Disclaimer the First: I've never, *ever* posted something that wasn't finished, so this is something of an experiment. However, I need a good swift kick in posterior to get me going on this (that pesky PhD keeps taking away my time), so I figured if I posted Part 1, I'd *have* to write the rest, right? Which leads me to: Disclaimer the Second: Y'all know the drill by now. Want more? Send feedback. Praise, blame, death threats, anything to let me know you *read* the bloody thing. Disclaimer the Third: Oh, come on, are you *really* gonna sue a grad student? Not mine, no money involved. PG-13 for violence, don't archive yet (I reserve the right to revise when it's done ). Okay, enough rambling. Here's the fic. ********** Ulterior Motives (1/?) "You have *got* to be kidding me!" Blair nearly exploded as they left the video store. "I mean, I can kind of live with Roger Moore. Even Timothy Dalton I can tolerate. But George Lazenby? Easily the worst James Bond ever." Jim regarded his partner with tolerant amusement. He knew lots of people who could create extensive debates over the most trivial of issues (he thought briefly of a three-hour argument with Simon over the designated hitter rule), but Sandburg had them all beat. Ellison had decided that it had something to do with being a graduate student. A few years in academia, and you could bullshit at the drop of a hat. "Sorry, Chief," he replied mildly. "Even he beats Brosnan and Dalton." "You know your problem, Jim?" Sandburg started around to the passenger side of the truck. "No, but I think you're about to tell me," the older man muttered. "You're stuck in the past," Blair continued right over Jim's interjection. "Take your taste in music..." A car alarm across the crowded parking lot made both men jump, and Jim followed the sound with his hearing until he was able to focus his sight in on a gray Sentra with two startled looking teenagers standing next to it. *God damn oversensitive car alarms...* Jim watched for a moment, wondering if he *really* needed to get involved in this on the first night out he'd had in two weeks. He had just decided that there was no threat to the Public Good besides a little annoyance when he heard something screeching to a halt behind him. Acting purely on instinct, Jim was reaching for his gun even as he heard the doors of the minivan open. Before he could re- focus his sight enough to aim, something came crashing down on the base of his skull, and his last impression before the world went black was of Blair screaming his name. ********** Lee Brackett stared out at the city of Cascade, taking in the pattern of lights from the high rise view. *Nine o'clock, and all is dead,* he reflected. This city had never had much of a nightlife. It made it somewhat more difficult for him to get around at night -- the more empty the street, the more likely it was that he would be spotted by one of Cascade's finest. He still couldn't quite believe he was actually back in this city. Not that his employers had given him much choice: Alexander Cordavas was too important to the agency to risk losing, and since the death of his son six months ago, the arms dealer had become dangerously unstable. Brackett had been ordered to assess the situation and see what could be done about it, and given that his employers were the only thing keeping him out of a federal prison right now, he wasn't about to argue. In a week or so, he would report back to his employers, most likely informing them that the old man needed to be eliminated. There was a perfectly good replacement in the form of an over-eager executive Vice President, one who could easily be controlled for at least a decade. Brackett reflected with grim irony that Cordavas would be interested to know they had shared a nemesis: Jim Ellison had been the police officer to finally take down Nicholas Cordavas, after the drug-crazed young man had held police off for several hours with a roomful of hostages. His father had been only three rooms away when the shot was fired. In the week he had been here, Brackett had heard Ellison's name mentioned only once, but it was in a deadly quiet tone that made Lee very glad he wouldn't be caught between the two men if they ever came together. "Enjoying the view?" Cordavas spoke from the doorway. Brackett turned. Despite his advancing years, the one-time shipping merchant was in excellent physical health, his iron- gray hair thick and full, his suit hanging well on the burly frame. As long as you didn't look too closely at his eyes, he was the picture of middle-aged health and prosperity. Brackett shrugged. "It's a view," he replied. Cordavas smiled. "Well, perhaps I can provide you with something a tad more ... stimulating." He draped a friendly arm over Brackett's shoulders and led the younger man out of the opulent office. "It seems you have come at a most opportune moment." "Oh?" Brackett kept his tone non-committal. As far as Cordavas knew, he was here on routine agency business. He doubted the man would be pleased if he knew the real reason for the visit. Cordavas held open the door to a large conference room. "After six months of waiting for just the right moment, I have finally achieved the one goal I have had since Nicholas died. The good Lord has finally delivered into my hands the man who killed my son." The words barely penetrated as Brackett froze at the sight before him. Kneeling on the floor, hands fastened behind their backs, surrounded by eight of Cordavas's hired goons, were Jim Ellison and Blair Sandburg. ********** Jim heard Blair's heartrate go up before he even saw the two men who entered the room. He was so busy focusing on the bruise on Blair's jaw, on detailing in his mind *exactly* what he would do to the man who put it there, that he almost didn't notice the reason for the sudden spike. Cordavas was no particular surprise: Jim had heard the man's voice even before their blindfolds had been removed. He knew all too well who had arranged for him and Blair to be grabbed, in whose hands they were now. And he knew what it very likely meant for the both of them. The other figure, though... "Brackett," Jim couldn't stop from coming out of his mouth. The rogue CIA agent seemed to recover from his initial surprise, and smiled, "Hello, Jim. Long time, no see." "Oh, that's original," Blair muttered, casting a nervous glance at Jim. Ellison could almost feel the trust pouring off of his Guide: Jim would get them out of this. *Jim ~will~ get us out of this,* Ellison promised his partner silently. *I just wish I knew how.* "You know my guests?" Cordavas seemed only mildly surprised. "Detective Ellison and I had a little...encounter a little over a year ago," Brackett replied, then nodded to Blair. "Mr. Sandburg. I read the paper you published in *American Anthropologist* last month, on the reactions of police departments to a cop shooting. Fascinating reading." "Yeah, great, thanks," was all Blair could manage. Jim, meanwhile, was cursing just about every deity he had ever heard Sandburg mention. What the hell was Brackett doing out of prison? *Stupid question,* he answered himself. A man with Brackett's background would doubtless have had enough connections not only to get out of prison, but to make sure no one was notified of it, either. "I see. An added bonus, then?" Cordavas approached the two kneeling men. "It took me a long time, Detective Ellison, to decide just what to do with you. Death seemed inadequate to the pain you caused me. You had no son I could take from you as you took mine. Even your brother was estranged." The arms dealer moved to stand in front of Blair, reaching down to lift the young man's chin with one hand. "And then...then I learned of Mr. Sandburg." When Blair jerked his face away, Cordavas only chuckled. "I don't know exactly what your relationship is, Detective, but he clearly means a great deal to you. Not a son, but enough, I think." Jim felt panic welling in his chest, and ruthlessly pushed it down. He needed to think clearly, needed to somehow buy some time. If Cordavas had been watching him as closely as it seemed, convincing him that Blair wasn't important in his life was not really an option. "You never struck me as the type to beat around the bush about anything, Cordavas," he said instead, "much less revenge. I'm the one who shot Nicholas. I'm the one who pulled the trigger." "Why don't I just kill you?" Cordavas finished his thought. "Oh, I intend to, Detective. But not before you've experienced some of the pain I have felt these last six months. Not until I have watched your face while you sit helplessly and hear the bullet that ends the life of someone you love." He smiled and gestured to two of his men. "In short, not until Mr. Sandburg is dead." The men pulled Blair to his feet and started to drag him from the room. Jim felt his muscles tense as he prepared to move: futile, he knew, but maybe if he forced them to kill him now, they wouldn't need to kill Blair. Or at least he wouldn't have to listen to Blair die... "Wait!" Brackett's voice jolted Ellison from his plans. "If you wouldn't mind," Brackett said smoothly, "I'd like to take care of that for you." He pulled out a gun and nodded toward Blair to convey his meaning. "I have a my own score to settle." Jim watched, still tense as Cordavas made his decision. After a moment, the older man nodded, then said something in Greek to the two goons holding Blair. One of them released his hold on the anthropologist, and the other dragged him over to where Brackett stood. "Two rooms down, the vacant office," Cordavas said. He turned to Ellison. "Exactly two rooms down." With the adrenaline born of sheer desperation, Jim launched himself sideways into two of the men surrounding him, kicking out at another. He knew his cause was lost, but hoped that somehow, whatever angel had looked out for Blair thus far might intervene. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sandburg try to jerk away from his captors, kicking Cordavas's man hard enough in the stomach that he doubled over. It was over quickly. Jim was well-trained, but so were Cordavas's men, and three of them soon had him back on his knees, head jerked back to see Brackett's gun pointed at Blair's face. Cordavas only smiled and nodded to Brackett, who pushed Blair out of the room. After a moment, he turned back to Jim. "Are you listening, Detective?" ********** Brackett shoved Blair into the vacant office, and the anthropologist had only a moment to take in his surroundings before Cordavas's goon sent a vicious blow to his stomach, presumably in retaliation for the kick. The young man fell to his knees, and Brackett moved to stand behind him. Blair heard the gun being cocked, could almost sense it being aimed at the back of his skull. He remembered reading about the calm that settled over people when they knew they were about to die. Funny, he wasn't feeling particularly calm right now... "Well, Mr. Sandburg," Brackett said behind him, "it was a pleasure seeing you again." Blair closed his eyes, determined at least to have some dignity, to not shame Jim by breaking down. *I'm sorry, Jim,* he cast one last thought to his partner. *Sorry you had to hear me die.* In this, the last moment of his life, his own senses seemed sharpened, and he could almost hear the trigger starting to go back. ********** The shot that rang from down the hall tore through Jim's hearing like a knife, and as he squeezed his eyes shut in denial, he blocked out any further sound, refusing to listen as his best friend's heart stopped beating. ********** The echoes of the gunshot rang in Blair's ears, and it took him a stunned moment to realize that he was still kneeling, that he hadn't felt the impact of a bullet. He opened his eyes to see Cordavas's henchman lying in front of him, a bright red stain spreading over the left side of his shirt. Slowly, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing, he looked behind him. Lee Brackett was looking down at him, a satisfied smirk on his face. ________ Part Two Jim opened his eyes and fixed them on Cordavas, almost willing the man to say something, anything, to drive Jim over the edge, to give him that last, final push into an action that would make them kill him now, before he had to spend another minute in a world where Blair was dead. *Not yet,* he told himself, taking in Cordavas's gloating smirk. *Not until I can take you with me.* "It's done." Lee Brackett walked in the door, and Jim silently added Brackett's death to the list of things he would accomplish before dying himself. Cordavas smiled at Jim, then looked through the door expectantly. "Theo?" "Taking care of the body." Brackett walked up to Jim, his face wearing the same smirk as the old Greek's. "Jim," he said, "I hope you were listening." Jim felt his rage rising as if it were a tangible thing, swelling up from his gut until he thought it would smother him. Ruthlessly, he pushed it down again. *Soon,* he promised himself. "What are you going to do with him?" Brackett asked, never taking his eyes from Jim. "I want him to live for a few days, give him a chance to fully appreciate his grief. Then I'll kill him myself." Cordavas looked around. "Not here, though. Too many people. We'll take him to my home." Brackett nodded. "I have some business I need to take care of, but I hope you'll let me know when you're going to kill him. I'd like to be there." "Someday," Cordavas said with a smile, "you must tell me about this debt of yours." A slow smile spread across Jim's face. The discussion of his fate had barely penetrated: his mind was occupied with running through all the methods of death he had learned, seen, or heard of in his times in Covert Ops. What those Guatemalans did to their general ought to be just about right. The vision of Cordavas's cold dead eyes was still before Jim's own as he was dragged out of the room. It wasn't until the minivan was over a block away from the building that he realized Lee Brackett had whispered to him as he was pulled out of the room, whispered so softly that only a Sentinel could have heard the word. "Listen." ********** *It's only a body, it's only a body.* Blair repeated his mantra as he huddled in the corner of the office closet, trying to keep as much distance between himself and the corpse as possible. He wasn't sure if it had been worse before his eyes had adjusted, when he couldn't see the dead man but knew he was there, or if it was worse now that he could make out at least the shape that his imagination kept trying to insist was moving. He heard the approaching footsteps and tried very hard to keep his heart from pounding right through his chest. This couldn't be good for his health. Then again, neither was a bullet. The door opened, and he blinked a bit at the faint light from the vacant office. "They're gone," Brackett informed him. "Jim?" "Still alive, for the moment, anyway. Assuming he doesn't do anything stupid, he'll stay that way for a couple of days. He's being taken to Cordavas's home." Blair stood a trifle shakily. He knew he had to think, and think fast, but his brain was simply refusing to process what had just happened. "Okay," he said, starting to walk past Brackett. "Well, thanks for not shooting me and all, but I really gotta split. Places to go, people to see..." *Police to call.* Brackett's hand gripped his arm, halting his progress. "Forget it, Junior. The only place you're going right now is out the back exit with me." "Like hell!" Blair exploded. "Look, it was nice of you to save my life, and I don't pretend to understand why you did it, but in case you've forgotten, my partner is still in danger, and I'm sure as hell not just gonna sit around and wait for some whacked-out father who's apparently seen one too many bad Godfather flicks to kill him!" Blair yanked his arm out of Brackett's grasp, half expecting the ex-CIA agent to pull out his gun. Instead, the older man regarded him with the same look of amused exasperation that Jim wore when Blair went into some lengthy anthropological explanation. "Finished?" Brackett asked. Blair gathered what was left of his dignity. "Yes." "Good. Now listen: I figure I have about twelve hours before Cordavas realizes something is up, maybe another six before he actually realizes I double-crossed him. That *might* give me enough time to get into his house and get Jim out alive." Blair didn't even bother trying to keep the disbelief from his face. "Wait a minute: I'm supposed to believe that you're going to save Jim's life?" Brackett merely raised an eyebrow. "I saved yours, didn't I?" Blair deflated slightly. There was that, yes... "Cordavas's house is a virtual fortress. There is no way the cops can get in there and get to Jim before Cordavas can kill him, and Cordavas *will* kill him if the cops show up. I can at least get in." "So what do you need me for?" "Because right now, Jim still thinks I killed you. I saw his eyes: he's ready to die. I show up there without some kind of proof you're alive..." Brackett didn't complete the thought. Blair closed his eyes. *I'm still here, Jim. Hang on. Please, just hang on.* He heard Brackett sigh, and opened his eyes to see the older man reaching into his jacket. "Let me put this another way." "Don't bother," Blair said flatly. "So what's the plan?" ********** Jim blinked as his eyes began adjusting to the room. The room had no windows, lit only by what faint light escaped from the borders of the door. The hallway he'd been dragged down had been dimly lit, so with the door closed, even Sentinel vision could barely penetrate the dark. He was so focused on his sight it took him a moment to realized what else was missing: sound. He knew he was in a remote part of the house, but usually when he couldn't see as well, his hearing tried to compensate. Surely he ought to be picking something up. He began extending his hearing, turning up the dial, picturing the sense like a tangible thing reaching down the hallway, a tendril snaking toward the people he knew were in the house. The dank, tattered mattress that was the room's only furniture and the handcuffs digging into his wrists faded into the background as he reached for the distant, still-muffled sounds. He'd seen the size of the house, knew he ought to be able to hear clearly any voice, even on the other end. He wondered dimly if his senses were freaking out on him again. Sandburg had always said emotional trauma could... Jim squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could somehow block out the image of Brackett shooting his partner by blocking out the darkness in the room. It didn't work. The images kept coming, in a dozen permutations: Blair standing, the bullet piercing his heart; lying twisted on his back with a gunpowder-blackened hole between vacant eyes; kneeling while Brackett stood behind him, ready to snuff out the life he'd so selflessly given to Jim... Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jim realized he was still extending his hearing, and that he was perilously close to a zone out. For one moment, he considered surrendering to it, considered just giving up and letting the dim sounds of conversation and rattling silverware carry him to a place where he wouldn't have to feel this gaping void in his soul where Blair used to be. *Hang on. Please, just hang on.* Jim's eyes snapped open, his hearing automatically returning to normal as his Guide's voice jolted him from the zone-out. In that brief second, Blair's presence was so real he could almost *smell* the younger man in the dark, silent room. *Chief?* Nothing. *I want you, Detective, to be alone with your thoughts.* Cordavas's words as they had shoved him into this room rang in Jim's mind, and suddenly he understood the darkness and the silence. This room had been designed to allow him no distraction from the reality of Blair's death: cut off from light and noise, with nothing in the room but the mattress on which he sat, he was to spend his last few days with nothing but his grief. The images of Blair's corpse threatened again, and Jim ruthlessly pushed them away, replacing Blair's face with Brackett's, his vacant blue eyes with Cordavas's brown ones. Turning his tactile sense up just high enough to find what he sought without risking a zone out, he began feeling his way around the tattered mattress, looking for something, anything that would get him out of here long enough to kill the men who had taken his partner from him. ________ Part Three Lee Brackett glanced again at the speedometer. He'd become more aware of his speeds since returning to Cascade: the last thing in the world he needed was to be stopped for speeding. He wondered briefly what would happen if a traffic cop from Ellison's precinct were to stop him now: the perpetrator of one of Cascade's most infamous crimes, with Jim Ellison's partner in his passenger seat. Even Sandburg probably couldn't talk them out of that one. Brackett looked over at the younger man, who was alternating between staring at the window and casting quick glances in Lee's direction. The silence between them was strained, a hundred unasked questions weighting the air. "Open the glove compartment," Brackett said. Sandburg frowned slightly, but complied, then looked questioningly at the older man. "Find the small leather pouch; it should be right on top. There's a digital recorder in it." "What am I supposed to do with this?" Sandburg held the small item between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were an exotic insect that might infect him. "Record a message for Jim. Tell him I didn't shoot you, that you're alive and safely ensconced a few miles away." Brackett kept his voice carefully neutral, his eyes fixed on the road as he waited for the inevitable. "What?!" Yep, there is was. "I am *not* going to just sit somewhere and wait for you to rescue my partner." "Yeah, well, *I'm* not going to take you straight into the lion's den after I blew my cover saving your life," Brackett replied, shooting his best "cool villain" look at the younger man. He didn't have high hopes that it would actually discourage Sandburg, but a little intimidation never hurt. "Since when did my life become such a high priority for you, anyway?" "Believe me, Mr. Sandburg, this is not how I planned on spending my evening. Suffice it to say, the matter is out of my hands." Brackett turned his gaze back to the road, closing off all further discussion of *that* topic. He could feel Sandburg's curiosity pouring off the anthropologist like waves of heat. He also knew that the younger man's concern for Ellison would override that curiosity. After a long, tense moment, Sandburg replaced the digital recorder in its pouch and deliberately put it back in the glove compartment. "As far as I'm concerned," he said, "you're still an amoral dick who was willing to infect an entire city with Ebola to get what he wanted. So don't ask me to trust you, here. I'm going with you." Lee glanced over at his passenger, at the stubborn set of his jaw and the hands clenched into fists in his lap. "Tell me, Mr. Sandburg," he said, "short of tying you up, knocking you out, or locking you in a gas station restroom, is there any way I'm going to keep you from Cordavas's home?" Sandburg's smile was bitter, and out-of-place in his youthful features. "No. And I have been known to escape from gas station bathrooms." Brackett shook his head. "I don't doubt that you have, Mr. Sandburg. I don't doubt it for a minute." ********** The tinny sounds of Carla Shuemacher's Walkman were all that broke the silence on the thirty-fourth floor of the Cordavas Building. The fifty-seven-year-old cleaning woman was bopping to the tones of Frank Sinatra, occasionally bursting out in accompaniment, as she cleaned the various offices almost by rote. She'd been cleaning this same floor since 1977. In one of the Danielle Steele novels she always had tucked away in her cart, she would have had a long-ago affair with the boss, probably borne his child out of wedlock, only to have that child acknowledged as his heir after the tragic death of his other son. Last month, Carla has received a fruit basket from the old man in thanks for her twenty years of service. She was pretty sure he would be able to pick her out of a police line-up if she wore her uniform. Carla dumped the contents of the last trash can into her cart, then paused to stretch her aching back. At least tomorrow was Saturday, which meant she could sleep in. She grabbed her pass key, her paperback and headed down the hall. Break time. Technically, cleaning crew personnel were supposed to return to the basement for their breaks. Carla had found, however, that while most of the offices had surveillance cameras, the empty ones were more or less unwatched. Finding one of these offices on your floor meant a few extra minutes to sit and read, minutes that would otherwise be occupied by getting to and from the breakroom. Carla unlocked the door to her own recent find, a small office two rooms down from the large conference room. As luck would have it, the room was even being used to store some extra furniture, which meant one chair on which to sit and another on which to prop up her tired feet. She had even taken to hiding her small cooler in the closet when she first got to work, so that she didn't have to lug it around on her cart. When the security people arrived two minutes and thirty-five seconds later, Carla Shuemacher was still screaming. ********** Jim looked down at the man lying unconscious at his feet, studying the blank face and trying to remember if this had been one of the goons who'd held him in Cordavas's office, or even the one who'd dragged Sandburg to his execution. Unlikely, he decided ... those faces were burned into his memory, and this one was unfamiliar. He dragged the man over to the old mattress, not bothering to secure him. The handcuffs were broken, anyway, and by the time the man awoke, Jim would have accomplished his purpose. In the small corner of his mind that he was still allowing to think of anything but that purpose, he finally what old CO had called "kamikaze mode." It was amazing how much simpler things became when you knew you wouldn't survive the mission. Locking the door behind him, Jim started off down the hall. In the shadows where the dim light failed to reach, his eyes glinted. The trappings of civilization meant nothing: Jim Ellison was in his own private jungle, stalking his prey. ********** Brackett tried to ignore the little thrill of adrenaline as he walked down the halls of Cordavas' home. True, he hadn't been presented with a challenge like this in a while, but he was *not* enjoying it, dammit. The mere fact that he was here to rescue Jim Ellison ought to preclude any enjoyment. All he wanted to do was get in, get Ellison, get out, and dump his two unwanted charges at the nearest safe location. He would then proceed to get the hell out of this city so he could report to his superiors, get drunk, and try to forget that Cascade, Washington even existed. He found Cordavas alone in a small den, sitting in an overstuffed chair with a glass of scotch in one hand and a picture of his son in the other. The old man did not seem terribly surprised to see him. "Mr. Brackett," he said warmly. "Have a seat." When Lee had complied, Cordavas continued, "I thought you might pay me a visit tonight." Brackett merely raised an eyebrow, but the surge of adrenaline returned. He couldn't know already. Even the cleaning crew never went into the office where they'd left the body, and he'd made sure Sandburg was hidden from any security cameras on the way out of the building. "Oh?" he asked, his tone indicating that he was only mildly curious. "I took the liberty of inquiring about your connection to my ... guest. Tell me: would you really have released that virus on the city?" "That was awfully fast," Brackett replied. "You must have good sources." Cordavas shrugged. "It is amazing, is it not, what one can learn with a computer and a modem? But you haven't answered my question." "I don't bluff. Ever." "Really? I'd have thought it a necessary skill in your line of work. Ah, well. I suppose you'll be wanting to spend a little time with Detective Ellison." Brackett smiled. "I just thought that since Ellison didn't actually get to see his partner die, that he might like a bit more detail on the event." Cordavas's reply was cut off by a shout from down the hall. A moment later, a man Brackett dimly recognized as Cordavas's head of security entered the room, looking as if he'd rather be almost anywhere else in the world than the spot where he now stood. "What is it?" Cordavas asked impatiently. "Um...the cop, sir." "What about him?" In the space of a second, Brackett flashed on all the things he knew about Jim Ellison, on his days with the Rangers and Covert Ops, on his record as a cop, on the ease with which he'd beaten the security system at the top secret facility they'd broken into together. He felt half a dozen expletives rise to his lips as he anticipated the words about to come from the nervous man in front of him. "He's escaped." ********** *So,* Blair thought as tried desperately not to fidget, *here I am huddled on the floor of the back seat of a Integra, watching for a little red light on a little black box to light up, thus signaling that I'm supposed to start talking and hopefully convince my partner that I'm still alive and the he needs to trust an ex-CIA operative who once threatened to kill us. So why the hell am I getting deja' vu?* Blair glanced at his watch for the tenth time in the eight minutes since Brackett had entered the house. After a great deal of debate, he and Brackett had reached a compromise: he'd recorded a message on the small digital recorder for Brackett to take to Jim, just enough to get the Sentinel to open his senses enough to hear Blair actually speak from the car. Brackett had seemed fairly confident of his ability to sneak Jim out of the house as long as he had Ellison's cooperation, and from what Blair had seen, his confidence was probably justified. Still, everything depended on Jim somehow believing Brackett was on their side. And frankly, Blair was having a hard enough time believing that himself. The shouts coming from the direction of the house made Blair jump, and he huddled down further in the seat as he heard the voices and footsteps approaching. *Shit, shit, shit.* At least Brackett's car has tinted windows, so there was a reasonable chance they wouldn't see him. Unless of course Brackett's deception had already been discovered and they knew he was here and were coming toward the car just to get him... "...hell did he get out anyway?" "..doesn't make it off the estate..." The snatches of conversation barely reached Blair's ears over the pounding of his own heart as two men passed by the Integra. As the sounds of their footsteps receded, Blair realized what must have happened. Of course. He ought to have known that Jim would be able to get out on his own. If a US Army colonel-slash-drug smuggler couldn't keep him locked up, Cordavas didn't stand a chance. *I saw his eyes. He's ready to die.* Brackett's words cut through Blair's triumph, and he closed his eyes as if to block out the image that arose of Jim standing over Cordavas's body, uncaring as he was gunned down. Steeling himself against the churning of his stomach, the anthropologist quickly raised himself just enough to see out of the car windows. After assuring himself that none of Cordavas's men were in the immediately vicinity, he carefully climbed out of the car, dropping the small signaling device on the seat behind him. *Hang on, Jim. Just hang on.* ********** Mitch Joliffe was *not* having a good day. Tonight was supposed to be his moment of triumph, the night he finally proved to Mr. Cordavas that he was capable of more than just overseeing security here and at the office building. *He* had been the one to arrange for Ellison and his little partner to be snatched. Hell, he'd been the one to mention Sandburg in the first place. He'd set up the room where Ellison was to be held, cut off from light and noise, left with nothing to do but contemplate his partner's death for the few days until the old man put a bullet in his brain. He'd *wanted* to be the one to off the little guy, sort of a personal touch, a way of making sure Cordavas knew how dedicated and faithful he was. He'd been a little miffed that Brackett has taken that away from him, but he hadn't begrudged the man his own revenge. Well, not to his face, anyway. The extra little touch killing Sandburg himself would have been wasn't worth that kind of hassle. As he strode down the hall of the house's west wing, however, Joliffe was beginning to believe that change in plan was just a precursor of things to come. How the *hell* had Ellison gotten out, anyway? Well, he knew how he'd gotten out: one of the idiots Joliffe was forced to oversee had decided that the fun of kicking a handcuffed cop in the nuts would be worth disobeying Joliffe's explicit directions that Ellison be left alone. But how had the cop gotten out of those handcuffs in the first place? He'd checked them himself, dammit. The faint ring of his cell phone interrupted Joliffe's silent fume. Looking around to make sure he wasn't about to be jumped by an escaped police detective, Joliffe opened the offending device. "What?" he demanded. A voice on the other end began speaking, and after a moment, Joliffe's anger-flushed complexion drained until it was nearly white. "Where'd you find it? ...You're sure? ... No. No, I'll take care of it. Just calm her down and send her home, and make sure she knows what'll happen if she talks to anyone about it." Joliffe closed his cell phone, and turned to head back the way he had come, trying to remember where Cordavas had suggested Lee Brackett go when the younger man had volunteered to help search for Ellison. Volunteered to help search. Son of a bitch. ********** Jim crouched low in the bushes that lined Cordavas's home, listening to the organized chaos of the search effort, wondering almost absently how his escape had been detected so quickly. He hadn't expected to remain undetected for long, but he'd counted on having at least half an hour to find Cordavas. Maybe he hadn't put the goon as far under as he'd thought. Not that it really mattered. He'd gotten out of the house once he'd heard someone shouting about his escape, figuring he had a better chance of staying hidden in the shadows around the house. It would only be a matter of time before one of the men got close enough for Jim to get his gun away. Using every concentration technique Sandburg had taught him, he'd pinpointed Cordavas's location in the house, and was occasionally checking on the old man's location, dimly enjoying his fury at Jim's escape. *Hang on, Jim. Just hang on.* Ellison ruthlessly pushed away his Guide's voice. He'd be seeing Sandburg soon enough. Right now, he needed to make sure he knew where the man who'd caused his death was. "...find a suitable punishment for the *fool* who let him escape," Cordavas was yelling. "Mr. Cordavas?" Another voice, one Jim recognized but couldn't identify, interrupted the man's rant. "What is it, Joliffe?" "I just got a call from Morris down at the office. There's something you ought to know." A faint rustling around the corner pulled him back to his immediate location, and he tensed to move as a figure stealthily approached. A familiar scent teased his nose, but he ignored it, concentrating only on his immediate goal. He waited until the person came within a few feet, then sprang. He instinctively wrapped an arm around the other man's neck, intending to drive him into unconsciousness as quickly as possible. The familiar scent was now overpowering, screaming at his mind to stop. He almost ignored it again, almost let his driving need to get inside the house and kill the man who had taken his friend to overwhelm the evidence of his senses. "Jim?" His name was barely a croak of his victim's abused throat, but it was enough. His hold relaxed, and he turned the figure around to face him, pushing him back just enough to see his face. Blair Sandburg was looking up at him. ________ Part Four "Jim!" The voice seemed to come from a great distance, muffled as the sounds had been in his prison. "Jim, c'mon, snap out of it, we don't have time for this!" Jim slowly raised a hand to the face that was peering anxiously up at him. He traced the jaw, the cheekbone, the ridge of the eyebrow, trying to convince his mind what his sight, his hearing, even his sense of smell were telling him: that Blair was standing in front of him. That this was not another hallucination. That Blair was warm and solid and breathing and alive. "Look, I know what you thought, and it's a really long story, but mmmph..." Blair's words were stifled against Jim's shoulder as Jim swept him forward, finally letting the evidence of his senses penetrate. Sandburg was alive. Somehow, Blair was alive. *How* was a question that would of course require an answer. Later. His arms tightened around his Guide, letting the younger man's warmth seep into him, letting it drive away the awful cold that had settled there when he'd heard Brackett's gun fire two rooms away. "Jim, we gotta get out of here, man." The muffled words were belied by the strength with which Blair's arms were locked around Jim. The sound of footsteps around the corner finally pulled Ellison from his trance, and he quickly steered Blair in the opposite direction, one hand still on the younger man's arm. "How did you get here?" With Blair alive, the focus which had before been directed at killing Cordavas shifted to a far more important goal: keeping him that way. Unfortunately, Jim hadn't given a whole hell of a lot of thought to getting out of this place. "Actually, that's kind of an interesting story." "Never mind. I think our best bet is to stay on foot, get over the wall around this place and into the trees nearby. We try to take a car, we'll get shot down immediately." "Um, well, there is *one* car we could maybe take..." ********** As he stared at the empty back seat of his Integra, Lee Brackett wondered for the fifth time that night exactly how much bad karma he must have accumlated to have earned this particular fate. Not that he was particularly surprised that Sandburg had wandered off: it was as in keeping with his profile as managing to escape was in Ellison's. If nothing else, it neatly solved his own dilemma. With Ellison loose, the likelihood of Sandburg's presence being discovered had increased about tenfold -- and it had been pretty damn likely in the first place. Brackett had considered just knocking Sandburg out and getting him the hell out of here. Only problem was that by the time he got back, Ellison would probably be dead, and saving one of them while letting the other die was not going to do him much good. Hell, with any luck, the kid would find Ellison first, convince him that Brackett was on their side, and they could all get out of here quietly. Yeah, right. ********** "Brackett you can kill. I want Ellison alive." Cordavas released the safety on his gun and cocked a bullet into the chamber. "At least until I get there." Joliffe nodded and left, looking oddly vindicated for a man who, in Cordavas's mind, was about two steps away from death himself. He supposed that, in fairness, Joliffe had no way of knowing Lee Brackett would inexplicably kill Theo instead of Sandburg. Cordavas himself had spent well over five minutes trying to come up with some conclusion other than the obvious. There was, in fairness, no way Joliffe could have prevented that part of the current situation. Cordavas was in no mood to be fair. Gripping his gun in a white-knuckled hand, he left the house. Perhaps this served him right for attempting such an elaborate plan. Perhaps he should simply have put a bullet in Ellison's brain and have done with it. No matter. Brackett or no, the detective would not make it off the estate alive. One way another, his son's killer would die. ********** "Are you out of your mind?" Jim exploded. Blair reflected for a moment that Jim Ellison was the only person he knew who could explode in a whisper. "Well, it wasn't exactly my first choice of action, either," he whispered back, "but I didn't see how else I was gonna get you out of here." Blair waited for any one of the dozen lectures Jim would deliver next, wondering idly which he would berated for first: trusting Brackett, not calling Simon, or coming here. It didn't matter. He could counter all of them with one simple fact: if he had not, Jim would now be dead. Ellison hadn't said anything about what his plans upon escaping had been. He didn't need to. Blair knew they hadn't included getting off the estate, calling the police, arranging for a warrant, and politely reading Cordavas his rights. He knew they hadn't included getting off the estate at all. And no lecture, no accusation, no disapproval could stand against that knowledge. Jim was silent for a moment, as if reading this knowledge in Blair's eyes, then nodded. "So where's Brackett's car?" "Right next to the house, around front." Jim nodded, turning his head to the side as he often did when extending his hearing. "Okay, we're clear in this direction." The two men began moving stealthily around the back of the house. Between stopping to duck into shadows and waiting for the area around the car to be clear, it took them over fifteen minutes to reach the Integra, but they got there with no further incident. Blair wondered if Jim had any real plans of finding Brackett on their way out, then dismissed that as a stupid question. He felt only a mild twinge of guilt at the thought of leaving the ex-CIA agent in possible danger. Brackett, after all, could take care of himself. Jim pulled up on the driver side door while Blair headed around to the passenger side. After a moment, Ellison looked at him incredulously. "Don't tell me you locked it." For one brief moment, panic sliced through Blair's chest. He couldn't possibly have locked the car door. He wouldn't do anything that stupid. Unless, of course, he'd done it out of force of habit... He pulled at the handle of the passenger door, and grinned as he felt the door open. The expression of relief and exasperation on Jim's face was almost worth the moment of fear. Blair was still grinning when the explosion of a gunshot ripped through the air, sending him to the ground behind the car in an automatic dodge. He could hear Jim likewise moving for cover on the other side, and he scrambled across the car seat to open the driver's side door. "Mr. Sandburg." The voice, deep and heavily laced with a Greek accent, halted his movements.He held very still, hoping Cordavas might somehow believe he'd just hallucinated a short, long-haired graduate student on the other side of the car. "Mr. Sandburg, I've had quite enough surprises and games for one evening. If you don't show yourself now, I'm going blow your partner's head off." The tone was flat and emotionless, and left no doubt as to its sincerity. Blair's eyes fell on the glove compartment, and he opened it quietly, casting a silent prayer to God or Lady Luck or whoever the hell had looked out for the two of them thus far. He fumbled through the papers and the small devices, hoping, praying...his hands closed on cold metal. "*Now,* Mr. Sandburg." Tucking the gun into the back of his jeans, Blair opened the car door and got out with as much dignity as he could muster, meeting the old Greek's gaze unflinchingly. Cordavas was about thirty feet away from the car, his gun aimed at Jim, who was still half-seated, half-crouched beside the car. Blair resisted the almost automatic compulsion to keep his hands up, lettingthem hang by his sides instead. "It's an interesting dilemma," Cordavas said. "My impulse, of course, is to carry out my original plan, and shoot Mr. Sandburg first." He turned and aimed the gun at Blair. "However, given our relative positions, no doubt Detective Ellison will reach me before I can turn and shoot him. I suspect, Detective, that it won't matter much that my men will get here and kill you before you can escape. On the other hand," he turned the gun back to Jim, "if I shoot you first, I won't have the satisfaction of watching you watch him die." Blair was sure he couldn't get any tenser than he already was; nevertheless, he felt his muscles tighten as he waited for Cordavas to be just distracted enough for him to get the gun. He knew he had very little chance of succeeding, but maybe, just maybe, he could buy them enough time for Jim to do something. The old Greek turned his gaze toward Blair, then back at Jim. "What the hell," he said. "I've seen that once tonight already." Seeing the old man's hand tighten on the gun aimed at Jim, Blair moved. There was no thought to his movement, only reflex and prayer as he aimed and squeezed the trigger. He was so braced for the explosion in his own hands that the simultaneous gunshots coming from other directions nearly made him drop his own gun. He saw Cordavas's shot go high, shattering the back seat window of Brackett's car even as Jim sprang aside. Blair followed Ellison's stunned gaze to where Cordavas lay face down in the dirt, blood running from what used to be the back of his head. Somehow, Blair was not in the slightest bit surprised to see Lee Brackett walking toward them from the house, tucking his gun into his jacket, that same damned smirk on his face. ________ Part Five Jim slowly rose from the ground as Brackett approached. The ex-CIA agent paused to nudge Cordavas with his foot, releasing a sigh that contained more annoyance than regret. "This'll require some explaining," Jim heard him mutter. He then turned toward Blair, and Jim moved instinctively between the two of them, smoothly taking possession of the gun hanging forgotten at Sandburg's side. "Tell me, Mr. Sandburg," Brackett asked mildly, "do you ever do what you're told?" "Sometimes," Blair replied. Brackett nodded, seemingly unconcerned with the response, then glanced around the immediate area. "I would imagine the gunshot will attract some attention," he said, taking his keys from his pocket and moving toward the Integra. "You'll probably want to get out of sight until the police get here." "Until who..." Jim stopped as a distant noise caught his attention. Focusing for a moment, he made out the sounds of approaching sirens. He looked back at Brackett, who was settling himself into the driver's seat of his car. "I gather by your expression they're getting close?" he asked, reaching out to close the door. Jim grabbed at the frame, halting Brackett's movement. "Wait just a damn minute," he began, but was quickly cut off by the sound of shouts from behind the house. Brackett smiled. "The shed over that way should provide you some place to duck into until they get here." Jim's hand tightened on the gun, and for one moment, he considered simply shooting the man in front of him. "Jim." Blair's hand gently tugged Jim's arm away from the car door. "C'mon. We gotta hide." Cursing silently, he let himself be pulled back from Brackett's car. "We *will* finish this," he promised Bracket as the ex-CIA agent started his car. "Oh, I'm sure we will," Brackett replied with a smile, and drove toward the main gate. The sound of approaching footsteps and Blair's hand tugging at his arm reminded him of more pressing matters, and the two men moved into the shadows even as the sirens drew near. ********** Blair fumbled for a moment with his keys, wondering if he could possibly look as tired as he felt. He sincerely hoped not: it had taken all of his persuasive ability to talk Jim out of picking him up at the library. Ellison had been in full Blessed Protector mode for the last three days, and the last thing Blair needed was to set him off again. Today was the first time since they had collided on the Cordavas estate that Jim had let Blair out of his sight for more than sleeping, showering, and bathroom breaks, and Blair suspected he'd only allowed those because they didn't take him out of hearing range. Hell, if Simon hadn't insisted Jim stay at the station to finish paperwork, Blair might very well have found himself with an extra student today. "Hey, Chief," Jim called from the couch as Blair hung up his coat. Blair could see the older man struggling not to rise, not to approach him. Always a physical sort, Jim had spent a great deal of the last few days touching Blair. It was nothing outstanding, nothing anyone else would have noticed; just a hand on his arm or his shoulder, a quick reassurance of his solidity, his reality. His life. Blair wasn't complaining. After all, he'd caught himself doing the same thing several times, and *he* hadn't spent the better part of three hours thinking Jim was dead. They still hadn't talked about that, and Blair was beginning to suspect they never would. Part of him (the psych minor, he supposed) worried about that, insisted they had to get these issues out in the open if they were to heal. Another part of him wasn't sure he was ready to face the implications of what had happened. Wasn't sure he was ready to know that Jim would not survive without him. Wasn't ready to wonder if he would survive without Jim. Besides, they had far more immediate concerns. "Long day?" Jim asked as Blair grabbed a beer from the fridge and joined him on the couch. Blair shrugged. "Grading always wipes me out." Jim nodded and turned back to the game on the television, and Blair took the opportunity to consider carefully what he was about to say. "I talked to Jack Kelso today." He tried to keep his tone light, but he knew he wasn't doing a very good job. Jim looked at him sharply, then merely nodded. "I thought you might." "I know most of his old contacts have clammed up since he was shot, but I figured it would be worth a shot.. I mean, with Brackett still out there and all..." Blair winced slightly, remembering Simon's rather loud ... discussion with the local federal prosecutor on that issue. Only the fact that Brackett's release from prison was as much a mystery to the feds as it was to the Cascade PD had kept Banks from filing an official complaint over the lack of notification. Jim had been strangely silent on the issue. Ellison had nearly burned the air around him with repressed anger as he'd told Simon of Brackett's escape. But after hearing the tape of Brackett himself calling the police, and after hearing Blair's full account of what had happened after they'd been separated, he done little more than frown whenever the ex-CIA agent's name had come up. "Anyway," Blair said, realizing Jim was not going to ask the necessary questions to move this along, "he doesn't have anything solid, but he says it's not impossible that Brackett is back working for the government in some capacity." "It would make sense," Jim said, voice still non-committal. "He said it probably wouldn't be the CIA, but they're not exactly the only people who could pull something like that off." Blair watched Jim carefully. The older man's utter lack of response confirmed Blair's suspicion that Ellison had already given this a great deal of thought, and had very likely come to the same conclusions he himself had. Whether he'd taken those conclusions in the same direction, though... "So I was thinking," he plunged ahead. "You know, the information Brackett used to figure out that you're a Sentinel isn't exactly that confidential. I mean, sure, the debriefing of the officers who found you in Peru isn't available to the public, but I doubt Brackett's the only one who read it. And *my* stuff...I mean, hell, my Master's thesis is in the library at the University." Jim was merely nodding, his eyes still on the television, but Blair could see by the little twitch in his jaw that he knew where this was going. "And it occurred to me, well, if Brackett could put two and two together, so could someone else." Jim sighed, and the rigid tension that had been building since Blair mentioned Jack Kelso seemed to leave. "Yeah, I'd thought of that myself." "When?" Blair asked, trying to keep even a hint of accusation out of his voice. "When Brackett first told us how he'd found out. Look, Chief, we've taken every reasonable precaution to keep this a secret, but we both knew that sooner or later, it was going to leak out. If nothing else, I'd've figured someone in either my past or Brackett's would start wondering why he targeted us to help him steal the plane." Blair nodded. "So do you figure that has something to do with why he was helping us? I mean, he said it wasn't exactly his choice..." "Which probably means whoever he works for wants us alive," Jim finished. "The question is, why." "Well, if they know you're a Sentinel, I can see why they'd want to keep you alive. I'm not sure why I'm included on the agenda, though, except thatsaving me would get you to trust him." *I saw his eyes. He's ready to die.* Blair swallowed, trying to push Brackett's voice away. Jim finally looked at him, and a moment of pure empathy passed between them, confirmation and reassurance. And then it was gone. "Actually," Jim said, taking a swallow of his beer, "from what you told me, there's more to it than that. My guess is whoever Brackett works for is interested in the both of us, as a unit, so to speak." "Great," Blair said, less to Jim than the universe at large. "Why? I mean, it's obvious *why*: something to with your Sentinel abilities. But if that's true, then why haven't they, I dunno..." Blair made a vague gesture. "Done something? I mean, what do they want from us?" Jim reached out and laid a hand on Blair's shoulder; whether to reassure Blair or himself, Blair didn't quite know. Probably both. "I don't know, Chief. I don't know." ********** "And it occurred to me, well, if Brackett could put two and two together, so could someone else." Brackett suppressed a grin as the man he knew only as Mr. Saunders hit the eject button of the tape player, throwing the tape onto his desk in a gesture of disgust. He knew that he was about to get reprimanded, and that smiling was thus not a very good idea. But he couldn't help feeling some *small* satisfaction at seeing the same man who had ripped him up one side and down the other for underestimating Ellison and Sandburg in the first place commit the same error. "How long until they find the bug, do you figure?" he asked before Saunders could launch into the inevitable tirade. Saunders favored him with a baleful look. "It's the latest technology. Even Ellison couldn't sense it unless he knew what to look for." "True. So like I said, how long before they find the bug?" The older man made a face. "This wouldn't *be* a problem if you had handled things properly." Brackett refused to rise to the bait. If he had truly mishandled things, they wouldn't be having this conversation. Given his current status, he wouldn't be having *any* conversation. Saunders just wanted to vent a little, and for now, Brackett was content to let him. He'd had this entire encounter scripted in his head before he was called into Saunders' office, and he was more than willing to play his part. "Maybe it's time to pull them in," he supplied his next line. Saunders sighed with exaggerated patience. "To what end? Ellison is already working with the only Sentinel expert in the country ... hell, for all we know, in the world. I doubt that having him him here, and uncooperative, in lab would garner any more information than what he and Sandburg are already figuring out. And until we know more about his abilities and how they work, we don't want to risk putting them on their guard. If we pull them in now, we'll have our hands full just keeping them, much less getting anything productive out of them." Brackett again suppressed a smile. When he'd first been brought before Saunders, still in the cuffs and leg chains supplied by the federal prison, the older man had asked his advice on what had been termed "the Sentinel Question" (no one, Brackett had thought, would ever accuse the U.S. Government of excessive imagination). He wondered if Saunders had any idea that he had just parroted back Brackett's very words. Probably not. Saunders tossed a few papers into his briefcase and closed it with a decisive snap. "We'll pull them in when the time is right," he said as he started toward the door. "For now, we're content to wait." He stood by the door to his office, obviously waiting for Brackett to follow. Brackett nodded, smoothly slipping the tape of Ellison and Sandburg's conversation into his pocket before leaving Saunders' office. Only when he was safely down the hall in the opposite direction did he allow himself a small smile. He knew full well that his knowledge on "the Sentinel Question" had only been a small part of Saunders' motivation for springing him from prison. Indeed, the entire project was relatively low on their priority list, and would no doubt be dropped if ever it became too much trouble. Aside from their inadvertent role in prompting his release, Brackett had hoped to stay as far away from any dealings with Ellison and Sandburg as humanly possible. Now, however... His mistake the last time had been in the method. Out right coercion was too clumsy, had put them on their guard, had them working against him from the outset. With a little time, and some careful planning, and the occasional hint of alliance, perhaps, just perhaps, mind you, he could turn the very instrument of his earlier defeat to his advantage. Brackett fingered the tape in his pocket. For now, he was content to wait. Finis End note : I realize I've left a fair amount hanging here, both plot-wise and emotionally. There's a reason: halfway through, I realized I was bringing up stuff that couldn't be resolved in the scope of this story, which I was trying to structure like an episode (albeit one with really long commercial breaks), and neatly dovetails into a longer story I've had percolating for a while. So, assuming there is sufficient interest , this stuff *will* be dealt with. And remember: feedback is our friend!!!!! -- Lucy Gillam it174@cleveland.freenet.edu Support Your Local Rhetorician!