Pure stubbornness got him off the floor. Gritting his teeth, he 
commanded his feet to carry him to the side of the bed. 
Repressing a shudder of revulsion, he reached down and hit the 
stop button on the CD player. With a hard jab he ejected the 
disk. His fear screamed for him to throw the CD away. He 
started to turn toward the small garbage can that sat on the 
floor next to the dresser, intending to do just that. 

Disgust surged through him before he could drop it into the 
trash.

*You're so pathetic, Sandburg,* he berated himself silently. 
*You've got everything you could ever have wished for, and 
you're ready to pitch it all away just because things have gotten 
rough. Get a grip. Jim's the one out there putting his life on the 
line. This stupid vision or whatever it is isn't worth getting him 
killed over. This is 'your' department. You're the one that told 
Jim that you didn't want to go back to your safe, ivory tower 
academic world. Now either find a way to handle this--all of it-
-or find the guts to tell him that it's too much and be prepared 
to walk away. You're either a Shaman or you're not. You're 
either his Guide or you're not. You're either his friend or you're 
not. Take a stand and stick to it. Jim deserves better than this.*

Time slowed to a stop as he considered his choices. It started 
up again a few heartbeats later. Confronting his fears and his 
own shortcomings was a small price to pay when faced with 
the ultimatum of losing everything he had worked so hard to 
gain.

Face set in an expression of grim resolve, he slipped the 
drumming CD into its case. Soon, he would use it again--and 
when he did, he would be prepared for whatever the vision 
threw at him. But first, he had some work to do. Grabbing a 
notebook from his pack, he settled himself on the bed. Letting 
his memories guide him, he let his thoughts float back to the 
evening of the sixth murder--that was the first time the wall of 
fire had made an appearance. Pen gliding rapidly over the lined 
sheet, he began to write down everything he could remember 
about that night. 

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

<And a wisp of smoke 
rose from the smoldering embers...>

By 11:00 a.m. the next morning, the atmosphere in the loft was 
several shades darker than the leaden sky outside. As 
predicted, a front had moved in during the night, covering the 
city with a heavy blanket of rain-laden clouds. The Sentinel had 
heard the first faint rumblings when the storm was still many 
miles distant.

The breathing and relaxation exercises Blair had drilled into 
him had allowed Jim to slip into a deep sleep fairly quickly. A 
seemingly endless parade of disturbing dreams--in which his 
Guide had figured prominently--had put an end to that slumber 
well before dawn. That was when he'd heard the first ominous 
roll of thunder.

The details of the dreams had vanished the moment he'd 
opened his eyes. What had remained was an uneasy feeling that 
something was wrong. He'd scanned the loft automatically. The 
annoying pulse of Jenson's electronic 'ear' was the first anomaly 
he found. The absence of his Guide's heartbeat was the next.

All was as it had to be; not as it should have been. 

Unsettled, he'd climbed out of bed. Wrapped in his robe, Jim 
had padded silently down the stairs to the main level. He'd 
stopped near the balcony's partially open doors, listening to the 
rising winds that heralded the storm's approach. Sentinel vision 
had searched the darkness, but even his enhanced abilities 
couldn't see clear across the city to where his Guide was 
sequestered.

A change in his depth of field had brought his watchers into 
focus. Two of them: Harris and Rogers.  

A low rumbled growl had caused him to turn and examine the 
inside of the loft once more. A familiar form had detached itself 
from the rest of the shadows--the panther, pacing in front of 
the closed French doors that led to Blair's room. Tail lashing in 
agitation, luminous green-gold eyes all the more baleful in the 
dark, the beast had given vent to its displeasure with a 
definitive feline hiss.

*I'm no happier about this than you are,* the Sentinel had 
silently assured his Spirit Guide, sensing that the panther's 
animosity had little to do with the crooked cops sitting 
surveillance and everything to do with the absence of his 
Shaman.

The huge ebony cat had flowed toward him, bringing its 
personal thunder with it. It had stopped at his side, pressed 
tightly against his right leg. The panther had stared out into the 
night, motionless except for the twitch of its tail and the 
constant vibration that rumbled through its body. A bolt of 
lightning had streaked across the sky, followed by an explosive 
clap of thunder. The black phantom had suddenly lifted its 
head, nostrils flaring. Jim's breath had died in his throat and 
he'd gone as still as the statue-like form beside him, caught by 
the same sizzling current of danger.   

As suddenly as it had occurred, the sensation disappeared. The 
panther had mouthed a silent snarl, echoing Jim's own. It had 
raised its great head and their eyes met, exchanging a wordless 
promise. Then, like a common house cat, it had rubbed against 
his legs and vanished, leaving the Sentinel alone and sorely 
troubled by what had transpired. 

Something had threatened Blair. He and the panther had both 
sensed it. The nature of the danger had been vague, like his 
dreams, but it had triggered an  instinctive reaction. He'd been 
halfway to the door before he'd pulled himself to a halt.

The compelling need to protect his Guide had been almost 
overwhelming, but his years of training had won out. Rash 
action would only endanger the one he sought to shield. He'd 
grimly realized that he would have to rely on the men to whom 
he'd entrusted that precious life. 

The Sentinel had remained at his post.

Dawn had been a long time in coming.

The morning had dragged as well, and Jim was seriously 
considering his vow of the night before. He'd already been in 
and out of the loft twice, which should have given Jenson 
ample opportunity to make his move. 

The rain had already accumulated in inch-deep puddles by 6:30 
a.m., when he'd taken a run down to the bakery at the corner. 
The bag of donuts still sat on the kitchen counter, untouched. 
He'd had to restrain himself from walking up to Smithson, who 
was parked down at the opposite end of the block, and offering 
him one. 

At 8:00 he'd headed off to the gym again. He'd managed to 
burn off several thousand calories in that ninety minute stop, 
but there had been no attempt at a contact, even though his 
personal shadow had followed him to and from the gym. 

The telephone rang and he glared at it, deciding to let the 
answering machine pick it up. He'd already had his hopes 
raised by three previous calls. Two had been Blair's students. 
He hadn't had to fake the irritation with which he'd handled 
them. The third had been from a call center wanting him to 
take fifteen minutes to answer a survey on his radio station 
preferences. He'd growled something about 'anyone who 
played Santana' and cut them off.

Four rings, a click, his own terse message, followed by the 
beep...and nothing for ten long seconds. Jim turned away in 
disgust and abruptly whirled around when a familiar  male 
voice uttered four soft words.


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

<Fogged Mirrors>

Blair stared blearily at the notebook lying open on his desk. 
There were over twenty pages of entries. He hadn't given in to 
the need for sleep until he'd filled those narrow-ruled sheets 
from top to bottom. He'd racked his brain and his memory; 
recording every fact, thought, and emotion that he'd had over 
the past two-plus weeks that could be even marginally 
connected to the firewall vision.  

The words had seemed to make sense in the dark hours of the 
night, but now, in the light of day, the scribbled black 
characters seemed as jumbled as the thoughts they represented.

He turned the pages absently, pausing on one spread where the 
writing was streaked and blotted. He didn't remember those 
tears. He peered closely at the content, and shuddered. 

*No wonder...those passages relate to the night before I left 
the loft...I was here then too, already banished, prowling my 
office while Jim packed up my stuff...*

With a sad shake of his head, he flipped the notebook shut and 
swiveled his chair so that he could look out the window. The 
sullen gray skies and the steady downpour of rain matched his 
mood. 

Hours of fruitless soul-searching and a sleepless night were all 
he had to show for his efforts. He took off his glasses and 
rubbed at his tired, bloodshot eyes. He was going to have to 
get some sleep, or he wasn't going to be of any use to anyone. 
It was no wonder that he couldn't make heads or tails out of 
what he'd written, foggy as he was. 

Huge splotches of rain splattered against the window. He 
watched them elongate and chase in random trails across the 
pane, zigging and zagging at the whim of the wind. He smiled 
grimly, comparing his own situation to the harried droplets. 
Pushed by unseen forces, real and mystical, neither he or the 
water appeared to have any control over their destinies.

It occurred to him, dimly, that his morose thoughts and 
fatalistic attitude were a stark departure from his usual 
approach to life. Not that he went around wearing rose colored 
glasses all the time. He'd seen more than enough of the dark 
side of life during his time with Jim that some of it was bound 
to rub off. This, though, was more than that. It was as if his 
whole way of looking at the world had altered.

*Hell, my entire world's been turned upside down...why 
wouldn't my perspective be a little skewed?*

But the thought nagged at him, as if it were a truth of some 
distinct importance. 

"Sandburg?"

Blair whirled around in his chair. Joel Taggert stood in his 
doorway.

The anthropologist's throat constricted and his mouth went dry 
at the sight of the big man. Joel wouldn't be here unless...

"I packed up your things from the station," the dark captain 
explained, hefting the cardboard box in his hands. "Thought I'd 
bring them by, see if you wanted to go grab something for 
lunch."

Blair could only stare in numb shock at the older man, his 
wide-eyed gaze shifting from the worried brown eyes to the 
carton. 

"Hey, you all right?" Joel asked in concern, stepping into the 
room and letting the door swing shut behind him.

"Uh...yeah...sure," Blair dissembled awkwardly. "I just didn't 
hear you come in."

Taggert glanced around, obviously looking for a place to put 
the box. Blair gestured to one of the chairs.

"Just put it there. I'll find a spot for it later." 

Joel eyed the suggested surface uncertainly. A haphazard stack 
of files already occupied the seat that Blair had suggested. 
Setting the box on the top of the pile, he backed away 
cautiously.

"Thanks," Blair murmured.

"No problem," Taggert smiled, turning to the younger man 
once more. "So, how about grabbing a sandwich or something? 
My treat."

Blair glanced at the clock on his wall, surprised to see that it 
was almost 2:00 p.m. "Isn't it a little late for lunch, Joel?"

"That's what my stomach's been telling me for the past couple 
of hours," Taggert grinned. "I got tied up with some new 
developments on a case I'm helping out on and couldn't get 
away until now."

Blair was more than intrigued by the big man's casual 
comment, but he was also well aware of the risk of being seen 
with him. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea, Joel," he said 
hesitantly.

"Come on Sandburg, even you have to eat once in a while," 
Taggert prodded. "Besides, I've already *cleared* the time."

There was no mistaking the slight emphasis. Blair's eyes 
narrowed for a moment, trying to guess the reason behind 
Joel's arrival and invitation. His initial fears seemed unfounded. 
If something *had* happened to Jim, Taggert wouldn't have 
bothered coming up with a cover story for the visit. Simon had 
told him that morning that there had been no activity out of 
Jenson during the night. Had the contact that they'd been 
waiting for finally been made?

Only one way to find out. "Okay...just give me a second." He 
grabbed the notebook and slid it into his pack along with some 
of his student's papers. Snagging his keys he took a quick look 
around the office--based on Taggert's odd behavior, he wasn't 
sure he was coming back any time soon. Satisfied that he had 
everything he needed, he motioned for the bigger man to 
precede him.

Once they were outside, Joel steered them toward the visitor's 
lot. "How about Zantigo's over on the east side? I hear they've 
got some killer burritos."

"Ummm...sure...wherever..." 

Joel unlocked the passenger side door of his light blue four-
door and the anthropologist slid inside. After fastening his 
seatbelt, Blair wedged his hands between his knees to still their 
trembling. At least a dozen half-formed questions whirled in his 
mind, clamoring to be asked, but he forced himself to wait until 
Taggert had pulled out of the parking lot before voicing the 
most pressing one--he need confirmation. 

"Jim's all right, isn't he?" 

"Yeah."

There was only a hint of hesitation in Taggert's reply. Enough 
to worry the already stressed Guide. Blair closed his eyes for a 
moment in an attempt to get a handle on his emotions. When 
he opened them again, he looked directly at Joel, studying the 
older man's profile intently. 

"What's going on Joel?" he asked softly. "Why the sudden 
concern for my dietary habits?"

Taggert's eyes flickered toward him for an instant before the 
captain turned his gaze back to the road. Blair saw him take a 
deep breath and stiffened. 

"Jim's got a meeting in about an hour. At the Lariat."

"Oh." 

Blair swallowed hard and pointedly looked away. That 
explained everything. The contact *had* been made. The 
Lariat was one of Archie Gordon's hangouts. Blair remembered 
the hole-in-the-wall country-western bar from the surveillance 
they'd run on the detective. It was the perfect location for a 
clandestine meeting. At three o'clock in the afternoon, the 
place would be nearly deserted.

The fact that the bar was on the west side of town also 
explained Taggert's lunch invitation to a restaurant on the 
opposite end of Cascade. Blair felt an irrational flash of anger 
at the way he was being 'handled', and wondered whose idea it 
had been--Simon's or Jim's. 

"Tell me that he at least took Simon along as backup," Blair 
murmured. A longer hesitation this time--one that caused Blair 
to shake his head and answer his own question. "Of course not, 
what am I thinking?"

"It's a preliminary meet, Sandburg. Both sides checking each 
other out."

"Yeah, if that's the case, then why the bodyguard routine?" 
Blair heard the snarl in his tone and immediately regretted it. 
Taggert was just doing his job and at the moment that meant 
keeping Blair safe so that Jim could do his. Joel was also a 
friend--offering a shoulder to lean on in a time of stress. 
"Sorry, Joel. I didn't mean..."

Taggert responded by patting Blair's leg gently. "Don't worry 
about it. I know this has been tough on you. You're Jim's 
partner and you want to be with him, not stuck out in the cold, 
waiting for us to feed you little tidbits of information. But I 
also know how important you are to him. If anything happened 
to you..."

"Couldn't," Blair interrupted. He didn't want to hear that 
rationalization. "Not with two captains watching over me." He 
managed a crooked grin, even though his heart wasn't in it. 
"You guys have it all covered. Just one question."

"What's that?"

"Is lunch coming out of your pocket or the department's? It'll 
have some bearing on how much food I order. Don't want to 
take advantage of a friend, you know, but since observers don't 
get paid, I wouldn't mind taking a bite out of the station's 
budget."

Joel shook his head and chuckled. "I'm sure I can find a way to 
justify the meal on my expense report." He turned his attention 
back to guiding the car through the surprisingly busy rain 
drenched streets, leaving Blair to his own anxious thoughts. 

Despite his threat, Blair's lunch order amounted to a taco salad 
and an iced tea. He would have preferred the beverage hot--
with honey and lemon, and drunk in the comfort of the loft 
with his partner safely seated on the couch watching a Jags 
game. As it was, the drink was cold and weak; much like he 
was feeling. 

As he toyed with the salad, Joel filled him in on the sketchy 
details. There was little more to add beyond how and when the 
contact had been made. Taggert made small talk after that, 
asking the younger man questions about his classes and 
students. Blair appreciated the efforts his friend was making to 
distract him, but he found it hard to keep from watching the 
clock on the far side of the room. 

As the hands inched their way closer to three o'clock, Blair 
gave up all pretense of eating and simply clutched his water 
glass, taking small sips every few seconds. Joel kept up the 
one-sided conversation, shifting to an update on the status of 
the office basketball pool.

Blair let Joel's soft patter fade to the background. He stared at 
the clock, counting the seconds as they crawled by, their 
agonizingly slow movement a painful counterpoint to the 
staccato beating of his own pulse. The smoldering embers of 
his earlier anger flared to life, fueled by his worry and 
frustration. He wanted to be with his Sentinel. That's where he 
belonged. Not here. 

At the stroke of three he closed his eyes. While Blair had never 
been inside the Lariat, Jim had ventured into the bar several 
times, scoping it out. From his partner's detailed descriptions, 
the younger man could easily envision the setting.  Behind his 
tightly shuttered lids he could *see* his Sentinel opening the 
door to the bar. Jim would pause for just a moment on the 
threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the darker interior. There 
would be no outward signs of the sensory sweep he'd conduct 
before stepping forward. 

*He'll let the door swing shut behind him...If there's no sign of 
any of the six, he'll head to the bar...no, a table...one that 
would put a wall at his back and still give him an unobstructed 
view of the interior and both exits...He'll order a beer, 
something they have on tap probably...He'll keep the small talk 
with the waitress to a minimum, giving her no reason to 
hover...an attempt to keep another innocent out of the line of 
fire in case things go bad...He'll take a sip of the brew...a small 
one...pacing himself...outwardly calm, inwardly tense...a lone 
warrior girded for battle...*

Be vigilant, my friend, the Guide prayed silently. 

*Eyes that can see for miles will flicker over each patron and 
employee... watching, evaluating their potential threat in a 
single glance...Taste and smell will work together, sampling the 
stagnant air for the salty tang of perspiration and the smell of 
fear...Touch will come into play as well, his skin tingling in 
warning with any perceived evidence of tension or change in 
his surroundings...He'll glance at the clock above the bar, 
reading 3:07 now, the sound of its ticking as loud as the  
footsteps on the pavement outside, as distinctive as the metallic 
scream of hinges turning on themselves as the front door 
opens...*

For an instant Blair was *there*, seeing through Jim's eyes as a 
figure shaped itself in the doorway. A silent malevolence, 
silhouetted against the rectangle of gray outside light, features 
lost in shadow until a lighter flared, the summoned flame 
burning away the darkness...

Erupting into a wall of fire.

It filled Blair's mind. All consuming, roaring a scream of death, 
the flames blotted out everything. He couldn't hear Joel's 
anxious whispers; didn't feel the big man's hands lock around 
his arms. He had no knowledge of being dragged to the 
restroom; no sense that he was the object of curious concern 
from startled restaurant patrons. There was nothing except the 
fire and the suffocating heat that stole the air from his lungs.

A splash of cold water in his face doused the vision. Harsh 
reality returned,  sentinel-sharp. The grouted crevices in the 
cold tile bit like icy shards into his knees. Glittering shafts of 
fluorescent brilliance reflected by the mirrors were like daggers 
in his eyes. A throbbing resonance surrounded him, its pulses 
goose-pimpling his skin.

He wanted to ignore it all--just curl up in a ball and shut out all 
the stimuli. But the vibration pounded against him, finally 
resolving itself into an urgent, demanding voice.

"Sandburg, look at me!"

The Guide and Observer recognized that commanding tone, 
even though the voice was not the one he longed to hear. Blair 
blinked--once, twice, three times--and Joel's anxious face came 
into focus.

"That's better." There was no mistaking the relief in the big 
man's tone. "God, Blair, you just added ten years to my life!"

"Sssorry..." The  response was hoarse and slurred, but audible.

"Are you all right? Can you stand or do you want to stay 
where you are for a little longer?"

"Stand, I think..."

Blair reached for the edge of the sink that hovered like a white 
beacon at the edge of his peripheral vision. Taggert's huge 
hand tightened around his arm, gently supporting his efforts to 
drag himself to his feet. Blair was thankful that grasp didn't 
falter once he was upright. 

"Thanks," he murmured when the world had stopped lurching 
and the nauseating roll of his stomach had quieted. "What 
happened?"

"You tell me. You mumbled something about fire and then 
nearly did a nose-dive into your lunch."

*Fire...the vision...Jim...the bar...Man, what happened?...It was 
so real...* 

"What time is it?" he asked urgently.

Joel glanced at his watch. "3:30."

Blair did a mental double take. He'd lost 23 minutes--or was it 
30? Confused, he lifted his head. The pale, haggard reflection 
of a stranger stared back at him. He shuddered and grabbed the 
sink again for balance.

"That does it. I'm taking you to the hospital," Joel muttered 
grimly.

"No," Blair objected immediately. That was the absolute last 
place he needed to be. He was certain that the doctors would 
take one look at him and pull out the strongest sedatives that 
they had at their disposal--if not the nearest straight-jacket. 
That did *not* fit in with his plans.

"Blair..."

"I'll be fine...Just give me a second."

"Trust me, Sandburg. I've seen *fine* and you by no means fit 
that description," Taggert retorted. 

"Give me a break, Joel. I'm just a little wiped."

 Joel snorted in disgust. "A little? You're a mess, kid."

"You know, I'm getting pretty tired of people thinking I can't 
take care of myself," Blair objected heatedly. A fresh surge of 
anger gave him the strength to shake off Taggert's grip. He 
turned and glared at the bigger man. "This may come as a 
surprise, but I've been self-sufficient for a long time. Hell, I was 
only sixteen when I met my first tribal chieftain and I managed 
to come out of that encounter with my skin intact. So just back 
off. I already have a mother, and it's been a long time since I've 
needed a baby-sitter."

"You're right. You don't need a baby-sitter. You need a 
keeper," Taggert responded just as forcefully. "I've seen you 
worn to the bone before, but this is different. Something's 
wrong and it's more than just stress. You're not acting like 
yourself, Blair."

"Hopefully not."

Joel rolled his eyes. "I swear, Sandburg, I don't know how 
Ellison does it. If you were my partner..."

"But I'm not. I'm Jim's, which is the whole problem here." Blair 
drew a deep breath and forced his anger down, deep inside. 
"No hospital. No doctors, Joel. And no telling Simon about 
this...episode." His gaze turned from firm to beseeching at 
Taggert's stubborn expression. "You can't, Joel. Even if Simon 
doesn't say anything to Jim, he'll know that something's going 
on. My partner's got a great sixth sense when it comes to me 
and trouble. He'll do something stupid like coming to the motel 
again--and this time Jenson or one of his goons will be right on 
his heels. It'll get him killed."

He saw Taggert's eyes narrow in acknowledgment of the truth 
and pressed his advantage. "You know I'm right, Joel. This 
needs to stay between the two of us. Please."

Taggert frowned and Blair held his breath. "All right," the big 
man finally agreed. "But if you want my silence, you're going 
to have to agree to a few rules."

"Jeez, what is it with you cops and rules?" Blair sputtered. He 
held up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Lay 'em on me."

"The first one is that you're going to start eating regular meals 
again. Sleeping more than two hours at a time is number two--
and don't think you're going to con me. I know exactly how 
much sleep you got last night. I was listening."

"Fine. Done. Can we go now? I'd like to get some fresh air." 
Blair tried to brush past the older man, but a firm hand on his 
arm halted him in his tracks.

"Rule number three, Blair," Joel murmured, his intense dark 
gaze holding the younger man just as resolutely as his grip. 
"You have another one of these...*episodes* and you're going 
straight to the hospital."

"You're making too much out of this, Joel..."

"Do we have a deal or not?"

Taggert's expression and tone was as intractable as Jim's in the 
same mood. Blair nodded his less than enthusiastic agreement 
to the conditions and Joel released his arm.
 
They headed back out to their table. Blair glanced at the clock 
as he gathered up his belongings and Joel paid their bill. It was 
quarter to four. The meet could still be going on, or it could be 
long over. Was his Sentinel all right? 

He followed Taggert out to the car. Once he was belted in, 
Blair rested his head on the back of the seat. He let his eyes 
follow the hypnotic swish-pause-swish of the wipers. The rain 
had slowed to a gentle downpour, but the clouds were still 
dark and swollen, a good indication that the storm would 
worsen again. He let his thoughts range free, too tired to try to 
control them.

The idea that he'd somehow tapped into Jim's reality had 
startled him at first, but once he'd gotten past the initial shock, 
it was actually very easy to accept. Burton's writings and his 
own experiences suggested that Sentinels and Guides shared a 
special bond--one that could easily kick in unexpectedly, 
especially in the face of danger. And, after all, it was no 
stranger than his partner seeing a black panther in the middle of 
downtown Cascade.

*I *was* there somehow. What I saw *was* happening...*did* 
happen...*

The experience had been weird and it had obviously taken a 
toll, but what Blair found much more worrisome was not 
knowing what had happened *after* the firewall vision had 
broken their connection. 

*The man at the door...he was the one Jim went there to 
meet...Who was it? Probably not Jenson...he's too smart to 
show himself until he's certain that Jim's interested in the 
proposition...Gordon, most likely...it's his hangout, and since 
he's from Central, he'd be at least a vaguely familiar face...*

Blair let his gaze drift to the clock on the dash. 

*3:57...nearly an hour since Jim arrived at the Lariat, fifty 
minutes since Gordon walked in, assuming that the clock over 
the bar was correct...What happened? Was the contact made, 
or was it just a test to see if Jim would show? Had things gone 
down as planned? Did Gordon buy the cover story? Is Jim 
'in'?* 

The glowing green numbers on the clock changed. Fifty-one 
minutes. It felt like years.

*Come on, Jim...call Simon...let us know you're all right...*

The rhythm of the wipers claimed his attention again. Swish. 
Pause. Swish. Wait.

*God, I hate this. Waiting. Not knowing. What I'd give for 
Jim's patience level right now...He's always so cool...always in 
control when it comes to this covert shit...They all are. Joel's 
sitting there like we're out for a Sunday drive. Simon's 
probably just as relaxed. I can picture him, leaning back in his 
chair smoking one of those awful cigars...Me? I'm ready to 
climb out of my skin...*

His eyes danced back to the clock. 3:59.

*Pick up the phone, Jim...if you can...*

He forced his gaze away from the dash and back to the wipers. 
He wished he could push away the fear that something had 
gone wrong just as easily.

*Calm down...Jim has to wait until he's clear to make the call. 
He could still be meeting with Gordon. And even if the 
meeting's over, he's still going to be under surveillance...they 
wouldn't stop following him now...Maybe he didn't even leave 
on his own...*

Blair shuddered and immediately shot a sideways look at Joel, 
worried that he'd noticed. He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 
The big man's attention was still on the road. 

*Keep it together, Sandburg...if he didn't leave on his own that 
doesn't mean that things went bad...Gordon could have decided 
to take him to Jenson right away...Jim's a pretty good 
pitchman...he'd demand to meet with whoever's in charge 
before committing himself...that's what we discussed...get to 
Jenson, get him to reveal the rest of the players...*

The thought that things might be going according to plan was 
less than comforting. The zillion other questions whirling in his 
head weren't either.

The shrill ring of Taggert's cell phone shot Blair bolt upright in 
the seat. Wide eyed, he watched Joel fumble the unit out of his 
suitcoat pocket. He was inordinately glad that the bigger man 
had the chore of answering the call, because he wasn't sure he 
would have been able to even choke out a 'hello' at this point.

"Taggert...yeah, Simon, he's still with me." 

Joel shot Blair a quick, uncertain look and the younger man's 
throat constricted even tighter.

"He is? Hold on a minute." Joel's face was filled with a relieved 
smile as he lowered the phone and looked at Blair again. "Jim's 
okay," he said softly. "I'm going to pull over so we can get the 
details."

Taggert's last comment was lost on the anthropologist. The 
assurance that his partner was all right meant his heart could 
start beating again. Blair nodded numbly and turned his head to 
stare out the passenger-side window. The raindrops sliding 
down the glass mimicked his own unshed tears of relief.

He didn't turn back to face Joel until the bigger man placed a 
gentle hand on his arm. Dimly, he realized he'd missed the rest 
of the one-sided conversation.

"Jim's back at the loft," Taggert began. "Things went well. 
Archie Gordon was the contact." Blair nodded at the 
confirmation of what he already *knew*, but kept silent. "Jim 
thinks that he managed to convince Gordon. He pushed for 
another meet."

"With Jenson?"

"Gordon didn't say who it would be, but Jim told him he 
wanted to meet whoever was in charge."

"When and where?" Blair prodded.

"Jim doesn't know yet. They're supposed to call him."

Blair considered that information for a moment, then rubbed at 
his eyes worriedly. "Does that mean they did buy the act, or 
they didn't??"

"It means they're being careful," Joel said quietly. "They tested 
the waters with the first meeting. That they're going to set up a 
second one makes it look promising."

*Promising? Yeah, right. Or maybe they've seen through the 
deception and they're going to lure him somewhere so that they 
can kill him in private instead of in front of witnesses.* Blair 
kept those grim thoughts to himself. He took a deep breath and 
straightened in the seat, pushing his fingers through his unruly 
hair to shift it out of his face. 

"So we're back to waiting," he murmured aloud.

"Looks that way."

Blair appreciated the sympathy he heard in the bigger man's 
voice, but it cut into the defenses he was trying so desperately 
to keep in place. "Well, we've waited this long, what's a few 
more hours, right?" he said with forced lightness. "Good thing 
I've still got a pile of my student's papers to grade. That should 
keep me busy at my office until at least ten o'clock."

"You're not going back to your office, Blair," Joel said with a 
sigh. "Now that Jim's made contact, you're too exposed there." 

Blair shut his eyes for a moment, swallowing hard against the 
anger of being dictated to once again. "My car's still at the 
university," he acquiesced wearily. "If you'd drop me at the lot, 
I promise to head straight back to the motel."

"I'm sorry, Blair. I'm supposed to take you there right away. 
Simon's orders."

"Come on, Joel. I'm not sure if you noticed, but the motel 
neighborhood's not exactly the kind of place that I'll be able to 
just grab a cab. I'll be stranded..." Blair's eyes widened as he 
realized that was exactly what Simon had in mind. "Damn 
him!" he exploded, jerking at the door release. 

Taggert grabbed him and stilled his efforts. "Simon wants you 
at the motel and so does Jim. That's where you're going. End 
of story," Joel announced. "If you've got those papers with 
you, you can work on them for a few hours and then you're 
going to sleep, like you promised me. I'll pick up something for 
you to eat later. You're going to sit tight and wait, just like the 
rest of us."

Blair pulled free of Taggert's hold, but didn't make another 
break for the door. He crossed his arms over his chest and 
glared sullenly at the dash. "Not quite. No one else is under 
house arrest," he snarled. "Who's the criminal here? Jenson or 
me?"

"You know darn well why they don't want you to have your 
car, Blair," Joel said firmly. "Admit it."

Blair's face darkened even further. "Jim's *my* partner. It's my 
job to watch his back," he hissed.

"But you can't this time. You told me the other night that this 
separation was for Jim's protection as well as your own. You 
know what would happen if you went sneaking around and got 
caught."

The soft words carried the force of a gut-punch. Blair's eyes 
closed and his head dropped. All the fight went out of him in 
the face of that simple, deadly truth. This was Jim's show. 
Reserved seating only. And he didn't have a ticket. Totally 
drained, Blair didn't attempt to argue any more. He huddled 
further into himself as Joel started the car and eased out into 
the flowing traffic.

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

<You who dirty the mirror, 
cry that it isn't clean.>

*Never assume anything.*

Jim had first heard that cautionary warning from a combat-
hardened drill sergeant when he was a wet-behind-the-ears 
recruit. Ellison had taken the sage advice to heart immediately 
and years later he was still thanking the various officers and 
instructors that had drilled their own versions of that decree 
into his brain. *Never assume you're smarter than your 
opponent--your ego won't protect you from a bullet. Never 
assume a level playing field--you're liable to trip and never 
recover. Never assume you have the element of surprise--or 
you'll find yourself on the wrong end of the gun. Never assume 
anything--assumptions got you killed.*

The words reverberated in his head as he watched Archie 
Gordon pause in the doorway of the Lariat to light his 
cigarette. He would make no assumptions about  this man or 
any of the others. They were smart and they were deadly. He'd 
need every ounce of cunning and craft that he'd learned over 
the years to beat them. 

*But beat you I will,* the Sentinel vowed. He raised the glass 
of beer to his lips and took a sip. He let himself settle even 
further into the arrogant, lone-wolf persona he'd fashioned and 
met the other man's gaze without a blink.

Gordon gave him an almost negligible nod and wandered over 
to the bar. While he ordered a drink, the Sentinel inched up the 
dials on his senses, examining his adversary. On the surface, 
the other detective was calm and cool, his expression as he'd 
made eye contact with Jim a little smug. But there was tension 
and the cold smell of fear emanating from the man as well. 

An inch or so shorter than Jim, Archie Gordon carried at least 
thirty more pounds on his heavy frame. His dark hair was 
stringy and oily-looking, and his denim jacket and jeans were 
long past the point of needing to be washed. From where he 
sat, the Sentinel could already smell the reek of stale smoke 
and wondered how he was going to stand it once the man sat 
down next to him. His eyes were already watering.

"Just dial it down, Jim. Get past it," his Guide's voice 
reverberated in his mind. Ellison had to remind himself not to 
smile. Even when Blair wasn't by his side, the younger man's 
guidance and support still kept him grounded. 

Sometimes the extent of the invisible connection that they 
shared was spooky--like when Gordon had walked in. If he 
hadn't known better, Jim would have sworn that Blair was right 
by his side--the sense of the younger man's presence had been 
that strong. 

Sometimes it was simply reassuring--as it was now. The 
sensory control techniques that the insistant Guide had 
pounded into his stubborn Sentinel's head were queued up and 
waiting for just the right occasion.

Jim mentally lowered the sensory dials a notch. He forced 
himself to breathe easily, his gaze never shifting from his 
adversary as he reviewed what he knew of the man. Gordon 
had transferred to Central from West's Vice squad just after 
Ellison had left the department. Their paths had crossed on a 
few cases, but they'd never worked together directly. From all 
reports, he was a good cop with an impressive arrest record. 

But the Sentinel knew differently. All he had to do was prove 
it. 

Jim was careful to keep both hands in clear sight as Gordon 
approached his table. The man stopped and rested one hand on 
the back of the chair to Jim's right, one eyebrow raised 
questioningly. The Sentinel's eyes narrowed a fraction, but he 
gave a terse nod and Gordon slid into the seat.

Gordon placed his glass on the table and busied himself lighting 
another cigarette. His gaze flickered once around the room 
before returning to Jim. "I hear you've had some problems 
down at the station."

"You heard wrong," Jim  answered evenly.

Gordon eyed him in surprise. Jim took another drink from his 
glass and settled back in the chair, his expression and body 
language broadcasting an air of casual indifference. "The way I 
see it, it's Banks that's got the problems. He's the one that's got 
to explain to the 'powers that be' why no one's working my 
cases, while I enjoy this little vacation he so graciously granted 
me. The one major pain-in-the-ass problem I *did* have is no 
longer in the picture. No matter what happens from this point 
on, it will have been worth it not to have some stupid civilian 
dogging my heels night and day."

"So Sandburg's out, eh?"

Jim let a nasty grin fill his face. "Hell, Sandburg's always been 
*out*. He inhabits his own little world, several steps outside 
reality. I just don't have to put up with it any more."

"Still, seems kind of strange...always got the impression that 
you two were pretty good friends," Gordon pushed.

Jim's grin died and his eyes grew ice cold. "And I always had 
the impression you were a pretty bright guy. I'll say this once, 
Gordon. Listen well. Banks stuck me with the kid. I put up 
with him because it was expedient to do so. My choice. It's no 
longer expedient, so I got rid of him. Again, my choice." 

"Hey, I believe you. If it had been me, I would have tried to 
strangle the punk months ago, just to shut up his yapping 
mouth. What's it going to cost you?" 

Jim covered his anger at the comment about his partner with a 
shrug. "A couple days of attitude adjustment...without pay. 
Small price considering."

"And then it's back to Major Crimes?"

Jim's face darkened and he stared down into the glass in his 
hand. "I suppose so," he said slowly. "I'll have to suck up to 
Banks for a few weeks...take the crap and the shit cases until 
he's forced to give me back what's rightfully mine." His eyes 
lifted and caught Gordon's, narrowing even further and glinting 
menacingly in the dim light. "Why the sudden interest in my 
future plans, Gordon? Internal Affairs send you to check me 
out?"

"You're a fellow cop, Ellison," Gordon protested. "I heard 
what went down. I know what kind of crap you had to put up 
with dragging Sandburg around. Just wanted you to know that 
I think you're getting a pretty raw deal from Banks and the 
rest. Man needs to know he's got friends, right?"

"Bullshit."

Gordon's pulse and respiration skyrocketed, much to the 
Sentinel's grim delight. Jim fixed him with a glare that kept it 
that way. He reached out, plucked the cigarette from the man's 
fingers and stubbed it out viciously in the ash tray. 

"You and I are not friends, Gordon," he hissed, his voice as 
cold as his eyes. "Never were, never will be. Now cut to the 
chase and tell me why you wanted me here."

The other detective wrenched his gaze away with a barely 
concealed shudder. He started to reach for another cigarette, 
but abruptly wrapped his slightly shaking hands around his 
glass instead. "I'm here to check you out," he said quietly. 
"Maybe offer you an opportunity, if you're interested."

"In Vice? No thanks, I've already been down that road," Jim 
said, intentionally misreading the man's intent. 

"Actually, vice is pretty well covered. We'd prefer you stayed 
in Major Crimes."

"We?"

"Some...associates and myself," Gordon hedged, squirming a 
little under the Sentinel's scrutiny. "There's a small group of us 
who've been dissatisfied at the direction that the department's 
taken over the last few years. If the rumors I've been hearing 
are true, it seems you feel the same way."

"And what if I do? You and your *associates* have a way to 
change it?" Jim put as much skepticism into his voice as he 
could.

"Not exactly," Gordon admitted. "But there are ways to work 
around the system. Ways to make some extra cash."

"Money's always a consideration, but not the only one," Jim 
countered with a shake of his head.

"What about power? That hold any interest for you?"

"Depends on what kind of power you're talking about," Jim 
responded.

Gordon leaned forward, his face shining with the same light the 
Sentinel had seen in the eyes of fanatics and madmen. "Real 
power. Life and death. Judge and jury. Spoils and profits to the 
victor. Interested? We could use a man with your background. 
Your skills. Your connections."

"Sounds illegal." Jim murmured.

Gordon simply smiled.

Jim took another sip of his beer. Letting the lukewarm liquid 
coast down his throat, he let his gaze drift over the interior of 
the bar. "You're taking a pretty big risk, approaching me. How 
do you know I won't turn you in?"

It was Gordon's turn to shrug. "Your word against mine, and 
right now yours isn't worth much inside those hallowed walls. 
Besides, it's in your best interests not to. Being a cop's a 
dangerous occupation. You have to depend on backup, you 
know? Especially if you're working alone."

The veiled threat hung in the air between them as the Sentinel 
considered his response. Was it hot air or was the network of 
crooked cops much larger than they'd thought? 

"I want to meet the man in charge," he said finally.

"Doesn't work that way. You're my recruit. You work with 
me. I'm the only contact you need." 

Gordon's smile was smug as he grabbed his drink and started to 
raise it. Jim reached out and wrapped one hand around the 
other detective's elbow. Before Gordon could react to the 
unexpected movement, Jim's fingers dug into a pressure point. 
The glass dropped from the man's nerveless grasp and he 
barely stifled an agonized cry of pain. The glass shattered and 
beer cascaded over the tabletop. The Sentinel ignored the 
mess, locking gazes with his opponent.

"Think again," Jim whispered in his most deadly voice. "I don't 
deal with messengers. I meet the man. Tonight. You set it up. 
You call me."

Jim squeezed his fingers and Gordon whimpered in pain, 
nodding immediately.

The Sentinel released his hold and rose smoothly to his feet. 
Towering over the other detective, he paused, his gaze still 
razor sharp. "Oh, by the way, tell Smithson, Harris and 
Randolph they're out of practice. Next time I see any of them 
in my rearview mirror they'll find out just how much I like 
being followed. And you...you stay out of my loft. I found your 
little presents. Your eavesdropping days are over as of now."

Gordon blanched and barely managed another nod. Jim patted 
the other detective on the shoulder and left the bar without a 
backward glance.

Ignoring the steady rain, Jim paused at the edge of the 
sidewalk, glancing left and right to check the oncoming traffic 
before crossing the street to his truck. The momentary 
hesitation at the curb had revealed the beige van that had 
followed him the day before, parked a block behind his own 
vehicle. Jim fought back the urge to reach for his gun, digging 
in his jacket pocket for the keys instead.

Unlocking the driver's door, he slid behind the wheel, started 
the truck and eased out into the steady flow of traffic. Glancing 
into the rearview mirror as he flipped on his lights and the 
wipers, he saw the van slip into line four cars back. He caught 
a glimpse of his own reflection--jaw clenched in anger, eyes 
narrowed and shining like ice--and forced himself to take 
several deep breaths.

*Careful...now's not the time to blow this...stay cool...see what 
they do...* 

His gaze kept flickering back to check on his shadow as he 
guided the truck through the traffic. After six blocks, he saw 
the van veer off onto a side street. The driver's face was mostly 
obscured by the cell phone he clutched to his ear, but Jim was 
able to recognize Harris.

When no new tail appeared after a few blocks, he breathed a 
small sigh of relief. Jim relaxed the deathgrip he had on the 
steering wheel, but kept up his guard, watching the upcoming 
intersections and criss-crossing alleys for any sign of trouble. 

Confronting Gordon about the surveillance and the listening 
devices had been a risk, but Jim had deemed it necessary. He 
wasn't about to wait on the slimy vice-cop's bidding. Not when 
he had bigger fish to catch. Pushing had been a gamble; one 
that appeared to have paid off. Someone had called off the men 
tailing him--probably Jenson in response to an urgent phone 
call from Gordon--but he still had to be cautious. One wrong 
step and they could just as easily decide that Jim was too 
dangerous an accomplice to acquire; and set the wheels in 
motion for his death. 

Yet the Sentinel could barely suppress a feral grin. 

The little power play he'd instigated had shifted things into 
gear.

Which was exactly what he'd wanted. 

The electronic snooper that had been hidden in the lamp was 
his first target upon returning to the loft. His enhanced hearing 
picked up every tinkling snap and crackle of its individual wires 
and components as he crushed it underfoot. He did a quick 
check of the phone, but found nothing foreign inside the 
device, confirming his earlier guess that they'd tapped the line, 
not the equipment. A thorough scan of the rest of the 
apartment uncovered no other active bugs and no sign of any 
other type of intrusion. A quick sweep of the street and the 
alley came up empty as well.

He glanced at his watch as he pulled the cell phone from his 
jacket. Just over an hour had passed since Gordon had stepped 
into the bar. Time to make his call to Simon and let him know 
what had transpired--and to check on his Guide.

The impression of danger that both the Sentinel and the 
panther had sensed the previous night still lingered. It was 
connected to his Guide--he knew that instinctively. What form 
the danger would take, or from what direction the attack 
would come--those remained unanswered questions. Given his 
partner's ability to find and attract trouble, what he was picking 
up might not even be related to the case. 

Jim sighed and punched in the speed dial number to reach his 
captain. Keeping Blair out of the line of fire and under 
someone's watchful eye--someone he could trust--was the best 
he could do for now. He needed Simon's help, but he wasn't 
sure how to go about explaining what he didn't quite 
understand himself.

//"I'm here, Jim,"// Banks responded immediately. //''You okay? 
Where are you?"//

"I'm fine. I'm back at the loft. Is Sandburg still with Taggert?"

//"Joel picked him up as planned. He's got instructions to drive 
the kid around until he hears from me. Why? Did something go 
wrong?"//

"No, everything went down pretty much as we'd hoped. 
Gordon was the contact. We got past the shaking hands and 
flattery stage and he's supposed to call me to set another meet 
for tonight. Look, things are going to move pretty fast from 
this point. I don't think it's a good idea for Sandburg to go 
back to the university today. The place is too open. Jenson 
could make a move..."

//"Wait a minute, Jim,// Banks interrupted. //"Is this that big 
brother protectiveness of yours or do you really think the kid's 
in danger?"//

The Sentinel hesitated. Over the past two years, Banks had 
pretty much ceased questioning his partnership with Blair. Part 
of that was due to the fact that they'd proven themselves time 
and time again. They were a good team with an impressive 
arrest and conviction record. Part of it was Simon's grudging 
acceptance and growing respect for the younger man--
something that Jim knew that his captain would deny 
vehemently if pressed. And part of it was because of the 
friendship that they shared.   

Yet even though Simon was a good friend, Jim sensed that the 
older man was still uncomfortable with the whole 
Sentinel/Guide concept and what it entailed.  Accepting that 
his detective had enhanced senses and needed the help of an 
anthropologist to use them was one thing--getting him to 
believe that said detective had a mystical connection to a Spirit 
Guide who materialized out of thin air in the form of a black 
panther and that the long-haired talkative grad student was also 
a novitiate Shaman who occasionally dabbled on another plane 
of existence was something else entirely.

"Just call it a gut-feeling, Captain. Blair's name came up in the 
conversation. I'd feel better if he were back at the motel," Jim 
admitted.

//"You know Sandburg's not going to like this."//

"Trust me Simon, he's not the only one. Never thought I'd say 
it, but the loft's too quiet without him around. I'd like nothing 
better than to have him with me, but I won't risk it."

//"And I wouldn't authorize it, anyway. All right, give me a 
couple of minutes. I'll set things in motion. Is it safe to call you 
there?"//

"Just use this phone. I'll be waiting."

Jim shut off the cell and crossed to the kitchen. He pulled a 
bottle of water from the refrigerator and busied himself by 
making a sandwich. He'd taken one small bite when the phone 
trilled again. 

//"It's done,"// Simon announced tersely. //"They're on the way 
to the motel now. I told Taggert to take him straight there and 
to leave Sandburg's car at the university. Joel's going to take a 
room at one of the other motels down the street from Blair's 
and he'll take over monitoring the kid personally. I'll warn you 
though, you're going to owe Taggert big-time for this little 
maneuver, Jim."//

*It'll be worth anything Joel wants, as long as Blair's safe,* Jim 
vowed, setting his sandwich aside. "Understood, Sir."

//"All right. Let's get down to it. Are you still under 
surveillance?"//

"Not any more. I persuaded Gordon to end it. I trashed the bug 
they'd planted here just before calling you, but I'm not sure my 
main phone line is safe to use yet."

//"Persuaded how?"//

There was no mistaking the irritation in Simon's tone. Or the 
worry. "I had to resort to playing a little hardball, Captain," Jim 
explained. "Gordon wanted to keep things just between the 
two of us. I told him that wasn't going to happen."

//"Damn it, Jim, are you *trying* to get yourself killed? I 
thought we'd agreed that you'd take this slow."//

"Gordon's not running the show, Simon. Jenson is. Until we 
get to him, we're not any closer to nailing these guys than we 
were when this started. We can't afford to dance attendance on 
one of his grunts until they decide it's safe to let me further 
inside. There hasn't been another murder or fire yet this week 
and I'd like to keep it that way. I was there, I made the call. It 
felt like the right thing to do. Besides, if he's really interested, 
Jenson has to have checked me out. He'd know about my 
background in the military and Covert Ops. I think the tails and 
the electronic surveillance were some kind of a test."

//"To see whether you're as good as your reputation suggests 
you are?"//

"Maybe. Gordon said something about my background being 
valuable to them."

//"What else?"//

"He talked about money and power, but only in vague terms. 
Gordon mentioned his *associates*, but he didn't give me any 
names. The only thing he did say specifically is that *they* 
wanted me to return to Major Crimes--that they had Vice 
pretty well covered."

//"Damn...how deep does this thing go?"//

"We'll know soon. I pushed for a meet with whoever's in 
charge. Once they call, I'll have more details for you."

//"You'd better. You're not going in without backup, Jim, so 
don't even try to argue that point,"// Simon warned. 

Jim's gaze flickered to the closed French doors of his partner's 
room. "As long as it's not Sandburg."

//"Don't worry. I gave Taggert permission to sit on him if 
necessary. He's going to be keeping a close eye on him."//

"Better than last time, I hope," Jim grumbled.

//"Joel's learned his lesson,"// Simon responded. //"No ostrich 
chili this time."//

Jim snorted and then turned the conversation to discussing 
their strategy for dealing with the next meet. When he 
concluded the call, he tossed the remains of his sandwich in the 
kitchen trashcan and made a quick lap around the loft, locking 
things down. After turning up the volume on the answering 
machine he climbed the stairs to his own bedroom. Sleep was 
what he needed now.

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

<Smoke Out>

Slipping into the 'mission eve' mindset he'd learned to use years 
earlier, Jim eased into a sound sleep. If there were dreams, he 
didn't remember them when he awoke five hours later. He slid 
out of bed and headed downstairs. He started a fresh pot of 
coffee and checked the answering machine before entering the 
bathroom. 

He was showered, shaved, dressed and ingesting his wakeup 
brew a short time later. After the first cup, he retrieved his 
guns and laid them on the table. Methodically stripping them 
down and cleaning both weapons, he began to prepare for 
battle. Once he was satisfied with their readiness, he took 
another trip upstairs. He was considerably more lethal, and the 
battered footlocker that he kept in the rear of his closet was 
decidedly emptier, when he returned to the kitchen to freshen 
his coffee.

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, slowly sipping the 
cooling drink. His gaze drifted across the apartment, 
committing everything in it to memory. It occurred to him that 
he'd done the exact same thing when he'd been in the rangers 
and then later during his time in Covert Ops. Each time he'd 
prepared to leave on a mission, he'd fixed each detail of his no-
nonsense, well-ordered existence in his mind as a reminder of 
what he was coming back to. There hadn't been much to 
inventory.

This time it was different.

The loft appeared stark and uncluttered, just as his barracks 
and private quarters had, but the invisible traces of his Guide's 
presence were there. The Sentinel closed his eyes, picturing 
Blair's books sitting elbow to elbow with his own on the 
wooden shelves against the walls; the younger man's never-
ending avalanche of papers and reports cascading over the 
coffee table. He heard the resonant whisper of drums and pan 
flutes--his Shaman's earth music--filling the air with an ancient, 
soothing rhythm. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the 
remembered scent of herbal shampoo and the musty tang that 
emanated from the tribal masks that normally decorated the 
walls. The mixed aroma of freshly ground spices and dried 
herbs wafted from the kitchen, activating his sense of taste, 
reminding him of comfortable meals shared and confidences 
exchanged.

His Guide's life-force filled the rooms even in his absence. It 
swirled around the Sentinel, cresting like the tide--persistent, 
elusive, unstoppable--murmuring softly like a gentle brook as 
he welcomed it into his heart.

*This is what I'd leave behind if I fail. Not some sparsely 
furnished apartment, not the job, but life itself.*

He picked up the cell phone and dialed a number that he'd 
committed to memory, but never used. It rang three times 
before it was answered.

//"Ummm...yeah?"//

"It's me, Chief..." the Sentinel murmured, grimacing at the 
weariness embedded in the sleep-dulled voice of his Guide.
.
//"Hey, Jim..."//
 
"Sorry to wake you, buddy. I didn't think you'd be asleep yet. 
You okay?"//

//"No...I mean, yeah...I'm fine..." Blair stammered. //"What 
time is it?"//

Despite his concerns, Jim smiled. As difficult as it was to get 
his partner to shut down and go to bed, waking him was even 
more of a challenge. Blair and sleep did not part company 
easily. Or quickly. The Sentinel had a clear mental picture of 
his Guide, half-buried under the covers, blinking groggily, 
shaking his head in an attempt to clear away the last vestiges of 
sleep.

"Someday we're going to have to get you a watch, Sandburg, 
and teach you how to use it. It's just after ten."

There was silence for a moment and then a slightly more alert 
response. //"Ten...a.m. or p.m.?"//

"Ten o'clock as in two hours before midnight, Chief," Jim 
responded. 

//"Damn..."//

There was more silence and Jim frowned. "You okay, 
Sandburg?"

//"Yeah...just lost some time, man...that's the second time it's 
happened today...I guess I..."//

Blair's rambling was broken off abruptly in a sharp inhalation of 
breath...

"Chief?"

...followed by a dull 'clunk' as if the phone had fallen on 
something soft.

"Blair?"

And finally a choked gasp. 

//"Wait..."//

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

Blair gripped the phone tightly to keep from fumbling it into 
the blankets again and scrambled out of bed, launching himself 
toward the bathroom. The cold tiles under his bare feet made 
him shiver, but he welcomed the sensation as it shifted him 
further awake. Pushing the door shut behind him, he laid the 
phone gently--almost reverently--on the floor, and turned on 
the sink's cold water tap, taking a second to splash some on his 
face. Still dripping, he left the water running and bent down to 
retrieve the phone, taking a deep breath before he spoke.

"Jim? Are you there?"

//"Still here, Chief. Why the sudden change of venue?"//

"What? Oh...Joel's got the magic ear duty, man. I didn't want 
him hearing something that he shouldn't about you know what, 
so I moved the party to someplace with a little more privacy." 
Blair winced at the tremulous quaver in his voice and the pitch 
which was at the top end of his range. "Why are you calling? Is 
something wrong?"

//"Slow down, Professor and catch your breath,"// Jim 
admonished with a low chuckle. //"Nothing's wrong. I'm still at 
the loft. No action yet."//

Blair slid to the floor and rested his back against the toilet. He 
wasn't sure whether to feel relieved or worried. "No 
action...you mean no call from Gordon?"

//"Zip."//

Blair recognized the irritated growl in his partner's tone and 
decided worried was the way to go. 

"You think there's a problem?"

//"I hope not. I'd hate to think that my Oscar-winning 
performance this afternoon was wasted."//

Blair found himself grinning. "Did you use the Hard-Ass 
Covert Operative approach or the Shady Detective acting 
method?"

//"A little of both with some Obfuscating Observer thrown in 
to top it off. You would have been proud."//

"I'll bet Gordon was suitably impressed. I wish I could have 
seen it..." Blair caught himself as he realized what he was 
saying. He *had* seen some of it--at least the opening act.

"I think he got the point. I'll tell you, Chief, I'm not going to sit 
through another meeting with him unless he stays downwind 
and leaves his cigarettes behind. I can still smell burnt 
tobacco."

Blair launched himself into the opening that Jim had given him. 
This was Guide territory that they'd just entered. "How are you 
doing? With your senses, I mean? Any spikes? Headaches?"

//"Everything's working fine, Chief. All the dials are responding 
just like you programmed them to and I've been careful not to 
push any one sense too much. My one and only headache went 
away as soon as Jenson's thugs stopped tailing me."// 

Blair stiffened, wondering what his partner had done to 
produce that result. He decided the details weren't important, 
just the evaluation of the fallout. 

"Jim, aren't you the one that told me it's always better to know 
*where* the enemy is? I mean, I'm sure it wasn't much fun 
seeing that vermin in your rearview mirror every time you 
turned around, but now they could come out of the woodwork 
from any direction."

He heard the older man sigh and mumble something that 
sounded like 'necessary risk.' He shuddered. "Jim...you are 
being careful, right?" he asked softly.

//"Yes, Mom. I'm being careful. How about you?"//
 
"Me? I've got nothing to be careful about, man. " Bitterness 
and anger tinged his tone and the harsh words poured out 
before he could stop himself. "No worries, you know? Joel's 
put himself in charge of my sleeping and eating schedule. I 
think he's even contemplating changing the passwords my 
computer to make sure I don't tire myself out working too 
hard. Don't have to worry about whether my car's going to be 
broken into out in the motel parking lot because it's not there--
although since it's not parked in the long term area at the 
university I'll probably have to pay a fortune to get it out of 
impound when and if you and Simon decide to let me out of 
here..."

//"Chief..."//

"And I've got lots of distractions," he plunged on. "Lots of 
things to keep me from worrying about whether you're zoned 
out or just plain dead. I've had offers, you know, if I have to 
make a career change. I mean, what good's a Guide without a 
Sentinel? The old guy that owns the place has made it pretty 
clear that he'd be interested in getting to know me better...lots 
better, if you catch my drift. Come to think of it, this could 
work out pretty slick if you do survive this shit and decide that 
you want me out of the loft for good. All my stuff's here and 
it'd be a short trip down to the other end of the motel..."

//"Sandburg, will you just stop for a minute?"// 

The desperation in his partner's voice cut through Blair's 
awareness and ended his tirade abruptly. Horrified by what had 
just spewed out of his mouth, Blair clenched the phone in both 
hands and lowered it between his knees. 

*What the hell's wrong with me?* he wondered miserably. 
*How could I have lost it like that?*

Jim's voice was a tinny whisper on the other end of the phone, 
urging him to get back on the line, but he couldn't move--
couldn't trust what he might say. At least not until he heard his 
partner threaten to come to the motel if Blair didn't pick up in 
the next few seconds. That put him back in gear immediately.

"No...Jim, wait! I'm here...just...just give me a minute..." he 
pleaded. 

Jim's voice came on the line again, soft and soothing. 
//"Okay...breathe, Chief. Nice cleansing breaths, just like you're 
always coaching me to do..."//

Blair struggled to comply with his Sentinel's directions. In. 
Out. In. Out. Slower. In. Out.

//"That's better buddy, keep it up. You're doing fine,"// Jim 
murmured encouragingly.

"Do I sound...that patronizing...when it's you on the...receiving 
end?" Blair gasped, trying to cover his embarrassment with 
sarcasm.

//"All the time, Sandburg."//

"Bet you're...enjoying this, then." 

An awkward silence followed that flippant remark and Blair 
immediately apologized. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean that. Guess 
I'm just having problems controlling what's left of my brain. 
Must be more tired than I thought."

More silence, and then, //"Talk to me, Blair. Tell me what's 
going on in that head of yours."//

"Nothing and everything," Blair replied honestly. "I'm just tired 
of all of this. And worried. I don't like the idea of you doing 
this alone."

//"That  goes both ways, partner,"// Jim said quietly, mirroring 
Blair's own thoughts. //This will be over soon. Tonight, if I can 
make it happen."//

"Jim, don't rush things. It's too dangerous," Blair pleaded.

//"Careful, you're beginning to sound like Simon."//

*Great. I needed another identity crisis,* Blair thought grimly. 
"Normally I'd be insulted, but in this case I'll take that as a 
compliment. Listen to us."

//"Tell me about this guy that owns the motel," Jim urged, 
switching the subject abruptly. //"Has he really been hassling 
you?"//

"Put the Blessed Protector Cape back on the hook, Jim. The 
guy's creepy, but he's not dangerous. I can handle him just by 
keeping the door locked."

//"Make sure that's both doors, Sandburg.//

"Relax, Jim. Look, just forget everything I babbled about a few 
minutes ago, okay? Chalk it up to ravings from the Sandburg 
Zone, and let it go. You need to keep your head in what's 
going to go down tonight after Gordon calls." 

//"I *need* to know that you're all right, Blair."// 

The concern in his Sentinel's voice surged through the phone 
line. A wave of fierce protectiveness followed in its wake. 
Nothing was lost in the transmission.

"Then *hear* me, Jim," the Guide said quietly, sending every 
ounce of his trust and confidence in his Sentinel back across 
the miles that separated them. "I'm okay. I'm safe. I promise 
you I'll stay that way. As much as it scares me, I understand 
what you have to do and why you have to do it. And you will. 
You'll get these guys. Just do me a favor and don't forget to 
duck when the bullets start flying."

Before Jim could respond, Blair heard the faint sound of the 
loft phone ringing in the background. "That's your call, man. 
Go get those assholes."

//"Blair, wait..."//

"Watch your back, Jim," Blair whispered as he cut the 
connection.

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

Slightly dazed, Jim stared at the now silent handset. Blair's last 
words rang in his ears, a fitting compliment to the annoying trill 
of the other phone. He set the cell down on the table next to 
his guns and crossed the room.

"Ellison," he growled, picking up the phone before the 
answering machine could grab the call.

The voice on the other end was Gordon's. The message was 
nearly as brief as the one he'd delivered earlier in the day.

//"Third and Lexington. Twenty minutes."//

Jim waited for more, but there was only a sharp click followed 
by the annoying buzz of the dial tone. Cursing under his breath, 
he spun on his heel and picked up the cell phone again. He 
punched in Simon's pre-programmed number and reached for 
his weapons, sliding them into their respective holsters at his 
back and ankle while he waited for the call to go through.

"I've got a location," Jim announced tersely, giving his captain 
the coordinates he'd received.

//Jim are you sure? There's nothing there. The city's been 
razing the buildings on both sides of Lexington for weeks to 
make way for the new revitalization project."//

Jim walked toward the front door and grabbed his jacket off 
the rack, shirking into it as he talked. "I know, Simon. My 
guess is that the actual meet's going to take place somewhere 
else."

//"Which means you could end up anywhere."//

"I think we can safely rule out the three precincts as possible 
options, Sir," Jim quipped weakly as he grabbed his keys out of 
the basket by the door.

//"Damn it, Jim. This is no time for jokes."//

"Sorry, Simon. Must be Sandburg's evil influence," Jim 
responded. "Have you got a copy of the real estate listings that 
Blair put together from the insurance records?"

//"I've got it. What do you want to know?"//

"Check and see if there are any properties near that 
intersection."

The Sentinel heard the rustle of papers being shuffled and after 
only a few seconds, Banks was back on the line.

//"No such luck, Jim. At least nothing in what we've unearthed 
so far.//

"Sandburg was still digging through that mess. He's probably 
got the printouts with him. Have him look for anything in 
proximity to the meet site. Maybe he can come up with 
something by the time I get there."

//"Once he knows there's trouble, the kid's not going to want to 
sit still and wait this out, Jim."//

"I know Simon," the Sentinel sighed, remembering the 
disturbing conversation he'd just had with his Guide. He hadn't 
managed to determine the source of his friend's distress, or 
pinpoint the danger that he'd sensed, but he knew what part of 
the problem was. The younger man's protective instincts were 
just as strong as his and being forced to sit on the sidelines was 
frustrating the hell out of him. Giving him some way to 
contribute would alleviate some of that stress. Unfortunately, 
the solution to one dilemma would generate another. "But 
Blair knows that material better than anyone. If the answer's 
there, he'll find it. If he tries to pull a Houdini on Joel, have 
Taggert remind him that he promised to keep himself safe."  

//"You think that'll stop him? Sandburg tends to forget about 
self-preservation when your safety is on the line."//

"Then I guess Taggert *will* have to sit on him," Jim replied 
grimly.

//"I still don't like it, Jim. With Joel minding the kid, I'm the 
only backup you're going to have. I'm not going to do you any 
good if I don't know where you are. What about bringing 
Brown and Rafe into this? We could alternate tailing you from 
the pickup point."// 

"I agree that it's time to bring them into the game, Sir, but 
there's no time to get them in place. I'm going to have to push 
it to make the rendezvous as it is. Besides, Jenson's not stupid. 
Gordon may have acquisition duty, but you can bet that there 
will be others watching to make sure that no one follows us. I 
think our best option is to put Brown and Rafe onto setting a 
trace on this phone. I'm going to wipe all the programming so 
nothing will lead back to you, then I'll reactivate contact. I'll 
keep this line open as long as I can."

There was a long moment of silence before Simon spoke again. 

//"All right. You're the man on the hot seat. I'll have to trust 
your judgment and instincts on this. I want your word though, 
that you'll take it one step at a time. You smell a trap and you 
get your butt out of there."//

"Thanks, Simon."

//You can thank me by not getting yourself killed. I don't want 
to be the one to tell Sandburg he's going to lose out on getting 
that doctorate."//
 
Jim cut the connection and cleared the memory on the cell 
phone. He took one last glance around the loft and with a terse 
nod, headed out. By the time he slid behind the wheel of his 
truck, he'd wrapped his undercover persona around him like a 
cloak. He set the phone down on the seat next to him and 
cranked the Ford to life, flipping on headlights and letting the 
wipers swish once over the rain speckled windshield to clear it. 
The rain had finally stopped, but the skies were still overcast. 
The heavy cloud cover hung low, clinging to the rooftops like 
a false ceiling. Reflections from the streetlights and the signs of 
still open businesses shimmered in the standing puddles of 
water that littered the streets.
 
Once he was moving, Jim picked up the phone and punched in 
the seven digits to reach Simon. He waited until he received an 
acknowledgment from the other end, then slipped the device 
carefully into his jacket pocket. Turning his attention 
completely to the road, he urged a little more speed out of the 
truck. 

He pulled up to the intersection with only a minute to spare, 
scanning the street with his senses even as he turned off the 
engine and killed the lights. The fragmented remains of 
buildings and mountains of debris from the city's demolition 
efforts created an unearthly landscape of black-on-black shapes 
and shadows. 

The faint sounds of a rough engine swung his gaze to the 
rearview mirror. A car had just turned onto Jefferson and was 
headed his way. Choosing to meet his contact in the open, he 
got out of the truck and closed the driver's door before leaning 
back against it. He took a good look at the oncoming vehicle 
and then averted his eyes so that the headlights wouldn't blind 
him. He didn't recognize the battered Pontiac, but the reddened 
glow of a burning cigarette tip gave off enough light for him to 
identify the driver.

Gordon tossed the lit butt out the driver's window before he 
pulled to a stop parallel to the truck. The vice cop reached 
across and opened the passenger door. Jim slid into the empty 
seat and closed the door with a firm tug. Gordon remained 
silent as he shifted the car into gear and turned left at the cross 
street, heading north on Third. Nose wrinkling from the 
lingering odor of the smoke that permeated the cab and the 
other detective's clothes, the Sentinel dialed down his sense of 
smell and taste a notch. 

In such close proximity to the sweating man behind the wheel, 
it didn't take much effort to pick up the man's heavy breathing 
and racing heartbeat. Jim continued to monitor both their route 
and Gordon's movements while he considered the possible 
reason's behind the vice-cop's behavior. Granted, he'd shaken 
the man's composure by his actions at the bar, but the level of 
tension and fear he was detecting now seemed out of 
proportion to that incident.

*Which can only mean that there's trouble waiting at the end of 
this ride.* 

Whether that meant that they'd caught on to the sting or that 
whoever was waiting scared Gordon more than he did, Jim 
didn't know--nor would further speculation give him the 
answers. That they hadn't insisted on a blindfold suggested that 
this game would be resolved tonight, one way or another. He 
forced himself to relax, keeping his muscles loose, his mouth 
shut and his eyes on the road. 

As he'd suspected, they didn't go far. Less than ten minutes 
after Gordon had picked him up, the man made a sharp right 
and pulled into an alley. He slowed his speed, but didn't stop 
until he reached a cross street on the opposite side of the 
block. Turning right again, he drove about 50 yards and then 
spun the wheel to the left, easing the car up over a low curb 
and into an opening in the side of an older three-story brick 
building. 

The Sentinel heard the whine of a motor, followed by the 
screel of metal scraping across metal. He glanced in the 
cracked side-mirror to his right and saw a heavy, segmented 
garage door closing behind them. Gordon let the car coast 
forward a few more feet before braking to a complete stop.

Jim opened the door and climbed out of the car, but stayed 
close to it. The interior of the building was dark. The headlight 
beams of the Pontiac brightened a space in front of the vehicle, 
revealing a stained and chipped concrete floor. The Sentinel's 
heightened vision penetrated the darkness another fifteen feet, 
but even he couldn't distinguish much beyond that. He cranked 
up his other senses and was rewarded with a wealth of sensory 
input, which he struggled to categorize.

*Iron, zinc...more metals...damp wood and cardboard...This 
was some kind of a factory at one point...The odors are faint 
...residual traces more than anything else...and the air itself is 
musty, so it's been empty for a while...generator hum, so 
there's still power enough to operate lights and the garage 
door...*

Casually, Jim shut the passenger door with a hard shove, trying 
to judge the size and layout of the building from the resulting 
echoes.

*Mostly open space on this level at least...the floor plan's 
deeper than it is wide...roughly the size of the precinct parking 
garage...* 

Aware of the danger of being lured toward a zone-out by the 
seductive reverberations, he filtered out those sounds and 
searched for those that would be distinctly human. 

*Swish of cloth against skin...scuff of leather against 
concrete...heartbeats...*

Sentinel senses augmented years of military training and the 
instincts of a cop who'd managed to survive more than a few 
close calls. Ignoring Gordon's frantically beating pulse, Jim 
concentrated on pinpointing the locations and relative positions 
of the enemy.

The closest was the man roughly two car lengths behind him. 
The one who'd closed the outer door. Smithson.

Several more were waiting some thirty feet ahead of the car.    

*...four, five,...Smithson's six, Gordon makes seven...where's 
number eight?*

He felt a warning prickle that raised the hair on the back of his 
neck. He stiffened. There was another man, off to Gordon's 
left--near what the Sentinel had determined was the far wall.

*Full house...not good odds, but not impossible either...*

He pivoted slightly to face the waiting men and closed his eyes 
until they were bare slits, dialing down his vision at the same 
time. Lights flared a split-second later. He blinked and 
pretended to wince, using the action to cover another quick 
scan as he confirmed what his senses had already told him.

Ranged ahead of him were five men. Jenson stood a few feet in 
front of the others, his arms crossed over his chest. In contrast 
to his partner Archie Gordon, who looked like the stereotypical 
vice-cop, Phil Jenson dressed and acted like he'd just stepped 
off the pages of GQ. In his early fifties, Jenson was still a man 
in superb physical condition. An inch taller than Ellison, he held 
himself like the ex-Major that he was. The tell-tale wrinkles of 
age hadn't yet touched the hard angled planes of his face and 
the close-cropped auburn hair showed no trace of gray. If 
Gordon was the 'dealer', then Jenson ran the action--smooth, 
sophisticated, dangerous. 

Martin Randolph and Mark Harris stood to his left, carbon 
copies of Gordon. Jim didn't recognize either of the two men 
to Jenson's right, but they stood at what could only be 
described as 'parade rest'--an indication that they'd also been 
connected to Jenson through the military. The man leaning 
against the wall near a bank of light switches, however, was 
vaguely familiar. Jim searched his memory and came up with a 
name--Robert Allen. Not a cop, but a man of influence.

*You wondered how deep this went, Simon? Try all the way to 
the Mayor's office,* Jim thought grimly.

Of the six they'd originally identified as being involved, only 
Jeff Rogers was unaccounted for. Where was he?

He dropped his shoulders a fraction of an inch to ease the 
tension that had gathered there and met Jenson's piercing gaze 
with a level one of his own. Their eyes locked--pale blue ice 
and steel gray. Measuring. Calculating. A battle joined without 
physical contact.

Jenson blinked first. "Ellison." A small nod accompanied that 
greeting.

"Jenson." Jim parroted the man's actions.    

A small, humorless smile hovered on Jenson's lips. "A man of 
few words, but many questions. You gave my partner a pretty 
hard time."

Jim's own smile was a mirror image of the vice-cop's. "Maybe 
you should have chosen a different messenger. One who knew 
the answers."

"Perhaps, although I doubt that anything less than this little 
get-together would have satisfied you."

"I'm far from satisfied, yet," Jim responded.

Jenson nodded again. "Down to business then. If you'll be so 
good as to hand Mr. Smithson your weapon, we can get 
started."

The Sentinel's eyes narrowed, fixing his adversary with a 
deadly glare.

"I understand your reticence, Detective," Jenson remarked 
casually. "Certainly you can appreciate ours as well. Your 
reputation precedes you."

Ignoring Smithson, whose soft tread he could hear behind him, 
Jim stepped forward, slowly closing the distance until he was 
within arm's reach of Jenson. Randolph and Harris had both 
pulled their own guns to cover him, but their leader never 
moved, his gaze still locked with the Sentinel's.
 
"If that's the case, you should know better than to ask me to 
turn over my weapon to someone other than another officer," 
the ex-ranger said softly.

Deliberately, so that his movements wouldn't be misinterpreted, 
Jim reached back with his left hand and pulled his gun from the 
holster at his waist. He held the piece by the grip for a moment, 
pointed at the older man and then hooked his finger in the 
trigger guard and let the barrel drop. The weapon's handle 
rotated up and toward Jenson.
  
"Of course," Jenson acknowledged, accepting the proffered 
weapon.

Without taking his eyes off of the older man, Jim reached down 
and pulled his backup piece from the holster strapped to his 
right ankle. He rose and handed off that gun too. "Consider 
this one a gesture of good faith." 

Jenson tucked the weapons into the front of his belt. "Thank 
you, Captain," he replied, the use of Jim's old military rank a 
verbal salute between them. "Now if you'll remove your jacket 
and indulge me one more minor precaution, we can move on to 
the subject at hand."

With an indifferent shrug, Jim slipped out of his coat. In the 
process he pressed the inside of his left forearm against the 
phone in his pocket. The click as the connection was cut off 
was inaudible to anyone except him. He tossed the jacket to 
one of the men he didn't know and stood waiting. 

Harris holstered his gun and stepped forward with a hand-held 
electronic detector. He walked a quick circuit around the 
Sentinel, sweeping the unit over the ex-ranger from head to 
toe.

"No wire, sir, but I am picking up metal," Harris reported.

Randolph's finger tightened on the trigger of his gun, and 
Smithson, who had come up behind Jim, pulled his as well. 
Jenson simply smiled and waved the other detectives off. "At 
ease, gentlemen. I think we'll let Mr. Ellison keep his other 
toys. As a gesture of *our* good faith." He met the Sentinel's 
gaze once more and gestured with a lift of his chin. "We might 
as well be comfortable while we talk." 

Jenson turned and the others parted ranks to let him through. 
They trailed behind him like a royal honor guard. Jim followed, 
flanked by Smithson and Gordon. Ellison experienced a flash of 
deja vu when he saw what Jenson was leading them toward. In 
the middle of the empty factory floor stood a long table with 
seating for five. A single straightback chair occupied the space 
in front of the table. Jenson's idea of 'comfortable' reminded the 
Sentinel of the set up for a military board of inquiry. He'd 
sweated out interviews in a similar setting, justifying his actions 
in front of a panel of high ranking officers and CIA agents 
several times after he'd returned from Peru.

A subtle power dance took place as the players arranged 
themselves. Jenson commanded the center position, with 
Randolph and Allen, the Mayor's aide, taking the seats 
immediately to his left and right. Smithson slid into the chair on 
one end and Harris took the other. The two, as of yet unknown 
men, took up positions behind Jenson. Gordon, who Jim 
assumed had been demoted to bottom end of the odd little 
hierarchy, stood nervously near the empty chair. 

"I'm assuming you know everyone here, with the possible 
exception of Mr. Hiller and Mr. Barnes," Jenson said, gesturing 
sketchily to the men who stood behind him. 

Jim's gaze slid over the two as he seated himself in the waiting 
chair. He'd never seen them before, but he recognized the 
names. Both were uniformed cops, assigned to the 
neighborhood where the fires and murders had taken place. 

He hid his chilled reaction and met Jenson's speculative gaze. 
"If you're finished playing host, perhaps we could move on to 
why I'm here," the Sentinel said brusquely.

"You're here because we have an interest in you," Jenson 
responded. "My associates and I have embarked on a rather 
interesting business venture. You'll pardon the military analogy, 
but like the marines, we're looking for a few good men to fill in 
some select positions. You certainly have the right 
qualifications, and we're eager to make you a bona fide offer, 
however there remain some questions that need to be 
answered."

"You don't trust me," Ellison said flatly.

"Quite so. You're an enigma, Ellison. A paradox that's both 
intriguing and unsettling at the same time. You were a loner for 
years, then you suddenly team up with a wet-behind-the-ears 
college kid. Your track record as a cop had been good, but it 
suddenly became impressive. Decorated veteran, top of your 
class at the academy, lead detective in Major Crimes, Officer of 
the Year...very clean slate. The Boy Scouts could have drafted 
you as their poster child."

Jenson's expression had been contemplative, now it turned 
serious. "Suddenly there's a dark side emerging. For the past 
several weeks it's as if you were intentionally destroying that 
'white knight' reputation. You severed ties with anyone that 
was close to you, most notably the friendships with your 
captain and the partner that's been your constant shadow for 
the last two-plus years. You kicked the kid out of your home 
and made threats on his life. Your actions and insubordination 
earned you a disciplinary suspension. A somewhat suspicious 
turn of events, you must admit."

Jenson spread his hands in entreaty. "Surely you can see why 
we're somewhat hesitant to welcome you into our ranks 
without some kind of explanation."

"I already gave my explanation to your partner. I don't make it 
a habit of repeating myself," Jim answered darkly. His gaze 
flickered toward Gordon for a moment and he had the 
satisfaction of seeing the man flinch.

"Ah, yes," Jenson murmured, drawing the Sentinel's attention 
back to the table and the men seated there. "Expediency."

Jim allowed a small smile. "Exactly. My actions and attitude 
are dictated by what's necessary for the situation. I learned 
survival from the best the military had to offer."

"And is that what motivates you now? Survival?" Jenson 
pressed.

*More than you know, asshole,* Jim thought grimly. He 
shrugged and shook his head. "Not entirely. I simply decided 
that playing the game wasn't worth the effort any more. The 
way the deck's stacked, the chances of being promoted are 
pretty slim, and having seen the crap the upper echelon has to 
deal with, I'm not sure that it would be worth it anyway. Now, 
if I were in charge of making the rules, or I had some say in 
how they were executed...then I'd have to rethink my position. 
For the short term, at least. I have no intention of risking my 
neck for the unwashed masses forever."

He felt the weight of Jenson's gaze studying him, evaluating his 
answer. Four other sets of eyes burned with unasked questions, 
skepticism and more than a little fear. 

Finally, without garnering his associate's opinions, Jenson made 
his own decision. "Good enough. Let me tell you a bit about 
what we have on our agenda."

The details poured out and the Sentinel absorbed them like a 
sponge, his expression never changing, even though the rank 
greed behind the murders and fires threatened to make his 
stomach revolt. It had begun as a simple discussion between 
Robert Allen and Jenson. The Mayor's aide had inside 
information about the city's intent to revitalize various 
neighborhoods. Several million dollars in Federal grant monies 
had already been secured. Which of the target areas the city 
was going to choose remained the only question.

Recognizing that whomever held the titles on the lots within 
the selected area stood to make a substantial profit when the 
properties were sold, Jenson and Allen had put together their 
plan. They chose one of the neighborhoods on the city's list, 
confident that Allen's position guaranteed they'd have the 
influence and connections to push their choice to the top. 

Allen handled the paper shuffle while Jenson recruited the 
troops. The first of the purchases were simple transactions, 
dealing with absentee landlords who accepted the offered sums 
easily. They ran into a snag when it came to those properties 
held by the local residents. There weren't many, but they were 
strategically placed. Without ownership of those lots, their 
grand scheme was doomed. The protection racket was born 
out of their need to convince the resident-owners to sell, and to 
underwrite the cost of the overall venture. 

"Unfortunately, we had to resort to extreme measures in order 
to meet our timetable," Jenson concluded. 

"Murder, you mean," Jim said, forcing a casualness into his 
tone. "And the fires were set to cover the killings while 
generating what I suspect was another profit center when you 
collected the insurance money."

"From a man who's sworn to 'Serve and Protect', you don't 
seem at all disturbed by the facts," Jenson observed.   

Jim flashed a grim smile. "Expediency, remember?"

Jenson's return smile never touched his eyes.

"You seem to have things pretty well covered," Jim observed 
quietly. "Just where do I fit in?"

"And what's in it for you?" Jenson almost smirked. "As my 
partner explained, we'd like you to return to Major Crimes. 
Make peace with your captain and co-workers to whatever 
extent is necessary so that you're reassigned to the case. As the 
lead detective, you'll be in a position to keep us apprised of any 
complications. There should be none. We've been careful so 
far. I promise you that we have no intention of getting sloppy 
now. You control the investigation and you'll be well 
rewarded."

"I can play the role again, with the proper motivation, but I 
want more than just money," Jim countered.

"Power is more attractive, isn't it?" Jenson replied. "I can 
assure you that this venture is only the beginning. We plan to 
negotiate with additional *associates* like Mr. Allen--people in 
positions of influence who can open other doors for us. We'll 
be able to take whatever we want."

"Assuming that you're satisfied with the results of this 
interview, what's the entry fee into this little club of yours?" 
Jim prodded. He had enough information. It was time to finish 
this and get the hell out, preferably in one living breathing piece 
if he could manage it. He'd heard no sounds from the outside 
of the building to suggest that any backup had arrived. Either 
they hadn't been able to trace the call or they'd come up empty 
on the search for this particular property. He knew Blair would 
have done his best, but if this building was owned by Allen or 
one of the others that they hadn't already identified, the odds 
that the younger man would pick it out were slim to none.

"Just a simple initiation ceremony."

Jim locked gazes with Jenson and slowly rose to his feet. "Who 
do you want me to kill?"

"What if we said, your ex-partner?" Randolph  asked, breaking 
his silence for the first time.

"I'd have to count you all as fools and reject your offer, 
generous as it appears," Jim answered, letting his deadly blue-
eyed stare drift across the assembled men.

Allen's expression was intent. Curious. "Why?"

"Because there's no profit in it," the Sentinel retorted. His 
harsh expression gave no hint of the rage he felt at the 
casualness with which these men discussed ending his Guide's 
life. "There's no percentage. Not for me. Not for you. I have no 
intention of winding up in a cell charged with murder, and 
that's exactly what would happen if Sandburg turned up dead 
right now. My experience and connections won't do you any 
good if I'm in jail."

"And if we insisted?" Randolph pressed.

"You won't."

A tense silence stretched between them. Just when Jim was 
certain that Randolph or one of the others would push the 
matter too far, he caught the sound of a car engine outside of 
the building. Seconds later, the grating of the garage door 
being raised ended the standoff.

The Sentinel turned, senses dialed up to maximum. Probing. 
He'd already picked up the presence of two people within the 
vehicle. One of the heartbeats was racing. He focused his 
hearing, afraid of what he would find. 

And almost sighed in relief.

It wasn't his Guide.

"You're right, Detective," Jenson murmured. Rising from his 
chair he stepped around the table and stopped at Jim's side. 
"Mr. Sandburg can be dealt with later if the need arises. We're 
ready to welcome you to the unit." He gestured toward the car 
that had just pulled in. 

Jim  moved forward to follow Jenson who was already striding 
toward the car and its occupants. The others followed as well. 
The Sentinel identified Jeff Rogers before he slid from behind 
the steering wheel, pulling a struggling, blindfolded and 
handcuffed figure out of the vehicle with him. 

Ellison found himself face to face with the man that his young 
partner had been so worried about protecting. Andrew 
Jankowski. 

"You're late, Mr. Rogers," Jenson frowned, eyeing the final 
member of his team with disapproval.

"Yeah, well the old geezer here decided to be uncooperative," 
Rogers grumbled, grabbing the old man and shoving him 
forward.

Jankowski stumbled, but regained his balance. 

"Why, Mr. Jankowski, what poor manners," Jenson smirked. 
He reached out and tore off the old man's blindfold. 

Jankowski blinked and glared at the circle of men surrounding 
him. He squared his shoulders and raised his head defiantly. 
"Courtesy's wasted on animals," he hissed.

"I assume you recognize our guest, even though you haven't 
had the pleasure of meeting him until now," Jenson said 
amiably, ignoring the old man's angry retort as he glanced at 
Jim. "Mr. Jankowski is the gentleman that your partner spoke 
with a few weeks ago. Sandburg's description of him was very 
accurate. It made finding him quite simple."  

The Sentinel felt the full force of Jankowski's scathing stare 
and heard the surprised intake of breath. 

"The young man...the night of the fire. He was your partner? 
You're the one that he wanted me to trust?" Jankowski shook 
his head in disgust. "I should have let him fall and break his 
neck."

"Caustic to the end, eh, old man?" Jenson taunted, his mouth a 
savage sneer. "You've been a troublesome complication, 
Jankowski. Stirring up the locals with your stories of the old 
days. Trying to convince them not to sell even when we made 
them generous offers for those dung holes. Spewing your 
antiquated garbage about civic responsibility. You should have 
kept your mouth shut."

Jenson backhanded Jankowski and the old man staggered 
sideways a step. He raised bound hands to his cracked and 
bleeding lip. Ugly purple-black bruises testified to the rough 
handling the man had seen, but he still held himself with pride, 
staring at his enemies in contempt.

"But you didn't," Jenson continued, a smug grin creasing his 
face. "Now  you pay for that mistake and do us a service at the 
same time." 

Jenson snapped his fingers and Hiller moved to Jim's side, 
holding out a gun.  The Sentinel took the weapon, feeling the 
weight of the deadly metal laying heavy within his soul. 

"Mr. Hiller was scheduled to have the privilege, but he's agreed 
to step aside for our newest recruit. You should feel honored, 
Jankowski. Ellison's an ex-ranger. Army. Just like you."

The old man's face was a mask of stunned betrayal which 
shifted quickly to derision. "Be careful who you insult, punk," 
he snarled, meeting Jim's eyes with a glare of pure fury.

In one smooth move, Jim crossed the distance between them 
and raised his gun, placing the barrel against Jankowski's 
temple. "Watch your mouth, old man," the ex-ranger warned 
softly.

There was no trace of fear in his victim's eyes. Ellison wanted 
to smile. 

*No, not smile...salute. Hope I live long enough to be as tough 
as this man.*

The Sentinel cast his senses outward, hoping to find some sign 
of Simon bringing in the cavalry, but there was nothing. It was 
up to him.

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

(Continued in Smoke and Mirrors, part 3)