Foundations by Stacie

Waking up was always the hardest thing he had to do. The rest of the day he could hide the loneliness and rage that still lingered nearly four years after the death of his wife and son. He buried himself in work, and there was plenty of work to be buried under. The number of guns and the amount of drugs increased everyday, faster than they could fight it, and their small under-budgeted ATF agency was like putting a band-aid over a shotgun wound. He buried that cynicism as well, obscured it under the paperwork and meetings and stakeouts, masked it with the guise of leadership until finally the lingering rage was chased away by the momentary exhilaration of making a clean bust and getting at least one low-life off the street.

But waking, his defenses were still down. In those few seconds between sleep and wakefulness, eyes still closed but awareness stirring, he was still back in the perfect slice of time when he was a husband and a father, and back when he was still whole. That contentment and sense of belonging lasted for mere moments before full alertness crashed in, and he remembered. Remembered death, pain, hate, and loneliness. Most of all loneliness.

Chris Larabee pulled his black Dodge Ram into the ATF parking garage seconds after the team's sharpshooter, Vin Tanner, backed his battered Jeep into his accustomed spot. Chris parked beside him, the two disparate vehicles looking like Yogi and Boo Boo, to quote Buck Wilmington.

"Morning, Vin," Chris said, climbing from his truck.

Vin nodded, waiting for Chris by the bumper. He held out a white greasy bag. "French fry?" he asked.

Chris shook his head. "God, no. I'll stick with coffee. Where the hell do you get french fries at 7 a.m.?"

Vin grinned. "I got connections."

Chris glanced at the bag as they waited for the elevator. Vin's fingers shone with grease as he scooped out a few fries and popped them in his mouth. "That can't be healthy."

"Heart attack on a stick," Vin agreed.

Chris paused, and then as the door closed behind them on the elevator, his will collapsed. "Hell, give me one," he said.

Vin grinned again. "Knew ya couldn't resist."

By the time the elevator reached the twelfth floor, Chris's fingers were as greasy as Vin's, and he was wondering if he had enough Tums left in the bottle he kept in his desk. The bottle seemed to empty faster than he could replace it. Ought to buy stock in the company, he thought.

Vin tossed the empty bag in the trash, and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Breakfast of champions," he said. "I'll make coffee." He started towards the small kitchen. The office was quiet this early, and they both liked this time best, before the others showed and things got busy.

As Vin made coffee, he marveled again at how he had ended up here, a government ATF agent, from a bounty hunter with a high school education and a few years in the Rangers. He did know why he was here. It was because of the man hunting through his desk for Tums. The man who had inspired him, helped him, challenged him, and even decked him when he tried to quit. Working full time and going to school to get a degree in Criminalistics had been too much, and at the time all he'd wanted was his slow-paced, be-his-own-boss life back; the life he'd had before he met Chris Larabee. But Chris's right hook had convinced him to keep trying. Now, he couldn't even think of being anywhere else.

Vin shook his head at his sappy thoughts. Buy the man a Hallmark card, he thought. Chris gave him friendship and trust, and that was most important. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Tanner, as if you don't stay up at night thinking thoughts you shouldn't.

He carried the now full coffee pot out of the kitchen, about to offer Chris some to wash down his Tums, when the elevator opened and retired judge and current ATF Director Orin Travis rushed out.

"Judge?" Vin said.

"Turn on the TV," Travis said. "Now."

Vin set the coffee down and grabbed the remote that Chris had bolted to the TV after JD and Buck had fought over Baywatch vs. Starsky and Hutch one too many times. Chris stepped from his office to join them, his eyes questioning. Vin shrugged.

As the picture faded in, screams and sirens could be heard behind the calm voice of a newscaster.

When the picture was complete, both Chris and Vin took a step back. "Jesus," Chris said.

On the screen, a building stood bellowing smoke, the left side crumbled in. Behind the reporter, bodies lay on the sidewalk and SWAT team members hid behind cars.

"It gets worse," Travis said, loosening his tie.

"The bomb exploded here at Terminal E around 7 a.m.," the reporter said, looking over her shoulder at the rubble. "As airline passengers rushed to the exits to escape the building, gunmen opened fire from there, the top of the Avis building."

As the camera panned to show the building, Chris felt bile rise in his throat. "Gunmen?" he said.

"Two that we know of. Picked people off like ducks in a shooting gallery," Travis answered. "No one's claimed responsibility."

"We have at least 12 confirmed dead," the reporter continued. "Dozens more injured, and rescue vehicles can't get near until the authorities know the danger is over. As you can see...."

Travis reached forward and snapped off the TV. He paused, his breathing labored. "Evie, my Evie, drove her sister to the airport this morning, a 7:45 flight back to Baltimore." Chris and Vin waited. "I haven't heard anything. I don't know anything!"

"Judge, go back to your office and keep trying. We'll take care of things here," Chris said.

Judge Travis turned and stared at Chris, his forehead red. "Find them, Chris. Whatever it takes, find them and bring them in so I can tear their throats out. This is my town!" He stormed from the office.

Chris and Vin waited until he was gone before speaking.

"We best get us some help," Chris said and Vin nodded. They both grabbed a phone.

Across the city of Denver, five beepers went off almost simultaneously. Buck Wilmington had just slid the Hell Freezes Over CD into the player of his Trans Am and was singing along to "Take it Easy" when his beeper began vibrating. He glanced at it, saw the 911, and floored the car the last block to the Federal Building.

Nathan Jackson was running late. Rain's car was in the shop, so he had to drive her across town to pick it up. But it wasn't ready, so then he had to take her to work. They'd been "discussing" the importance of calling ahead to make sure the car was ready, and Rain had just called him neurotic, when a beeper cut off her next words. They both reached for the boxes at their waists.

"Rain," Nathan said quietly as he saw the emergency 911 code. "I can't take you to work." He eased the Tahoe to the curb. "I'm really sorry, honey. I'll make it up to you." She was still fuming at the bus stop as he made an illegal U-turn and sped off.

JD Dunne didn't have a radio on his bike, so he didn't know about the bombing either. He did have headphones, and was listening to "The Rock Show" at full blast as he weaved the Ninja around traffic so that he almost didn't notice his beeper. He held it in front of his helmet, saw the 911, and nearly drove on the sidewalk to get to the Federal Building.

Josiah Sanchez spent his mornings before work in meditation, without the intrusions of modern day life. He sat on the lawn behind his small house, legs crossed, eyes closed, listening to the sounds around him as the world awakened. Birds called to each other across trees, Mrs. Leffert next door yelled at her kids to get out of bed, the stray cats he fed stumbled from under the porch, his beeper went off. It took Josiah a few seconds to recognize the electronic intrusion -- his only concession to technology at that early hour, but he saw the 911, ended his meditation with an abrupt amen and rushed to his car.

Ezra Standish already knew about the attack. His beeper went off seconds before his alarms - three clock radios and a TV - blared at him. Four different reporters described the devastation at the airport, and he didn't have to look at the beeper to know he had to hurry. He shrugged into a suit, grabbed a tie and his shoes, and slammed the door without turning off the alarms.

By 9 a.m., all seven members of ATF Team 7 sat around the scuffed conference table, watching in silence as the news showed the aftermath of the attack. Chris had kept the volume off; everything was speculation, innuendo, and flat-out sensationalism at this point anyway. Each member watched, trying to bury the horror and fear with cold analysis of what happened, how, and why. The who would come later.

Chris slowly turned back around to face the men at the table. He'd twisted his pen so much it was bent into a crescent, but he didn't notice as he looked at each team member.

"Travis gave us this, and we need to end it quickly," he said quietly.

"Any word on Evie?" Vin asked.

Chris nodded at Nathan. "Nathan got a call from Rain."

Nathan looked up, worry for his girlfriend plain in his face. "They asked her to help with triage at the scene." He swallowed before continuing. "She said Mrs. Travis was hit by some debris, but just cuts and bruises. Her sister was worse. They don't expect her to last much longer."

Chris waited a few seconds for the information to sink in. "We need to see the scene." He stood, and the others followed him silently.

At the airport, reporters, police and onlookers made it impossible to park close, so they pulled into a Burger King and walked the last mile. The crowd quieted as they neared the airport, watching with interest as they flashed their badges and slipped inside the barricades. A camera turned to film them and each avoided looking at the lens.

Chris stopped at the edge of the bombsite, the toes of his boots resting on crumbled concrete. Vin stopped beside him, their eyes scanning the scene, trying to comprehend the destruction before them. Ezra stood back, looking at the building where the snipers had been, deliberately not thinking about the devastation by mentally cataloging which local groups had the firepower to pull it off. Beside him, JD tried to stand still and silent, knowing that if he spoke, he would only ask questions with no answers, like why? Why would someone kill people they don't even know?

Josiah was wondering the same thing, all the prayers he knew from so many different religions deserting him when faced with such evil. Buck's fists clenched and his jaw tightened. The normally affable man wouldn't tolerate violence against the helpless in any form and not to have a face to direct his anger against was making him angrier.

All the men stood quietly with their own thoughts, except Nathan. The former medic walked away from the group, toward the sidewalk buried under rubble. The others watched as he knelt before a large jagged piece of concrete and rested his hand on it. Around the rock a bloodstain was slowly turning brown in the sun. Whoever had been crushed by that rock was in the hospital, or the morgue, but that stain remained as a reminder of that person. While the others saw dozens killed or injured, Nathan had a healer's eye. He saw individual people, each broken and bleeding, each needing help that was long in coming. The blood had come from a person, with a family and hopes and bills. "It's not right," he whispered. "It's just not right."

"You going to be okay, Nathan?" Chris asked. Nathan hadn't even heard his boss approach. He took his hand off the concrete and stood.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

Chris looked at him intensely, searching for the truth. Nathan met his gaze. "Maybe you should find Rain," Chris started to say, but he was interrupted.

"Larabee," a voice boomed from beyond the rubble.

A squat man wearing a white jumpsuit and hardhat stepped over the debris, removing his protective glasses.

"Thompson," Chris said. Bill Thompson was the ATF explosives expert. "You find the point of detonation?"

"Yep. Come this way." Thompson glanced over the team. "Where are your hard hats?"

"Unfortunately it clashed with my attire," Ezra replied.

Thompson didn't smile. "Safety isn't a joke, son."

"Perish the thought."

"That's enough, Ezra," Chris said. "Let's go."

"You always got to be a smart ass?" Nathan asked the undercover agent as they walked past the shattered building.

"Humor is his defense mechanism," Josiah said.

"Can't hardly call it humor," Vin said, nudging Ezra as they neared the crater at the end of the terminal.

"Mr. Tanner, you wouldn't recognize humor if it crept up and..."

"Enough," Chris repeated. "What have you got, Thompson?"

Thompson straightened his jumpsuit. "As you can see, the bomb was placed here." He pointed to the crater. "Under the main part of the terminal. Looks like C4, but analysis will confirm that."

"Not easy to get that much," Buck said.

"They must have a supplier," Ezra agreed.

Thompson started to walk around the crater. Buck followed. Buck's explosive knowledge came from his time in the SEALs, and he still tried to keep up with current technology.

Thompson stood at the far edge of the crater and raised his hands. "The terminal was raised, about 10 feet off the ground, supported by nine columns. There's part of one still standing behind Standish." They all looked at the column, then back at Thompson. "The area under here was used for storage by air traffic control and baggage handlers. Mostly luggage carts, food carts, trolleys, that sort of thing. That's all the plastic and metal bits you see on the perimeter. Given the distance of that debris, I'd guess the bomb to be relatively small, but loaded with explosives. Maybe former military. But again, I'll have to reconstruct the scene before I sign my name to it."

"You recognize the signature?" Chris asked.

Thompson shook his head. "Looks homegrown to me, though. Another McVeigh. Mad at the world and armed to the teeth."

"Guns and hate. Bad combination," Chris said.

Buck continued to walk around the site, looking at the ground.

"Judging from the force, this guy had access to some high-end explosives, real pure stuff. You could probably trace it."

"Where were the columns?" Buck interrupted.

"The what?" Thompson asked.

"The columns. You said there were nine, with part of one left standing. Where were the rest?"

"I haven't seen a blueprint yet. I would guess spread along the edges of the terminal."

Buck shook his head. "That wouldn't hold up the terminal. There had to be at least one in the middle." He stepped back to the crater. "Probably right in the center of this hole."

"So?" Thompson asked.

"So the bomber put it where it would collapse the structure, not blow it sky-high."

"Like I said, he knows what he's doing."

"He knows geometry, at least," Buck said.

"And architecture," Ezra added.

"He knows bombs," Thompson said. "Period."

A tense silence fell over the group as Buck and Thompson stared at each other.

"Anybody see anything prior?" Vin asked.

Thompson shook his head, looking away from Buck. "But that's not my department. You'll have my report by the end of the week." He gave Buck a final glance as he walked away.

"It appears you have befuddled the staid Agent Thompson," Ezra said.

Buck grinned. "Ain't hard to do."

"Okay, we've got a place to start. Ezra, you're on the weapons. Use your connections and see who has access to that kind of firepower. JD, find out what hate groups are particularly active in the area and what they're up to. Buck, you work the bomb, and Nathan, go to the hospital and talk to victims, see if anybody remembers anything. Josiah, find out what the cops, bomb squad, and FBI know and tell them to copy me on everything, but don't piss anybody off. Not yet anyway. Vin, get up on that roof and find what the SWAT team missed."

"What about you?" Vin asked.

Chris stood straighter and rolled down the sleeves of his black shirt. "I get to talk to the press."

Midnight. Pizza boxes, Chinese food cartons, and a takeaway bag from Panera Bread lay scattered across the conference table. The seven members of Team 7 were also scattered around the table, compiling all the information they'd acquired that day.

"Essentially we're looking for a sociopath with a penchant for architecture?" Ezra asked, rubbing his temples.

"Look, Chris is on TV again!" JD said.

Buck turned up the volume as their team leader shook his head. "Do they have to show it every ten minutes?" he asked.

"Shh!" Vin said with a grin.

"We are assessing the situation. We don't want to move in haste, but I can guarantee the bastards who did this will be caught and punished." Chris's grim face filled the screen before a reporter came back on.

"That was Chris Larabee, the ATF agent in charge of the case. He later denied that this would be a personal vendetta, given that the wife of his superior was injured in the blast, but he did promise those responsible would be punished to the full extent of the law."

"Turn it off," Chris muttered.

"Leave it to you, cowboy, to say 'bastard' in a sound byte," Vin said.

"You look good, though," Buck added. "Real serious-like."

"Indeed. The black of your attire offset the promise of retribution in your words." Ezra grinned at Chris's glare.

"Can we get back to work now, or do you want to critique my hair, too?"

Ezra started to speak, then thought better of it. Across from him, JD yawned. Chris looked at his team. They'd been working hard, non-stop, since he'd beeped them this morning. He put down his pen, noticing for the first time its bent shape. "Everybody, we're exhausted. Go home." He held up his hand to silence the protests. "Go home, get a few hours sleep, and we'll start again with new eyes in the morning. Seven a.m.," he said, looking at his notoriously tardy undercover agent.

"I'd wager our perpetrators sleep in until a decent hour," Ezra said, standing.

"More reason for us ta get started early," Vin replied.

"Teacher's pet," Ezra muttered as he passed, missing the elbow Vin threw at him. The room slowly cleared, until Chris and Vin sat alone at the table, surrounded by the remains of dinner.

Chris sat back in his chair, stretching his legs in front of him. He sighed as he rubbed the back of his neck. Vin watched him, and suddenly had the urge to massage the knots away himself. He looked away quickly. Where the hell had that thought come from, he wondered. No way would he let himself fall for his boss, even if his boss was also his best friend. And damn gorgeous to boot. Stop it now, Tanner, before you do something stupid. He quickly stood and grabbed some of the empty containers, and began cleaning up some of the mess.

Chris stood slowly, holding his back, then began to help. "I'm too old for these chairs," he said.

Vin smiled. "Looked good on TV, though. Thought yer jaw might crack from clenchin' it so tight."

"Damn reporters. Asking me things they know I can't tell them, just to make it look like I'm holding something back."

Vin tossed the containers in the trash. "That's why you get the big bucks," he said.

Chris leaned the pizza box against the already overflowing trashcan. "That's why I get the ulcer."

They both stood for a minute, looking out the window. The lights from the park could barely be seen against the glare of the fluorescent lights reflecting in the glass. Chris knew he'd be staying here all night, and as usual, that thought didn't bother him. Catching an hour or two of sleep on the couch in his office, at least he didn't have to face waking up alone in bed, with the remnants of memories slipping away like smoke.

Vin wasn't looking at the park lights, or even the fluorescent ones in the window. He stared at the lines creasing the face of the man next to him, and the faraway look that sometimes came over him. Vin always wondered where Chris disappeared to in those moments; behind the walls he'd built to keep people out. He'd let Vin inside a few of those walls, but there were still plenty more guarding the sorrow in the man's soul. Vin knew if he was ever to get inside, he'd have to knock them down, and that would mean changing the dynamics of their friendship. Something he wasn't quite willing to do.

He jumped a bit when Chris put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you go home too, Vin? I'll finish up here."

Vin shook his head. "I don't mind stayin'. Get more done when it's quiet anyway."

"There's nothing else we can do tonight. Get some sleep."

"You gonna follow yer own advice?"

Chris grinned sheepishly. "Couch," he said.

Vin started to refuse, but Chris cut him off. "Go home," he said.

Vin shrugged and grabbed his jacket. "Don't blame me when yer neck is so stiff you can't turn yer head," he said.

"I won't," Chris replied, turning off the conference room lights as they left the room. "Unless you know a good masseuse."

Vin's earlier thought of massaging out those knots rushed back to his head, and he looked away quickly. "Nope," he said. "But it's a great line."

Chris smiled. "Next time I'm trying to pick somebody up, I'll remember that. I just hope I don't get slapped."

"Don't knock it, cowboy. Good night."

"Night, Vin."

Vin walked to the elevators. He watched as Chris stepped into his office, but instead of going to the couch, Chris sat in front of his computer and began typing. Chris lived for his work, Vin knew that, and he understood why. What he didn't know was if it was healthy or not. If Chris was forced to face his demons, who would win? Chris was strong, but any demon that man created would be damn tough too. Chris Larabee didn't do anything halfway, including guilt trips. Vin shook his head as the elevator started to move. He'd do what he always did, stand by Chris if he needed it, and catch him if he fell.

He wrapped his jacket around him as the elevator opened to the cool air of the parking garage. His Jeep and the Ram were the only two cars left. Yogi and Boo Boo. He climbed into the door-less Jeep and leaned the seat back as far as it would go. Chris would not be the only one getting a stiff neck on two hours sleep, he thought as his eyes closed.

The next morning the whole team, including Ezra, was back at work by 7. Vin had slept a few hours in the Jeep, then climbed the stairs back to the 12th floor to get his blood pumping, only to find Chris asleep at his desk, head buried in his crossed arms. As he tiptoed away, he heard a mumbled, "I told you to go home." Since then they'd put together the layout and chain of events, and were just finishing the bare bones on a criminal profile when the rest of the team staggered back in. Their moods were as black as the coffee they'd been inhaling.

"We got nothin'," Vin said, looking again at the crime scene pictures. "Not a trace of evidence left behind, except for some little pieces of plastic."

"What do you want, a signed confession?" Chris asked, finishing the dregs of his coffee.

"Yeah. Shouldn't somebody have claimed responsibility by now?"

"Only if they're terrorists," Josiah said from the doorway. "We have to consider this may be more like Columbine than the World Trade Center."

"Kids?" Nathan asked, setting down a box of doughnuts that Chris and Vin grabbed for simultaneously.

"Maybe. Or young men trying to make a statement."

"If it was like Columbine, they'd have blown their own heads off," Vin said.

Josiah shrugged. "True."

The rest of the team joined them at the table. "You two look like shit," Buck said as he scanned the doughnut box. Vin responded with a silently raised finger.

"An eloquent comeback, Mr. Tanner," Ezra said, taking his seat.

"Let's get started. Judge Travis will be here soon, so we want to cover everything. Let's start with what Bill Thompson faxed over last night." He was interrupted by a knock on the door. One of the downstairs security guards stood in the doorway, holding a package wrapped in metallic lavender paper. A balloon covered with hearts was taped to the top. "This came for you, Mr. Larabee," the security guard said. "Didn't know it was your birthday."

Chris stared at the box in his hand, then glanced at his team. They were all thinking the same thing he was. "It's not."

"Freeze!" Chris yelled as the security guard looked like he was about the drop the package and run. "Buck, check it out."

Buck was already on his feet and headed toward the guard, who had gone completely white. Chris picked up the phone and called the front desk, telling them to evacuate the building.

"How heavy is it?" Buck asked.

"N-n-n-n-n-not heavy at all," the guard responded.

Buck looked at the wrapping. "Who dropped it off?"

The guard shrugged. "Stay still!" Buck said. The man froze. Josiah stepped beside him.

"What's your name, son?" he asked.

"J-j-jason."

"Jason, you aren't going to get hurt. Just try to breathe easy and stay as still as possible."

Jason nodded. "I gotta piss real bad."

Josiah smiled sympathetically.

"Mr. Larabee, perhaps your widely broadcast comments on TV last night provoked retaliation," Ezra said.

Vin grinned. "Callin' them bastards 'bastards' musta pissed 'em off."

"I just said that," Ezra said.

Chris hung up the phone. "Martinez at the bomb squad is on his way. He says stay calm." Chris raised an eyebrow at Jason, who was now sweating severely.

Josiah caught the look. "Jason, how long have you worked here?" he asked.

"Almost three years."

"That's a long time."

"Too long," Jason replied.

"You'll get a vacation after this," Josiah said.

"A permanent vacation," Ezra muttered.

Vin nudged him under the table. "He's got enough ta worry about."

Five minutes later, Ray Martinez arrived. He had graying hair and wore a sports coat and jeans. He stepped around the guard frozen in the doorway, and held out his hand to shake Chris's. "It's been too long, Chris," he said.

"Maybe I'll get bombs more often," Chris answered.

Martinez nodded. "Right. Let's see what we have." He turned to Jason and stared at the brightly wrapped package.

"He said it's light, and he didn't see who delivered it," Buck said.

Martinez looked thoughtful. "I have one of my men downstairs checking the surveillance tapes." His phone rang, and he answered it quickly. "Go...yes....purple....yes...got it," he said into the phone, then hung up. "Just as I expected." He reached out and grabbed the package from Jason's hands. Yells of surprise surrounded him, and Jason took off running for the stairs. Martinez turned slowly, smiling.

"Shouldn't you be wearing a protective suit?" Nathan asked.

"And taking it the hell out of my conference room?" Chris added.

Martinez's grin widened. "You need to watch more TV, Larabee." He sat the package down, removed the balloon and began unwrapping the paper. The agents took a few steps back. Martinez paused, then dramatically tore off the remaining paper. He opened the red box and peered inside, bursting into laughter. The confused agents stepped closer.

Buck looked over Martinez's shoulder, and laughed too. "Hell, Chris, looks like you got an admirer," he said, pulling out a slinky pair of women's underwear.

"More like a fan," Martinez said.

"What the hell?" Chris grabbed the box. He pulled out a chocolate rose, mint-flavored body paint, and a small stuffed tiger. Lastly he picked up a card, read it, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash, where JD hurried to retrieve it. "Is this a joke?" Chris asked.

Martinez shook his head, trying to control his laughter. "I told you, turn on the TV."

Chris looked at Vin, who turned on the set. A female reporter was standing in front of the Federal Building, in front of a group of women, all carrying packages or flowers. Nathan and Ezra both peered out the conference room window to the street below.

"Good Lord," Ezra said. "They've stopped traffic."

"Shh," Buck said.

The reporter was interviewing a woman wearing a skin-tight tank top. "He was so strong and forceful. That's who I want protecting my life."

"Is that why you came down here?" the reporter asked.

"Well, plus he's really cute."

Chris couldn't believe his eyes. "Please tell me this is a joke."

"Agent Larabee, I saw you on TV and I knew we were meant to be together," JD read from the crumpled card. "You reminded me of a tiger, strong, fierce, and virile."

Chris shook his head.

"Virile?" Vin asked.

"It gets better," Martinez said, pointing to the TV, where another woman held up a sign that read "Bomb Squad Bombshell." Chris sank into his chair as the others in the room cracked up. "I'm not on the bomb squad," he said, feeling another headache overtaking the one he already had.

"Tell me about it. They've been beating down my office door all morning," Martinez said.

"Look, there's Mrs. Potter," JD said.

On the TV, Gloria Potter, the usually conservative secretary to Judge Travis, had applied lipstick and taken her hair out of its normal bun.

"I've worked with Agent Larabee since he joined the ATF," she said. "He was instrumental in bringing my husband's murderer to justice."

"At least she got the agency right," Chris muttered, and was shushed.

"What is he doing to solve the bombing?" the reporter asked.

"Agent Larabee is the most dedicated agent there is. He's doing everything to solve this quickly," Mrs. Potter replied.

The reporter leaned in closer. "Tell me, Gloria, what is Agent Larabee's married status?"

Chris groaned and leaned forward on his elbows, rubbing his pounding temples. "This isn't happening," he said.

"You should be flattered," Josiah said with a grin.

Chris responded with a glare. "What the hell is Gloria Potter doing out there anyway? She should be working."

"You did evacuate the building, Chris. When the...uh, bomb arrived," Buck said.

"Could be worse, Chris," Vin said, reaching into the box and pulling out the candy rose. "At least you got chocolate out of it."

Nathan also looked into the box. "Those underwear. Are they edible?" The room was silent as everyone looked at him. "Rain might like them," he said, looking away.

"Take it. Take all of it," Chris said.

"There's more downstairs," Martinez said.

"Chocolate?" Vin asked.

"Candy, flowers, lingerie. You can open your own Victoria's Secret."

Vin laughed. "Christopher's Secret," he said.

"Bombshell Lingerie," Ezra added. "It has a certain je ne sais quoi to it."

"No, no, Larabee's Lingerie. It's explosive," Buck said.

"Chris's Edible Undies."

"Virile Unmentionables."

"Panties by the Cute Guy."

"You finished?" Chris asked.

"I was about to ask the same thing," a voice said from the doorway. Judge Travis walked into the room. He hadn't slept, and looked it. His eyes were red, and shadows hollowed his cheeks. He looked at the wrapping paper strewn on the table. "I assume there's an explanation for this."

"Nothing you'd believe," Chris replied.

"Then perhaps we can stop the festivities and find out who killed 14 people yesterday."

"Yes, sir," Chris said. Vin turned off the TV, and Buck picked up the box and paper and tossed them out the door.

"Call me if you need anything," Martinez said softly to Buck as he left, closing the door behind him.

Judge Travis walked to the window, looking but not seeing out. "Evie is going to be fine. She'll be released this afternoon, in time to fly her sister's body back to Baltimore," he said, turning suddenly. "Tell me what you have."

Chris stood and grabbed a yellow legal pad, filled with scrawl only he could read.

"Ezra talked to a few of his contacts, but nobody knows anything. JD got hits on three local groups in the area. Their Web sites are calling whoever did this heroes, and one called them..." he looked at his notes. "RL."

"What does RL stand for?"

Chris looked at JD. The young agent sat up straighter. "I'm not sure. They only used the name once, although they also once used Lightning, capitalized. It may actually be the initials of an organization."

"What organization?"

JD's shoulders slumped slightly. "I don't know. I haven't found a Web site or a BBS, or even any other mention of it."

Travis looked back at Chris.

"Buck thinks the bomb was meant to collapse the structure," Chris continued. "That end of the terminal only held one gate, for smaller commuter planes, so it wouldn't be the most crowded place to put a bomb, if their goal was to blow people up."

"So they create panic, people run outside, and..." Travis couldn't finish his statement.

"Texas Turkey Shoot," Vin said.

"What?"

It was Vin's turn to sit up straighter. "Back home, there are groups of wild turkeys that go roamin' around farms, hidin' out in trees. Every Thanksgiving, a bunch of hunters get together and toss a firecracker into the trees, and out come the turkeys."

"That's horrible," JD said.

Vin shrugged. "Didn't say I did it."

Judge Travis looked back out the window. "Then their goal was to shoot people," he said softly.

"Nathan found a few witnesses at the hospital, but nothing definitive," Chris said. "One airport employee thinks he saw a man under the terminal the day before, but he didn't get a good look. Another flight attendant may have seen a delivery truck in the area."

He turned a page. "There wasn't a lot of forensic evidence on the roof." He looked at Vin. "Tell him what you did find."

Vin turned in his chair to face the judge. "If I had ta guess, I'd say one's a crack shot, and the other's a greenhorn. One was perched in an alcove, aiming through a rain duct. Hard shot, not a lot of line of sight, but he hit most of his targets. Other feller was up behind the safety gate, looking over the exit plain as day, but he hit the structure more than he hit any people."

"What type of weapons?" Travis asked.

"Range and what the witnesses said about the number of bullets, I'd guess an M82 or maybe one of the newer .50 calibers."

"No shell casings?"

"No," Josiah answered. "Forensics thinks they put down plastic or a tarp. They found no fingerprints, fibers, or shells. They did find something sticky on the roof, but it's still being analyzed."

"Mountain Dew," Vin said.

"Dare I ask how you discovered that, Mr. Tanner?" Ezra asked.

"Hell, Ez, I know what Mountain Dew tastes like."

"It's amazing you don't collect diseases like Buck collects phone numbers."

"Is that all we have?" Travis asked tiredly.

Chris looked at Josiah. The profiler sat forward, steepling his fingers. He gathered his thoughts before speaking.

"The police and FBI have had a lot of cranks and false leads, but I don't think we can expect the perpetrators to claim responsibility."

"Why?" Travis asked.

"Now, this is just my gut feeling, but there wasn't a specific target, like government employees or classmates."

"So you think it's just for fun?"

Josiah raised his eyes to the window. The sun's rays illuminated fine particles of dust in the air. "I don't see a purpose, even a warped one. And I think they'll strike again, until they're caught."

Travis sighed. "We don't have a lot."

Chris looked him in the eyes. "Not yet."

Travis stared back. "If you can't give this case your full and complete attention, let me know now."

Chris's green eyes hardened to emeralds. "This case is mine," he said.

"Good," Travis nodded. He left the room without another word.

Chris slammed down his pen. "We're no closer than we were 12 hours ago," he said.

The others were just as tired and frustrated. The only lead they'd had was a possible on RL. JD had found a user in a chat room with an icon of a red lightning bolt, but when he'd tried to trace it he only came up with a dead end. He'd sent the information to their computer analysis department, and they'd come up with the same: nothing.

For hours, the team had pored over the user's cryptic message.

WE DO ONLY WHAT THEY TEACH US

Others in the chat room had questioned the message too, and had called him a fraud. His response to that was more straightforward.

YOU'RE NEXT

Other than the possible lead - or possible quack - they were playing a waiting game, and it was frustrating them all, none more than Chris. He hated sitting around, talking about hypotheticals. He wanted to be out chasing these bastards down, not sitting on his hands waiting for forensics or computer analysis to find something. He stood suddenly and walked to the break room. The coffee pot was empty; he grabbed it and for just a second was tempted to throw it against the wall, until Vin appeared in the doorway.

"Be better to smash something we don't use, like that bottle of dish soap."

Chris's shoulders sagged, and he smiled. "Nathan uses the soap."

"So does Ezra," Vin said.

"And Josiah." Chris put the pot on the counter and leaned against it. "I hate this, Vin," he said.

"We all do. But you know waitin' these guys out is almost as important as huntin' them down."

"Never was good at waiting," Chris said.

"No kiddin'," Vin said. He refilled the coffee pot with water and added new grounds to the already used filter.

"Do you always make coffee like that?" Chris asked.

"Yep. Why?"

"Explains a lot." Chris sighed. "I'll tell the others to go home. I'd tell you too, but you'd just ignore me."

"Reckon I would," Vin replied.

The others agreed to leave more readily than Chris expected. "Looks like they're anxious to get out of here," he told Vin as they spread out their notes, looking for something they missed.

In the garage, there was an uneasy silence as the other five team members walked to their cars, each lost in thought. They stood in a jagged semi-circle for a moment, thinking something pertinent should be said but none knowing what to say.

Ezra finally broke the silence with a terse "Good night, gentlemen," and headed towards his car.

The sound of car alarms disengaging echoed throughout the empty garage. JD started towards his bike, but then stopped. "Buck," he called out. "Can I catch a ride? We're just coming back here in a few hours anyway."

"Sure, kid. Maybe we should just bring pillows and sleep here."

"Like Chris and Vin?" JD said as he climbed into the Trans Am.

Buck paused a second before climbing into the car, a weird thought popping into his head. "Nah," he said out loud, and started the engine.

From the garage, the line of cars trailing down the ramp dispersed, each driver going his own way with a definite mission that didn't include sleep.

When they arrived back at the apartment they shared, Buck and JD each disappeared into his own room. Buck kicked a pile of clothes out of the way and knelt before the bed, lifting the black bedspread and peering underneath. He grimaced as he saw the accumulated papers, clothes, sports equipment, shoes, and various other items under the dusty mattress, including a lacy nightgown. He began pushing things out of the way, pausing only long enough to retrieve an old Bob Seger tape he thought he'd lost forever, before reaching his goal, a tattered storage box. He pulled it out gingerly. It was heavy and the cardboard was ready to collapse. When it was free of the mattress, he blew away layers of dust and a few spiders before tossing aside the lid. Inside lay a stack of books, manuals, and loose papers, all related to one subject: bombs. He took the nearest one, a tattered copy of the ATF Explosives Law and Regulations, and began reading.

Inside his room, JD waited impatiently for his computer to boot up, munching on a bag of Fritos that had been left on the desk. Once the screen appeared, he quickly established a new identity, Lightning Strike, and went back to where Red Lightning had placed his cryptic messages. In the few hours since he'd last been there, dozens of new messages had been posted, both applauding and condemning the attack. He swallowed the last of the Fritos, and delved into the conversation with a cryptic message of his own.

Josiah pulled his Suburban into the empty parking lot of Nativity Catholic Church. It had been over a year since he'd been inside, since the funeral of Sister Margarita, the last person to remember his father's tenure as lector in the small church located on the outskirts of Vista City. Although not an ordained priest, his father had usurped the power of the relatively docile congregation, ultimately decrying the priest as too lenient. When poor Father Richard had preached forgiveness and acceptance, his father had stood and given his own sermon from the front pew, louder and fiercer in his promise of eternal damnation than Father Richard's promise of reward. Twelve-year-old Josiah and his sister Hannah cringed in fear on either side of their bellowing father, willing the wrath of God to be spoken by someone other than him. It would be years and several churches later before both Josiah and Hannah rebelled against the man who had raised them, each in a vastly different way.

Of all the churches his father had taken them to, and was ultimately banished from, Nativity still held a place in Josiah's heart as a place of comfort, as well as being the only church around that kept its doors open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

He walked down the polished aisle, stopping to genuflect before he sat in the front pew. He looked at the cross with the image of Jesus on it; more serene than many other crucifixes he had seen. Usually his prayers came easily, but in this hallowed place, the words he wanted to say died on his lips. He started with the Lord's Prayer then asked for mercy for those still in the hospital and for help in finding the guilty ones. He was speaking aloud, his voice growing from a whisper to a shout as he stood and finally voiced the question he couldn't wrap his faith around: "Why?"

Nathan pulled to the curb a few blocks from the Federal Building, dialing his own home. When he got the machine, he hung up and dialed Rain's cell phone, and got her voice mail. Hearing her voice, even in a recording, made him want to see her more. She'd already pulled a double shift at Denver Memorial, but with the bomb and sniper victims still there, no one was going to tell her to go home. He knew he'd have to drag her away, but he needed to see her, even if only for a cup of bad coffee. He headed for the hospital.

Ezra straightened his jacket as he sat in the booth of the dingy 24-hour diner, trying not to touch anything. He'd have to have his suit cleaned; make that fumigated. He looked at his Rolex. 2:15. Walleye was late, and if he didn't show up in the next two minutes, Ezra was going to personally haul him in for as many parole violations as he could think of.

The waitress came back to the table, coffee pot in hand. "You can't just coop here. You need to order or get out," she said.

"I don't suppose you have Brie?" The waitress just looked at him. "Coffee," he said. Thirty seconds, Walleye, he thought, and then you're going to be somebody's bitch.

The door opened behind him, the bell jangling cheerfully, and he looked at the dingy mirror lining the back of the diner. A man in a faded parka and torn jeans stood just inside, looking around. He saw Ezra and headed his way.

"You're late," Ezra said.

"Traffic," Walleye replied. Walleye, a.k.a Wallace Edmond III, was a low-level dealer with more attitude than brains. His father had been one of the town's powerful bankers, before dying of a massive coronary and leaving Walleye a fortune, which he shot into his veins. He also had abnormally large eyes.

"You gonna buy me breakfast or what?" Walleye asked.

"Be my guest," Ezra said. He knew he'd have to be patient. He'd forced this meeting, and that was never a good practice. The man was scared; that meant he knew something to be scared of.

After Walleye ordered enough food for an army, Ezra sat forward, hands on the table. "Walleye, sir, I need your help once again."

The snitch shook his head. "Told you before, I don't know shit."

"Then why are you nervous?"

"Cuz, man, I'm hungry and I'm jonesin' and I'm sitting here with a cop. They see me with you, maybe they blow me up next." Walleye fidgeted with his silverware as he spoke, looking around.

Ezra lowered his voice. "If who sees you with me?"

"Them, man, them that blew up the airport."

"You know who did it?"

Walleye shook is head again. "I didn't say that. I didn't say nothing. And if you're smart, you'll leave it alone."

"Then give me a name, somebody else I can talk to, and I'll leave you alone."

The waitress appeared and began setting down plates of greasy food. Walleye jumped up suddenly, startled by her presence, and knocked a plate out of her hands. The crash made everyone else in the diner turn to look.

"Walleye, calm down," Ezra said. "Sit down and eat."

Walleye backed away, dragging his feet through scrambled eggs. "No, you're gonna get me blown up. Just stay away from me, man." He turned and ran out the door, the bell on the door jangling madly as it slammed behind him.

"Junkies," the waitress muttered, glaring at Ezra for a second before bending to pick up the mess.

Ezra pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty onto the table. Well done, Ezra, he thought as he walked outside. What now?

"You gonna finish that?"

Chris looked up, awakened from his reverie by Vin's question. He pushed the paper plate containing a slice of Meat Lover's pizza towards the sharpshooter.

Vin folded the pizza in half and shoved it into his mouth.

Chris shook his head. "Damn, Vin, ever hear of chewing?"

Vin only smiled with his mouth full.

Chris stood and walked to the window. Down below the city was quiet; he didn't even know what time it was. Somewhere out there were the people responsible for the bombing, for destroying lives of people they didn't even know. "Cowards," he whispered. Try as he might, he couldn't escape the nagging memory of his own family, also destroyed by a coward's bomb. He'd found the bomber, but not the man who'd hired him. That man was still out there too, alive and breathing, while his family, his wife and his beloved son, were gone. The familiar hollow built in his chest, and he clenched his fists to fight the memory. He wasn't going to let the reminder of his family's murder distract him from this case; it had already run him out of his own house.

Vin's reflection appeared in the glass behind him. "Chris? You all right?"

Chris pushed himself away from the window, taking a deep breath before turning around. "Yeah, fine."

Vin nodded. "Thought I might head home for a bit, take a shower, sleep with my head on a pillow." He paused. "Since you got such a long drive, you're invited to my place. Might clear yer head to get out of here for a bit."

Chris was tempted. He'd showered down in the gym, but he still felt gritty, and Vin's apartment was a hell of a lot closer than his ranch. He didn't want to make that drive, only to end up at his dark house, which was always quiet, always still, no matter how many people were there. Most of all he didn't want to sleep, only to wake up clutching at memories.

Vin could see Chris thinking it over. When he'd offered, he'd only done it so Chris would get a few hours of decent sleep. But now he saw more behind Chris's hesitation: Chris didn't want to go home. That huge, beautiful ranch he owned, with more land than the eye could see, and Chris didn't want to face it. Jesus, Vin wondered, how long has that been going on, and he hadn't noticed? He thought he knew most everything about Chris, but the man had those damn walls he was hiding behind, walls Vin would have to break down if he wanted to get close to him. Shit, Tanner, he realized, you've got it bad.

Finally, Chris nodded.

"Good," Vin said. "Didn't want ta have to tell you that you stink."

Chris grabbed his jacket, feeling more relaxed as the decision was made. "Surprised you could tell. You're a bit ripe yourself."

Vin laughed. "Don't I know it. Too bad I can't offer you a washin' machine. But we can stop at that new 24-hour Wal-Mart if you want, get you some clean underwear."

Chris merely raised an eyebrow. Vin glanced at his skin-tight black jeans, then back up, grinning. "Shit, Larabee, you're gonna damage somethin' that way."

Chris grinned back. "I prefer my freedom."

With that image in his head, Vin followed Chris to the elevator.

Vin fumbled with the keys to his apartment. The hallway was dark; damn light was out again. Finally he found the right key and opened the door with a sigh. Chris followed him inside.

"Excuse the mess," Vin said, sliding a pile of clothes and a tattered copy of Guns and Ammo off the couch to the floor.

"I had a place like this once. My first apartment." Chris looked around. "All that's missing is the beer can tower."

"I recycle," Vin said, smiling. "You want dibs on the shower?"

Chris sat on the couch and stretched his legs in front of him. "Go ahead," he said. Vin stood a moment, watching as Chris closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Vin had that damn urge to give him a massage again. Definitely time for a cold shower.

As he peeled off his clothes, Vin tried to straighten out his thoughts. He'd never wanted a friend before. Of course, that could be because he didn't really have friends before he joined the ATF. As much as he loved his job, he always thought in the back of his mind that he could go back to that loner lifestyle if he needed to. Now he wasn't so sure.

He climbed into the shower and lathered his hair. He really didn't know Chris as well as he thought; he'd seen him angry, frustrated, and worried, but he'd also seen him relaxed and damn near happy, and the man could be as bawdy as anybody. Yet at the end of the night, he always left alone, despite Buck's best attempts to set him up, and went home to that empty house. What he did there, Vin couldn't begin to guess. He really must have loved his wife and son, Vin thought, but would they want this for him? On the other hand, what gave him the right to interfere?

He washed away two days worth of grime from his body, not reaching a conclusion. He was attracted to Chris, he had to admit that, but not in a way he'd ever felt before. He'd been in love, twice -- at least he thought it was love - both times with women. But the best sex he'd ever had had been with men, which he figured made him a Jerry Springer episode waiting to happen. What he felt for Chris was neither of those, love nor lust. Or maybe it was both. Did he want or need? And what if he was wrong? He'd lose the best friend he'd ever had.

The image of Chris sprawled on his couch popped into his head, and he knew what he needed right then, cold shower or not. He leaned against the wall and quickly stroked himself to a fast, empty climax, still not reaching a conclusion.

WE HAVE LEARNED OUR LESSONS WELL

teach the rest of us

WE ARE

teach me

PAY ATTENTION

educate educators but the first ones must educate themselves

DON'T QUOTE OTHERS, DO SOMETHING

tell me what to do

DESTRUCTION IS POWER

The strongest cause the most damage

YOU ARE LEARNING

teach me more

PAY ATTENTION

Chris caught the beer Vin tossed him as he stepped back into the living room. His hair was still wet from the shower and wild from a vigorous toweling, and the sweatpants he'd borrowed from Vin were too short and didn't hide a thing, especially given his aversion to underwear. Vin gulped down the rest of his beer and turned his attention back to the TV. He flipped past an infomercial and stopped on a Behind the Music episode featuring Kiss. He started to change the channel, but Chris halted him.

"Hold up," he said, sitting beside Vin on the couch. "Whatever happened to these guys?" he asked, opening his beer.

"Probably livin' in New Jersey with five kids," Vin said.

Chris laughed. "Probably."

Vin watched a man in black and white face paint talk about orgies and drugs. "You really like them?" he asked.

"When I was 16, sure. Lost my virginity to 'Beth.'" As if on cue, the song started playing. "That's it. Marlene Schwartz. Head cheerleader."

"And you were captain of the football team."

Chris glanced at Vin, thinking he heard a touch of bitterness, but Vin was staring at the TV. "Of course not," he said. "I'm from Indiana. We play basketball." He took another swig from his beer. "I wonder what happened to her?"

"Probably livin' in New Jersey..."

"With five kids," Chris finished. They watched in silence for a few minutes.

"Ghostbusters," Vin said.

Chris looked at him.

"That's the song I lost my virginity to."

Chris laughed. "Really? How old were you?"

"Fifteen."

"What was her name?"

Vin paused. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell the truth, that "she" was named Robbie Browning, but he chickened out. He shrugged. "Don't remember," he said.

Chris leaned forward. "Bullshit. Was it that bad?"

Vin grinned. "Actually, it was over pretty quickly."

Chris smiled back. "Me too."

Chris sat back, and as the credits rolled, Vin began rapidly changing channels again.

"Christ, Vin, stop on something. You're giving me a headache."

"Yer getting' old is all," Vin muttered.

"I heard that."

Vin finally stopped on Animal Planet. The camera showed a koala sleeping in a tree.

"Is this that nut job Australian guy?" Chris asked.

"Hope so," Vin answered.

The show followed the koalas as they ate, slept, moved a few inches, and slept some more.

"That's the life," Chris said.

"Ain't that the truth."

Vin got some Doritos during a commercial, and sat back down as the cameras captured the koalas at night, mating. The male dug his claws into the female's fur; she would break away only to be chased down, clawing and biting each other as they clung to trees for a few hard-fought seconds of humping.

"Mean little critters," Vin said, glancing at Chris, who nodded. He turned his attention back to the koalas who were still going at it, this time tumbling over the ground before the male locked his jaw on the female's shoulder. As the male maneuvered into position, an idea invaded Vin's consciousness before he could stop it; he wondered what mounting Chris would be like. At that thought, he felt his cock harden, and he shifted position, trying to hide his predicament.

He glanced again at Chris, and saw Chris watching him, an amused grin on his face.

"You really get into these nature shows," Chris said.

Vin grinned back, shrugging. "Been a while," he said, shifting again. "You interested in something stronger?"

"You mean with people instead of cute fuzzy bears?" Chris asked.

Vin tossed a Dorito at him. "Yeah, with people," he said. He didn't know what made him suggest it, embarrassment maybe, but it was too late to take it back now. Since Chris was merely amused, he'd just play it out to see where it lead.

"What have you got?" Chris asked.

Vin stood, gingerly, and walked to the TV, pulling out a drawer below. "Pick yer poison," he said.

Chris walked to the drawer. Behind copies of Westerns, documentaries, and an occasional action flick, there was a row of black boxes, with titles like 69th Street, Ass Clowns, and Cum One Cum All.

Chris looked at the tapes, then back at Vin several times.

"They're Buck's," Vin answered, not meeting Chris's look. "He said he ran out of room. I think he was trying to cheer me up after...you know."

Chris shook his head. "He gave me some too. He said I need to get back out there, dating, so he gave me the tapes to remind me what I'm missing."

"And?"

"And I'm out of practice," Chris replied with a shy smile.

Vin's pants were even tighter, and he looked back in the drawer. "How about this one?" he asked, pulling out the first box he touched.

"Looks like a classic."

Vin slid the tape in the machine and sat on the floor, leaning back against the couch. Chris sat beside him, leaning across him to grab some Doritos. Vin kept his eyes on the TV, on the women with abnormally large breasts giving head to the men with huge cocks. He listened to the exaggerated moans of the women, saw the men spurt into their faces, but his only thoughts were on the man beside him and what was going on in his head.

From the corner of his eye he saw Chris shift position. Please, God, let me not be wrong about this, Vin thought, and unbuttoned his jeans.

He kept his eyes forward, but every nerve of his body was aware of Chris. After a moment that seemed like an eternity, he heard the whisper of material as Chris pushed the sweatpants lower on his hips.

With the soundtrack of the porn movie in the background, Vin slowly eased his cock out of his jeans, sighing as the hard muscle was finally freed of the restricting material. He looked over at Chris, meeting the man's amused green eyes. Chris looked down appraisingly at Vin and then pulled his own cock out of the sweatpants, his loud sigh mimicking Vin's. Whatever he expected, he sure as hell didn't expect Chris to be so damn playful.

Imitating Chris, he looked down at the blonde's cock, at the length that was still semi-soft. He'd known Chris was hung; those damn jeans didn't hide any secrets, but seeing it in the flesh, to coin a phrase, was even better than Vin imagined. He couldn't believe this was actually happening. He leaned back again and began lightly stroking himself, hoping Chris would follow suit.

When he glanced back over, Chris had his head back against the couch and his eyes closed.

"So how long has it been?" Chris asked.

Vin thought it over. "Six, seven months," he answered. Since Charlotte, he added silently.

"I got that beat," Chris said. "Over a year."

"Jesus, Chris."

Chris raised his head and looked at him, a hint of loss clouding his eyes. "I just can't go through with it. After Sarah, there wasn't anybody for a long time. Then I went nuts for a while, fucking anybody who was willing. But now..." He shrugged. "I don't want a one night stand and I don't want somebody looking to walk down an aisle either. Makes for a lot of this," he said, moving his hand on his cock.

"Sometimes it's nice just to be touched by someone else," Vin said. He looked at Chris, at the sadness still in his eyes. "You know?"

Chris nodded, and then Vin saw understanding dawn in his eyes. The amused smile was back.

"What exactly are you offering, Vin?"

"If you don't know, cowboy, then you are out of practice." Vin raised himself on his knees facing Chris, his cock jutting in front of him. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it behind him. Chris hesitated then also got on his knees. They were close enough that Vin could feel the tip of Chris's cock on his belly. He reached for it, encircling the warm hard flesh in his hand, and Chris groaned softly and closed his eyes.

"That is nice," Chris said, his body swaying slightly to the rhythm as Vin started moving his hand. He opened his eyes and placed one hand on Vin's shoulder, then grabbed Vin's shaft with the other, following Vin's movements until they set up an exact rhythm, gradually moving faster and squeezing firmer, until Chris clutched Vin's shoulder and cried out, his cum shooting onto Vin's stomach. Vin came right after, his hips thrusting his cock into Chris's fist until he was empty.

They stayed that way for a few seconds, catching their breaths, then Vin grabbed some of the clothes he'd tossed earlier on the floor and cleaned up, handing Chris a towel from the pile. Vin pulled his shirt back on and refastened his jeans. Chris pulled up the sweatpants and leaned back against the couch. Vin sat beside him, closer than before but not touching. They sat in silence, not uncomfortable but neither knowing what to say.

Finally Vin reached forward and muted the TV. "Robbie Browning," he said.

"What?" Chris asked.

"My first time was with Robbie Browning. He was a bit older, worked at a garage where I was sweeping floors."

"Oh," Chris said.

"Ain't what yer thinkin'. I liked him. I liked Charlotte. Don't matter what they are outside."

"You're lucky."

Vin smiled sadly. "Don't feel lucky."

Chris was quiet for a while, and Vin told himself not to say another word. If he'd crossed a line, he'd know it soon enough without hurrying it along.

Chris took a long sip of beer. Looking straight ahead, he said. "Will Tyler. Camp, seventh grade. We were horny as hell and didn't know what to do about it. One night we snuck out and peeked in one of the girls' cabins. They weren't doing much, talking mostly, but I looked over and Will was pumping himself like there was no tomorrow. So I did too."

Vin watched his profile, the strong lines of cheek and chin contrasted with soft, full lips. "Was that it?" he asked.

"Until the end of summer. We were bored and homesick, and Will had stolen some cheap beer from one of the counselors. We split a six-pack and ended up jacking each other off, like now." He finished the last of his beer. "Then I puked my guts out."

Vin looked away quickly. He knew Chris wouldn't change his entire lifestyle because of one night, but he was hoping for a bit more than a pubescent circle jerk. He started to stand, but he felt Chris's hand on his arm.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Vin. I just wanted to...I just meant to show you...hell, I'm not thinking straight."

Vin glanced at Chris's hand. "Me either," he said. "I'm not goin' to get any sleep tonight anyway, might as well head back to the office."

Chris stared at him, trying to figure out what to say to make things right. He honestly didn't know what the hell just happened, or what it meant, but he knew he'd made things worse instead of better. When Vin didn't drop his gaze, Chris pulled his hand away, and crushed the beer can. "Might as well," he agreed.

...The grenade hit behind him, but Nathan kept running. He clutched his med kit tighter and dove into a wide foxhole just as another explosion lit up the sky. In the seconds in between blasts, he could hear a low moan coming from the overturned Jeep 100 yards in front of him. Nathan wiped the sweat from his eyes and bolted from cover, running in a crouch to the Jeep and diving behind it as he heard anti-aircraft fire.

The man driving the Jeep was dead, his eyes open and staring ahead in shock. The passenger was the one moaning. He was still strapped in, hanging upside down, a pool of blood collecting beneath him on the sand. Nathan pulled the dead soldier from the Jeep and crawled in to the passenger.

"Easy now," he said. "Where are you hurt?" The man only moaned in response. Nathan checked for injuries and was about to apply bandages to a leg wound when he felt his scalp begin to tingle, like nothing he'd ever felt before. He tried to ignore it, but a voice in his head was ordering him to get out, now. He sliced the soldier's seatbelt with his knife, caching the limp body and dragging it out of the Jeep. "Run, run, run," the voice in his head ordered. He hefted the soldier into a fireman's carry and began running for the foxhole. The bomb hit while he was still 10 feet from safety...

Nathan awoke with a start. Sweating, he looked around frantically. Where was he? The Marine infirmary?

"Nathan," a soft voice said. He looked down into deep brown eyes. Rain rested her head on his shoulder.

"Rain," he said with a sign. He wasn't back in Desert Storm; he was at Denver Memorial, lying on a couch in the doctors' lounge.

"Bad dream?" Rain asked, sitting up and stretching.

"I wish," he said. He stood, popping his back then reaching forward to touch his toes. As he straightened, his eyes widened.

"Nathan?" Rain asked. "What's wrong?"

His scalp was tingling, same as before. He grabbed Rain's hand and headed for the exit.

"What is it?" Rain asked, stumbling.

Run, run, run, get out now, pounded in his head as he dragged Rain to the emergency exit. With his other hand, he hit speed dial on his phone. He had just made it to the door when the bomb exploded.

...Josiah cowered in the corner of the pew. His father raged before him, using him as an example of evil, before the entire congregation. In his fury, his father's eyes watered, his face pulsed with redness, spittle flew from his lips as he invoked God's wrath to save this lost sinner before he burned in everlasting hellfire. Josiah was terrified of the man before him, the man who had never raised his voice in anger until the summer before, when all his prayers couldn't stop the cancer that decimated his mother. Now all he saw were demons.

His father raised his hands to heaven. "Give me the strength to teach this ignorant sinner. Learn what I teach you, boy, learn what I teach you." He stretched his hands toward Josiah, who backed further away, trying to become part of the hard wooden pew.

Suddenly his sister jumped in front of him, yelling just as loud as the man before her, "He's not a sinner. He's just a little boy. You're the sinner!" His father's slap across her cheek echoed through the cathedral, the stunned congregation gasping.

"My God, why has Thou forsaken me?" his father moaned, sinking to his knees...

Josiah opened his eyes slowly. The novice who had been gently tapping him to get him to wake up jumped away, nearly stumbling on his robes. Josiah took a second to catch his breath, his dream still pounding in his veins.

"I'm sorry, sir, we have to get ready for early mass," the novice said.

Josiah looked at the pale, trusting face, so much like his own at that age. He hoped this young man would have better luck in the priesthood than he did.

"No, I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to fall asleep." He was interrupted by his beeper. He didn't even have to look to know it read 911. Josiah closed his eyes. "My God, not again."

...Buck reached again for the wire but it slid out of his slippery fingers. The clock before him ticked away, closer and closer to high noon, when the bomb would explode, but he couldn't get a grasp on the wire. He knew which wire to cut that would defuse the bomb, but every time he tried to grab it, it slithered away like an eel. He tried again and again until the clocked ticked to 12...

JD shook Buck again. The man slept like the dead. "Buck, wake up," he said, shoving books out of the way with his feet. "Buck!"

Buck jerked awake, hitting his head on the wall. He groaned. He'd fallen asleep on the floor reading, and his back was making him pay. "What is it? What happened?" He looked up at JD, also in the same clothes, looking like he hadn't slept either.

"I'm in," JD said.

Suddenly, two beepers went off simultaneously.

Denver Memorial was chaos. Chris maneuvered the Ram to a police barricade, showing an overwhelmed beat cop his ID.

"Leave the truck here," the officer said. "It's like a war zone in there."

Chris and Vin hurried from the truck, ducking under the barricade and ignoring shouted questions from reporters.

"How did they beat us here?" Vin asked.

As they neared the hospital, they slowed, again trying to take in the destruction. The west end of the hospital, the emergency room wing, had collapsed onto itself, forming a pyramid of rubble. Firemen rushed everywhere, carrying dazed and bleeding people away from the devastation.

"Find Nathan," Chris said, scanning the injured. When Nathan's call had come, his heart had nearly stopped hearing the ex-medic's hurried "Chris," then nothing but static. He grabbed a man in an FBI jacket. "What's the latest?" he asked.

The man wiped dirt and sweat from his hands. "Three confirmed dead from gunshots. Shooters got away clean. Estimate 20 in the ER at the time." He looked back at the building. "Bastards," he said, then hurried off.

Vin tugged on Chris's jacket. "Nathan's over there," he said.

Chris turned to look. Nathan was on the edge of the rubble, covered in matted dust, giving CPR to a man on the ground. Chris and Vin rushed over just as Rain appeared guiding two men with a stretcher.

"Probably a heart attack," she said. "Only superficial injuries that I can see."

Nathan stood as the paramedics lifted the injured man onto the stretcher and rushed him to an ambulance. He didn't hear Chris call his name, and turned to look when his boss grabbed his arm.

"Are you hurt?"

Nathan shook his head, pointing to his ears. Chris pointed back at the blood on Nathan's shirt.

"Not mine," he said, his voice louder than normal. Chris squeezed his shoulder.

Josiah hurried up to them. "Nathan, are you hurt?" he asked.

"Can't hear ya," Vin said. "He was too close to the blast."

Nathan turned to Josiah. "Not my blood," he said again. Behind him another stretcher rushed by, with Rain shouting injuries to paramedics. As they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, she suddenly took a few steps back, then collapsed on the sidewalk.

"Rain!" Nathan shouted, running to her. He quickly checked for injuries. "Concussion, maybe," he said, peeling open one of her eyelids. "Response okay. Respiration okay. Skin cold and clammy."

The paramedics hurried back over. "We got room," one of them said. Nathan looked back at Chris, who nodded.

"Josiah, go with them," Chris said. He and Vin watched as Nathan lifted Rain into the ambulance, and Josiah folded the doors behind them. The ambulance screeched away in a wail of sirens, and Josiah watched for a second before hurrying back to his car to follow.

"Now it's personal," Chris said.

"Now it's personal." The news program opened with Chris's statement, caught unaware by a local station. Ezra hurriedly turned it off as his boss stepped off the elevator. He would be in no mood to deal with that just yet.

Chris stormed through the ATF office to the conference room, stopping short in the doorway. Ezra winced; another five minutes and he would have had the room cleared, but as it was, the bomb squad's attempt at levity was still piled on top of the table.

Chris eyed the wrapped packages, balloons, flowers, and stuffed animals with scorn. He'd just come from a second devastating bomb attack, and these goddamn people were sending him balloons? He stepped to the table and swept the packages off with such force they knocked over the chair at the far end. A lone stuffed rabbit remained. He clutched it in his fist.

"Takin' it out on the bunny won't help us catch them," Vin said from the doorway. Ezra stood behind him.

Chris wanted to rip the ears off the damn thing, but instead he threw it into the pile of other presents for the Bomb Squad Bombshell.

"Where's Buck?" he said.

"He said JD might have a lead. They were coming right in," Ezra answered, stepping into the room and sitting at the table.

Chris nodded. Vin walked behind him, taking another chair. "Should we turn on the news?" he asked, tossing a box of Sweet Tarts to the floor.

"I wouldn't," Ezra said.

Chris looked at him. "What now?" he asked.

"It's a low priority," Ezra replied.

Buck and JD hurried in from the elevator.

"You won't believe what the kid found out," Buck said.

"I could use some good news," Chris answered.

"Depends on what you call good news," Buck said.

JD spread the printout of his conversation with Red Lightning on the table. Chris reached for the pages, but paused as Judge Travis stepped into the room. He still looked tired, but his eyes were more alert.

"How's Nathan?" he asked.

Both Buck and JD looked up. "Nathan?" Buck asked.

"He's going to be okay," Chris answered. "Mild concussion, bruises. Rain is a bit more serious. They're still running tests. Josiah's with them."

Travis nodded.

"How's Evie?" Chris asked.

"She says she's fine," Travis answered. "She also says she understands why I couldn't go to her sister's funeral. Both are lies."

There was a silence until the judge took a few deep breaths. "I just heard from Osserman at the FBI," he said. "Final count: nine dead, 17 injured. One is still missing, an orderly named Fred Herndon, but they have more rubble to go through."

Chris turned to Ezra. "Any luck with the weapons?"

"There is definitely something amiss but no one is talking. They're afraid, and that's worrisome in itself."

"Ask again," Chris said.

"Now?"

At Chris's nod, the undercover agent stood and headed for the door.

"Buck, go with him," Chris added. Ezra started to protest. "Just go, Ezra," Chris said.

Judge Travis watched them leave, then sat in Ezra's chair.

"We still have nothing then," Travis said.

Chris and Vin glanced at each other, then Chris said, "No, sir."

At the end of the table, JD watched the three men. He hardly ever felt young and inexperienced; his mother had once told him that what he lacked in smarts he made up for in bluster. But in the presence of three of the ATF's finest, without Buck to back him up, he was having second thoughts about Red Lightning. He'd been so sure this morning, so sure that he'd agreed to meet with him. Buck had nixed that idea, saying instead they had to show the printout to Chris and let him come up with a plan. So Buck had thought it was at least possible that Red Lightning knew about the bombings, and wasn't some 12-year-old computer geek. If he was going to say anything, it had to be now. Judge Travis was starting to leave.

"I might have a lead," JD said, louder than he'd intended. Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him, and he tried not to gulp. "I contacted Red Lightning, from the chat room." He slid the papers towards his boss. "It sounds like the real thing. Buck thought so too."

Chris scanned the pages. "Which one are you?" he asked.

"LS. Lightning Strike."

"How can you be sure this guy isn't just yanking your chain?"

"I can't. But at the time, I was dead sure. I guess it'd be a hunch."

Chris handed the pages to Judge Travis.

"Did you try to trace this Red Lightning?" Travis asked.

"Yes. He's hidden pretty well, but I couldn't run a thorough check, or he'd be on to me."

Vin looked at the pages after Travis. "Why'd he brag about it?" Vin asked.

"I don't think he's supposed to. I got the feeling he knows about it, but he's real low on the totem pole. I think he's sort of proud to be in on it."

"That makes sense. A lot of criminals are caught because they can't keep their mouths shut," Chris said.

"He wants to meet you at the power station at midnight tonight," Vin said.

Chris shook his head. "Too many buildings," he said.

"We don't have time to set up surveillance," Travis added.

"He could wear a wire," Vin suggested.

"Or you could go, Vin. This guy doesn't know what JD looks like," Chris said.

JD watched as the operation was quickly yanked away from him, and that bluster his mother warned him about took over.

"No way!" he said, and again three pairs of eyes stared at him. "I mean, No, sirs," he added more quietly. "This guy will know a trap in a second. If I don't go, we'll lose our only lead."

"Or we'll lose an agent," Vin said.

"It could be a trap for you, son," Travis said.

JD sat forward in his chair. "I know that, and believe me, I thought of everything that could possibly go wrong, but I don't think it's a trap. I can't prove it, but I talked to this guy for hours, and I think he wants somebody around like him, to talk to."

"You think he's lonely?" Vin asked.

JD shrugged. "Being the only computer geek can be pretty lonely sometimes," he said.

Chris stared at him. JD forced himself not to look down. He knew he was being sized up. "I can do this," he told Chris. "I went undercover in the Robinson case."

"As Ezra's driver," Vin said.

"And the Volka case."

"As Ezra's pool boy."

"Right, so I learned from the best." JD again forced himself to look into his boss's green glare. "I can do this."

Seconds stretched by. Below the table, JD had a death grip on the chair.

"You got a plan?" Chris asked finally.

"You aren't really going to let him go?" Vin said.

Chris picked up pen and began twisting it. "JD?" he said.

JD released a breath he didn't know he was holding. "I'll meet him at midnight. He told me to bring my laptop, which will be wiped clean of anything incriminating. He'll probably suggest a place to hook up; there's an all-night cyber cafe a few blocks away. I'll put a link from my laptop to my computer here so you can know when I'm on and where. I told him I work at Dunkin' Donuts, so around 5 a.m. I'll tell him I have to leave for work."

Chris nodded. "What if he follows you to work?"

"I have Casey's old DD uniform."

"What if he frisks you?"

"I can't be wired, and I can't be armed." Chris's jaw clenched. "He said to come unarmed. Show of faith," JD said.

"Show of stupidity," Vin said under his breath.

"What if he doesn't believe you really are JD?" Chris continued.

"I'll show him my bat."

"Your bat?"

JD ducked his head. "My scar, from the Volka case. Casey says it looks like a bat."

Chris didn't smile. He sat back in his chair, his pen flicking across his fingers. "Judge?" he asked.

It was Judge Travis's turn to stare at him. "It's dangerous. Too many unknowns. We could wait until we hear from Ezra."

"It'll be too late," JD said.

"I think it's a fool plan," Vin said.

"It's our only lead," JD protested. "Ezra said no one will talk to him. He can't make them talk. But this guy is willing to talk to me. What else do we have?"

Chris was quiet. He placed his pen back on the table, then he looked at JD and nodded once. JD jumped up and grabbed the papers. "We'll be watching," Chris said. "Any sign of trouble, and we shut it down."

JD clutched the papers, smiling. "You won't regret this, Chris. I promise," he said, then hurried from the room before Chris changed his mind.

"I already do," Chris said. The headache he couldn't get rid of was getting stronger.

"Buck's goin' to kill you," Vin said.

"I know."

"Kill you and chop you into little pieces."

"I know."

"You made the only decision you could, Chris," Vin said. Chris looked at him, surprised. "The kid's right. It's our best option. But you get to tell Buck."

Chris smiled weakly. "I'll save that until the last possible moment."

"Should we go scout the area around the power station?" Vin asked.

Judge Travis leaned forward. "Vin, could you wait outside, please?" he asked.

Vin glanced at Chris, and saw that he didn't know what it was about either. "Sure. I'll check in with forensics." He stood and left the room, closing the door behind him, wondering, Aw hell, Larabee, who'd you piss off now?

"Chris, you need to show better judgment when dealing with the media," Judge Travis said.

Chris nodded. "Understood."

"This latest incident caused Kingston to call me from Washington. And you know I hate getting calls from the Director."

Chris looked up from where he was twisting his pen. "Latest incident?" he asked.

"The 'Now it's personal' comment."

At Chris's look of confusion, Travis stood and turned on the TV. They only had to wait a few seconds before the reporters were back talking about the situation in Denver.

"Although there are no new leads, all of the law enforcement officers in Denver are working around the clock to bring this terror to an end."

Chris's face appeared in profile on the screen. "Now it's personal," he said.

"That was ATF Agent Chris Larabee, heading the investigation, reacting to the news that one of his own men, Nathan Jackson, was injured in the latest attack."

Travis turned off the TV.

"Kingston thinks you're baiting the bombers," he said.

"I didn't even know the reporters were around," Chris replied.

"They don't have to be anywhere near, with zoom lenses and state-of-the-art microphones." Travis placed his hand on Chris's shoulder. "You will find them. I have no doubt about that at all. Just don't forget you're representing this agency."

Chris stood. "I won't."

Travis stepped towards the door. "Chris, one more thing. If you're just going to throw these toys away, I know a children's hospital that might like them, Bombshell."

Chris shook his head. "We'll take out the edible underwear first."

Travis smiled. "Good idea."

He opened and door and walked to the elevator, nodding at Vin on his way out. Chris stepped over to Vin's desk. "What did you find out?" he asked.

"Not a lot. These guys are good. The bomb is the same, placed on a support column in the parking garage below the ER, and the orderly is still missing. They did find something odd at both sites." He looked at the fax the FBI had sent. "Green plastic. It was melted in the blast, but they're analyzing it. Oh, and I was right about the Mountain Dew."

Chris nodded.

"Travis give you hell about the 'it's personal' comment?" Vin asked.

"You saw it?"

"Hard not to, unless you were deaf, dumb, and in a coma."

"He wasn't mad," Chris said. "Just told me to keep my mouth shut from now on."

"Good luck," Vin said.

Chris tried to glare, but ending up laughing. He turned back to his office.

"Hey, Chris," Vin called. "Before ya stop talkin' to the media, think you could tell 'em how much ya like chocolate? We got enough flowers and undies."

"Sure thing, Vin. That's my top priority."

Ezra parked the Jag on the sidewalk in front of a dilapidated house. The windows of the house were boarded up with scraps of wood, the roof sagged, the turquoise paint had peeled off most of the outside, and there were holes in the walls.

"Last stop," Ezra said, looking around. They'd already spent most of the day driving to every dirty and depressing shack and shithole in the city, but all of Ezra's contacts had suddenly disappeared. This was the last place Ezra could think of, and if they didn't find any answers here, they'd have to go back empty-handed.

"Ezra, this is a crack house," Buck said.

"Exactly, Mr. Wilmington. Shall we?" He unbuckled his seatbelt and stepped out of the car.

Buck followed. Down the block he could hear children playing in a playground, shouting and laughing. An old woman stared at them from the house next door, then hurriedly disappeared inside.

Ezra removed the jacket of his expensive suit and laid it across the hood of the car. He then removed the ring he always wore, the "wedding ring" he never gave them a straight answer about, and pocketed it. Lastly, he rolled up the sleeves of his pale grey shirt and removed his tie, laying it with his jacket.

Buck remained silent. He'd seen Ezra work in a number of undercover operations, and he knew the agent could hold his own in almost every situation, but he had no idea what to expect, and that made him nervous. He slid his gun out of the shoulder holster and checked his bullets, then turned the safety off.

"Whatever happens, Mr. Wilmington, don't interfere. If he's here, this man has the answers, and we will get them, one way or the other." Buck nodded.

Ezra stepped over McDonald's wrappers, broken glass, and discarded needles to reach the front entrance of the house. The door had been painted black. Ezra kicked it open.

Bodies scattered into dark corners as he strode through the dank house, crunching glass pipes and kicking away small burners. Buck followed, feeling like Robin to Ezra's Batman, and trying not to gag at the stench that didn't seem to be bothering the Caped Crusader.

Suddenly Ezra stopped and reached for a thin figure trying to blend into the disintegrating plaster. He lifted the man like he was made of tissue paper and pressed him against the wall.

"Walleye, sir, I require a moment of your time," Ezra said. "Alone," he added more loudly.

Behind them, there was a scurried rush for the door. Walleye eyed the escape longingly, then forced his attention back on the man clutching his collar.

"Look, I told you, I don't know anything," he said.

Ezra smiled, and Walleye relaxed. Then Ezra tightened his grip on his collar, pressing against the man's windpipe.

"I don't believe you are being completely truthful," Ezra said as Walleye's face began to turn red. Walleye clutched at Ezra's wrist, gasping. Buck quickly stepped away and closed the front door, glancing outside to make sure no one had lingered around.

"Now I'm going to release you, and you are going to tell me what you know, or I will personally make sure every dealer, pimp, and pusher in this time zone knows you are my snitch. Nod if you understand," Ezra said.

Walleye's head moved quickly up and down.

"Good," Ezra said, and loosened his grip. He still held the frayed collar as the junkie gasped for air, coughing and sputtering.

"You ain't allowed to do that," Walleye said. "I got rights."

Ezra stepped closer. "File a complaint," he said. "Who's planting the bombs?"

"I don't know." Ezra started to tighten his grip. Walleye held up his hands. "Honest, I don't, but whoever it is has everybody running scared, and I don't mean just nobodies like me. Fat cats, like Balaban and Chin too. These guys are crazy, so they'll give them hardware just to keep them happy."

"Balaban and Chin supplied the guns?" Ezra asked.

Walleye nodded. "My buddy Bruno says they charged next to nothing for them, too, and he says Chin is already planning to go back to China until things blow over."

"What about the bombs? Who's giving them the C4?"

Walleye looked terrified. "Man, don't do this. I told you enough."

"I need to know about the explosives," Ezra said.

Walleye seemed to wilt under Ezra's stare. "Kirmonov," he said.

"Viktor Kirmonov?" Buck asked. They'd been after him for years.

Walleye nodded. "He's the only one who's not afraid of these guys. Bruno says he's scrambling to get them something stronger, urine-something."

"Uranium," Ezra said.

"Yeah. Says they're gonna take out the whole goddamn country."

"Bruno works for Kirmonov?" Ezra asked.

Walleye hesitated. "His nephew," he said. "He likes the black tar I get from Chin. Man, I'm dead. I'm a dead man. You got me dead!" His face turned red again.

Ezra released his shirt, and pulled out his wallet. He took out two $100 bills and pressed them into Walleye's hand.

"Take this and go see your sister in Seattle," Ezra said. Walleye looked at the money. "Don't spend it on crack," Ezra continued. "Wait until you get there first."

Walleye clutched the money and nodded eagerly. "I will, man, I will. I'll get out right now."

Ezra backed away from him and walked toward the door.

"You'll catch these kooks, man, I know you will," Walleye called out.

Ezra sighed as he stepped outside. "I hope so," he said.

Buck glanced back at Walleye, who was staring at the money like he thought it would disappear. Then he stuffed it down the front of his pants and ran to the back of the house.

Outside, Ezra was shrugging into his jacket.

"Damn, Ez. I never knew you could be so persuasive. Don't think the brass would approve, though," Buck said.

Ezra smiled, replacing his ring. "It's simply part of the game. He can't just tell me what he knows, so I have to force him. It's all an elaborate charade."

"So you wouldn't really have choked him?"

Ezra's gold tooth glittered as he grinned. "It's best that he didn't test me."

Buck smiled back. "Glad you're on my side, pard. Let's head back and fill Chris in."

"How about I drop you off?" Ezra said. "I want to take a long hot shower and burn these clothes first. The stench will never come out."

"That's the Ez I know. But why don't you drop me at the hospital instead? I want to check on Nathan."

Ezra nodded, and they climbed into the car, each man's mind racing.

Josiah sat with his eyes closed. He could hear the bustling sounds of the hospital around him - the rubbery footsteps of the nurses as they went from room to room, the tin echo of the intercom, a uniformed officer at the door to Rain's room turning the pages of the newspaper. All the sounds were far off in the distance. He was praying. His prayers always took on a visual expression, multi-colored and blinding, like sunlight through a prism. Into this kaleidoscope of creation he voiced his thanks for all Yahweh had blessed him with, and his apologies for his shortcomings. Then he added his hopes, that Rain's severe concussion would heal quickly and her frequent blackouts would stop, and that Nathan had the strength to help her through her recovery. He prayed the others hurt in the blasts also recovered, and the families of those who had died found some solace in His name. Then he prayed that the ones who had done this, the ones who had planted the bombs, that they... Again, his prayers stopped, and he opened his eyes. He couldn't pray for the souls of cowardly murderers, and he couldn't pray to God to send them to Hell. Instead he prayed for guidance and understanding, knowing it wasn't nearly enough.

He stood and stretched. The plastic chairs in the waiting room barely held his large frame, but only immediate family were allowed in Rain's room. Nathan could fib a little and say he was a relative, but that wouldn't be as believable coming from Josiah, so he waited as close as he could to her door, cramped into a molded plastic chair.

He glanced up as someone stepped off the elevator, and smiled. "Buck," he said as the mustached man approached him. "What news?"

"Josiah. We may have found a way in." Buck pulled some crumpled sheets of paper from his pocket. "JD talked to someone in one of those chat room things. This is a copy of the conversation. Take a look."

Josiah quickly scanned the pages. "These first lines sound like the party line, things he was taught to say. They're almost robotic in response. Learn. Teach. Destroy. Basic commands."

Buck nodded.

"In these later statements he's letting his guard down, showing more personality, a bit of frustration, a bit of pride. Look at these lines: 'They can't stop us. No one can stop us. I have done my part, but I want to do more.' Sounds as if he's trying to convince JD he's more important than he is, and maybe convince himself, too."

"That's about what JD figured. He thinks the guy is low on the totem pole, their resident computer geek."

"It's a good assessment," Josiah said.

"JD wants to meet up with him. He thinks the guy is lonely and wants somebody to talk to."

Josiah looked up sharply. "Did Chris agree to that?"

"Chris wouldn't agree to something hare-brained like that. He probably just has JD searching the computer mumbo-jumbo to trace this guy," Buck answered.

Josiah relaxed. "Good, because I don't think Red Lightning is lonely. I see hunger."

"Meaning?"

Josiah looked into suddenly worried blue eyes. "Meaning Red Lightning wants a whipping boy."

Ezra pulled the Jag into an alley and cut the lights. The club next door, gauchely named Wet, was at a lull. The lunch crowd had drank their fill and the late-night crowd was still hours off. A few bleary-eyed stragglers shuffled out the door, searching the street for their cars. Ezra looked at his watch; it was nearly 8 p.m. Soon the back door opened and a group of the club's dancers stepped out together and headed for the employee parking lot. Ezra smiled. Shift change.

The girls were escorted by a burly man who was thoroughly enjoying his assignment. He grinned as he held the door open for each girl to get into her car, then closed the door with a gallant flourish. One by one the cars pulled away, and Burly was left in the graveled lot alone, still grinning. He adjusted his coat, pleased with himself, sure that soon one of those lovelies was going to succumb to his gentlemanly charm. He was so pleased that he didn't notice the man standing behind him until a fist connected with the back of his neck, then he crumpled to the ground.

Ezra massaged his hand as he checked to make sure no one was looking, then he grabbed Burly's feet and pulled him into the alley, covering him with newspaper and cardboard liquor boxes.

Breathing hard, he pulled out his cell phone. He started to dial Chris's number, but then changed his mind and dialed Vin's. He didn't need anyone telling him how foolish this course of action was. When the beep sounded on Vin's voice mail, he spoke quickly and quietly.

"Mr. Tanner, I have a lead on the supplier of the explosives. I'm watching his establishment right now, on 7th and Broadway. I'll make contact soon. Ask Buck for the details." He hung up, and pocketed the phone. He definitely didn't need anyone to tell him how foolish this was.

Buck hurriedly switched off his cell phone. The one ring - cut short by his action - echoed across the rubble of the latest bomb explosion. He hadn't intended to come here. Josiah had offered him use of his Suburban and Buck planned to stop home long enough to shower before heading back to the Federal Building. It was late, but he knew Chris and Vin would still be there. He hadn't been able to reach JD all day; he'd called several times from the waiting room while Josiah got a few hours sleep at home. Buck knew he should have checked in with Chris, but whenever he started to call him, he hesitated. Instead, he'd left a message on Vin's voice mail, saying he wanted to check on a lead. That lead was the off-limits parking garage of Denver Memorial, still classified as structurally unsound. There was something about the bombs, something important that he couldn't quite get a hold on, and he hoped seeing ground zero would help him figure it out.

Returning the phone to the pocket of his jacket, he climbed over yet another warning barricade, and stepped past piles of concrete, wire, and metal. He looked at one towering pile of rubble. Some of it had already been carted away, but they had to be careful. They couldn't just bring in a bulldozer with the structure still teetering on collapse. Plus, they still hadn't found that missing orderly. Buck imagined the poor guy trapped under the rubble in front of him, and he felt his stomach jump. What a horrible way to go, he thought, glancing down at the dark hole leading to the parking garage. He could hear Chris's voice in his head, telling him what a damn fool he was. Instead of listening to the voice, he walked to the hole and began gingerly climbing down into the darkness.

Ezra found the keys in an unconscious Burly's pocket. He said a quick prayer of thanks that they'd been trailing Bruno's uncle for so long; he had an idea of the routine. Uncle Viktor owned the club, but Bruno managed it. Bruno would bring out the day's receipts in the evening before the crowds and drive them over to his uncle's, then he'd go for a little pick-me-up.

Ezra walked to the black Mercedes in a coveted spot in the parking lot. Using Burly's keys, he turned off the alarm and climbed into the driver's seat. He drove the car to the back door of the club, so the rear passenger door was less than a foot from the exit. He hit the horn twice, quickly, then waited. Seconds later the door opened. A man stumbled into the back seat followed by a girl.

"No, go back to work," the man said to the girl. She pouted but climbed out of the car, slamming the door.

Ezra couldn't see the man lying across the back seat. "Home," the man mumbled, and Ezra slowly pulled away, adjusting the rear view mirror to check on his passenger.

Bruno Kirmonov lay with his eyes closed, breathing out of his mouth. The heir to the Kirmonov empire was known to be as ruthless as his uncle, but with less brains and a shorter fuse. That was in addition to his heroin problem, which he did everything in his power to keep from Uncle Viktor. Judging by the shake creeping into Bruno's hands, he'd need a hit very soon.

"Stop at Walleye's first," Bruno said, pushing himself into a sitting position. He rubbed his eyes and looked at Ezra. "Who the fuck are you?"

Bruno reached for his gun, but stopped when Ezra's .38 pointed between his eyes. Ezra halted the car and turned to face him, not dropping the weapon.

"You'd be better served placing your hands where I can see them," he said.

Bruno narrowed his eyes and raised his hands. "What do you want?"

Ezra smiled. "I want to do business." He lowered the gun but kept his finger on the trigger. "I have some merchandise I've been trying to get rid of, and I have heard through the grapevine you may have an interest in this merchandise."

Bruno sat back in the seat.

"What kind of merchandise?" he asked.

Ezra also appeared to relax. "I'd rather not get into specifics. Let's just call it fireworks, shall we?"

"I already got enough fireworks."

"Not like this, my friend. My fireworks will make yours look like Bic lighters."

Bruno leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Uranium?" he said.

Ezra looked wary, but nodded.

"Where'd you get it?" Bruno asked.

"A recent acquaintance of mine is Russian. She was able to obtain a great deal of information from her former employer, including the location and security codes, before she met an unfortunate accident."

Bruno nodded. "I need names. And proof."

"I don't have names, because I'm sure the names they gave me were aliases," Ezra said. "But as for proof," he pulled out a folded piece of paper he had drawn on while waiting in the alley. "This is the map of the bunker. It's in Uzbekistan. I haven't personally been there, but I'm positive the information is reliable. I don't have the resources to retrieve it, and I'd much rather sell it locally than to other interested buyers from less, shall we say, stable countries. I'm a patriot at heart, you see." He replaced the piece of paper in his pocket.

Bruno smiled. "You'll have to talk to my uncle. He has the final say."

Ezra looked down as he pocketed his gun. "Of course. We can arrange a time later in the week."

He expected the blow, hoped for it in fact, but it didn't make it hurt any less as his head hit the windshield. He slumped into the seat. His last conscious thought was "Foolish" before he surrendered to the darkness.

Buck shone the flashlight around the destroyed parking garage. A few pillars still stood, but mostly there was jagged concrete and exposed rebar where the ceiling used to be. This blast was more explosive than at the airport, but it would have to be to collapse the structure. The parking garage was located below a two-story building, so the weight of the building would be dispersed across several points, instead of one central point at the terminal. Still, there'd be one point, one column, that would start the dominos tumbling, and Buck could see where it used to stand, where the concrete bowled into a deep hole. Above it, the stars shone as the ceiling was completely ripped away. After the column was incinerated, the weight of the upper story collapsed onto the lower one, and the whole wing tumbled down. Whoever planted this bomb knew what they were doing, and when Buck caught him, he'd compliment his expertise, just before he knocked his teeth into his throat.

Buck shone the flashlight below him. To get to the crater, he'd have to climb down a pile of jagged rocks. He looked back up. He was more than halfway there, and since this was what he came for, he'd keep going. He wished he had on better climbing shoes and he'd thought to bring some rope, but it was too late now. He started the slow climb down.

He stopped and listened. He heard water dripping, but nothing else. He wedged his foot into a crevice and stepped onto another slab. As he brought his full weight onto it, the slab shifted. Falling forward, he dropped the flashlight and landed hard on his hands and knees. Sharp concrete sliced through the palms of both hands.

"Shit," he said out loud, not moving until the rock settled. He could see the flashlight 10 feet below him. It gave off enough light for him to see the blood oozing from his hands. He ignored the pain and glanced up. Should he go back or keep going? Or just sit here and wait for rescue? He didn't like that last option because he'd end up chin deep in trouble with Chris, Travis, and other people he didn't want to think about, so he inched forward. The rock felt solid beneath him. He slid his feet in front of him and set them gently on the slab below. It held and he eased onto it until he was kneeling. The rest of the way down looked easy, like climbing down steps. He sighed in relief, and again inched forward.

He placed his feet on the next slab, and as he stepped on it he heard a loud crack from above him. He looked up to see a large piece of concrete teetering on the jagged edge of ceiling right above him. He dove forward, landing on the rim of the crater just as what was left of the ceiling collapsed. At the last minute he was able to grab the flashlight and roll into the crater to land face down in the hard wet dirt; sputtering, he turned over. His hand had landed on something, and he looked at it. He saw a small piece of green plastic wrapped in yellow wire, and he finally remembered where he had seen the bomb before. Then the concrete pyramid behind him rumbled and collapsed, covering the crater with rocks.