date unknown
JD frowned. He still wished he could get the rest of the guys in on this. But as the option wasn't there, he was going to have to try to think like them. He spread the contents of the folder out over the table, and started making notes.
A guard of forty armed men on patrol at any one time, on four hour shift rotations. That meant a total strength of two hundred and forty. Not counting commanding officers and support personnel. Assume equal numbers of them, might be less, might be more. So, close to five hundred people at the fort. He tried very hard not to think about that number.
Five hundred was too many. There was no way to infiltrate through that amount of people.
So, change the odds
His frown smoothed out and he nodded slowly. Ezra was right. But where?
A diversion. Obvious? Perhaps. But necessary.
Where did the non-military staff come from? They had to have janitors, suppliers. Would they be military too? He pulled the large scale map towards him, and scanned the road leading up to the fort. It wound tightly up the mountain. He ran his fingers over the contour lines. Maybe a landslip would work, except he didn't know anything about the local geology, and Buck was the demolitions expert, not him. It wouldn't do any good anyway if most people lived on the fort. It would also block any escape by road, leaving cross country or helicopter as his only exits. The terrain wasn't good enough for cross country, densely forested. It would be on foot until they could reach more populated roads.
A chill ran down his back. He really was expendable.
Bet Buck's surprised when the trust reverts to him and Case.
There were some points where he might be able to change the odds a little before he attempted to get inside the complex. There were positions a sniper could use. Doubtless they knew that and already had men on them, but if he could place someone here -- he marked a tiny 's' on the map. And one here. Another 's'. They have to take out the guards there first, but once they had the high ground...
Something nagged at him, and he stared at it, trying to figure out what Chris would hate about the plan so far. Well, apart from it being a suicide mission. Two men with each sniper, to take out the high points simultaneously. Six men and him.
No backup for him?
He frowned. It would make his life simpler if he could drop someone at each vulnerable point. The crows nests. The fence. The watchtower. The inner wall. The door into the secured corridor. The server room.
If the sniper guys could leave them to it that kept it at four men, plus the snipers. And him. Seven.
A quick smile vanished almost before it appeared. He wanted them. Almost without trying he knew how to do it. All of them to take out the guards on the sniper nests. Then Vin and Nathan left in the eyries, while the rest of them headed in. Josiah on the watchtower. Buck on the inner wall controlling a remote charge to take out the road up to the fort. Chris on the corridor and Ezra in the server room with him. Left a gap on the outer fence. Josiah could watch it. Or put Buck there, Chris on the wall, and take the sneaky Ezra through...
He shook his head. No, he wasn't going to get that. But they needed two snipers, two smart guys and two backup. Maybe a demolitions man as well. And maybe someone needed to be a doctor of some sort. Just in case.
He sat back, looked at his scribbled notes and realized: I'm going to do this.
---------------------------------
September 21
Buck peeled a note off the fold and then pulled it away from the eager hand reaching for it. "No. Not until you tell me what you've got."
"I'm telling ya, man, I've got real news, the good stuff."
"Way I see it, the only good stuff round here is the kind goes straight up your nose." Buck snapped. "I haven't got all night, Jose."
"I ain't Jose."
"Whatever. Come on, or do you want us to do this the hard way?"
"You lay a finger on me and you'll regret it!"
Buck smiled toothily. "I won't need to lay a finger on you, boy," he said very softly, and wrapped his large fist in the man's collar, twisting and lifting. "Now. The hard way, or the easy way?"
"Easy! Easy, man, lighten up!"
Buck dropped him, and the street punk took a moment to smooth out his clothes before meeting Buck's eyes.
"I hear that a guy in a suit walked straight into Madison's op. Spent an hour with the Mad Dog. He went straight to the place where they were, you know, keeping your guy."
"Description?"
He shrugged. "My friend said he was a suit, ya know? Old guy. Couple of boys watching out for him."
"Carrying?"
"Yeah. Looked kinda like those guys that watch the President, ya know? Suits and shades. Spooks."
Buck clamped back his first reply, that if he knew he wouldn't be asking, and went for more detail. "Gotta have more than that, Perilla, or the deal's off."
Tomas Perilla hesitated. Buck could see him weighing up who was more profitable -- and who was more likely to kill him.
"Believe me, Tommy, you're going to be in a lot more trouble if I have to do this the hard way. Madison ain't coming back inside of fifty years, the way that judge threw the book at him. And I won't tell your suit that you gave him up."
Tomas looked around nervously. "I ain't got much. Look, they don't give us the time of day, fuck the names and the invitation to dance, ya know?" Buck nodded. "Right, so, he's wearing a grey suit, grey hair, and he turns round and one of his boys, he drags your boy out. He looks pretty bad, ya know? Coulda been dead, except why'd he take him if he was just meat?" He caught the tension in Buck and raised his hands defensively, "I'm jus' sayin', man. Ya know?"
"You're not helping yourself here, Tommy. You give me another player, but no name, no date; and you seen my boy -- but you can't tell me shit."
"I'm getting there, alright?"
"Get."
Tomas leaned forward. "May fifteen. I remember because I'd gotten a sweet deal on some stuff, and I took my girl out for her birthday."
"You sure about the date?" Buck said tensely. A week before they went in. Three days before JD had been tagged as missing. His skin crawled.
"Yeah, and there's something else, okay? He said something to Madison as he left." His voice dropped to a whisper. "You gotta believe me, okay? I wouldn't tell you a lie."
"Just spit it out."
"He said 'your country thanks you', and he laughed, like it was all a big joke. He was still laughing when he got in the car."
"Numbers?"
"No numbers, man. No plates. I'm telling ya, your boy got took by secret agents."
Buck shook his head. "You know, for a moment, you almost had me." How desperate did this kid think he was?
"I'm telling you the truth, man! Ain't nobody else knows but me, I'm telling ya, you gotta believe me!" His eyes were fixed on the hundred that Buck folded up and stuffed into his pocket.
"Thought you said a friend saw."
Tomas rolled his eyes, "Come on, fed, what do you think I am, stupid? I ain't gonna roll over like a bitch and tell ya everything on our first date, ya know?"
"Could you identify him again?" Buck asked intently.
"Maybe."
"Can you identify our guy, if I show you some pictures?" Buck pulled out a handful of photographs of young, dark haired men and handed it to Tomas.
Tomas nodded eagerly and sifted through them. Buck's heart about stopped when he hesitated at the one of JD, and pulled it out. He kept looking, and pulled out two more, both the same type as the kid. "One a these," he said handing the rejected ones back and spreading the others in a fan. "I think it's this guy," and he tapped on JD's picture, "but he was pretty beat up, I can't be real sure."
Buck nodded, and pulled out the C note again and gave it up for the three pictures. "That's real helpful, Tommy."
Tomas snatched the note and started to back away. "I ain't seen you, and I ain't spoken to you." He turned and jogged away.
Buck waved vaguely and headed back up to the more well lit streets where he had left his car. Still nothing more recent than the day Madison had supposedly broken JD's cover identity. He laughed to himself, bitter and quiet. Secret agents. Word must be out with every low life scum there was in Denver -- hell, the whole damn state -- how desperate he was for word. He thought ruefully of his retirement fund, and the beating it was taking as he paid snitch after snitch for information that gained him nothing except more heartache. Even if it was true how the hell would he ever be able to follow it up? He had no contacts, no leverage that could work at those levels. God.
He wiped a despairing hand over his face.
Today, right now, he'd settle for an anonymous tip on a grave.
---------------------------------
Monday, September 22
"Good morning, I'm Agent Mark Nicholson. I'm looking for Agent Larabee?"
Six heads turned, and six pairs of eyes scrutinized him coldly. He straightened his back and lifted his chin. "I was told I could find him in here?"
"Nicholson, take a seat." The slender blond haired man seemed to be less than happy at his arrival, although he couldn't think why. He was dead on time, in the right place.
"Agent Larabee?" he asked tentatively, and put out a hand. It seemed to cost the man visible effort as he stood and shook.
"Chris?" The query came from a big, disheveled man with dark hair and dark sunglasses.
"Damn." Larabee's comment was probably meant to be inaudible, but Nicholson's hearing was sharper than most, and he felt a frisson of unease. Larabee had signed the transfer. Larabee had approved his application to take up the slack left by that gen-X hacker who'd been pretending to be an agent before he went bad. Surely he'd just caught them at a bad time.
"Sorry, Buck, guys," Larabee looked around the oval conference table, "Nicholson's taking up the seventh slot."
The room exploded with outrage, expressed as freely as though Nicholson wasn't even there.
"Chris, dammit, he's not dead!"
"It's barely been five months, Chris, give the boy a chance!"
"Who the hell sent us a suit?" A man with dark blond hair, longer than could possibly be regulation looked him up and down dismissively.
"Guys, guys, I know." Larabee tried to make himself heard through the uproar.
Nicholson felt his eyebrows starting to climb. Travis hadn't been kidding when he said that the team was unconventional. He'd never seen a room like it. His idea of a team was sane, sensible discussion of problems offered to them by their superiors. He'd assured Travis that he was flexible, confident, resilient and willing to adapt. But this... this wasn't 'unique', this was a catastrophe, a train wreck, a display of unprofessional behavior that would have shamed a kindergarten.
Larabee slammed a hand down on the table and leaned forwards. "Shut. Up."
Nicholson's eyebrows shot up despite his intentions to keep impassive. The whole team was silently staring at Larabee. Nicholson might as well not be in the room. Kindergarten had a tough principal.
"Human Resources insisted that we fill the team spec, okay? RMETF Seven is meant to have computer analyst capability. I asked them to recommend someone, and here he is." He waved a hand at Nicholson, who felt acutely uncomfortable and sidled to an empty chair and sat down.
"You didn't even interview him?"
Chris met the speaker's eyes steadily. "Travis did it, okay, Buck? I. I asked him to look through the people they sent up. He hired the rest of us. Figured he did a pretty good job the first time." Around the table eyes dropped abruptly, and Nicholson figured they must have realized how unprofessional they were being.
He smiled tentatively at the men, mentally tagging them against the personnel files he had discreetly acquired. The black guy had to be Jackson. Larabee he'd figured out already, and the guy making all the fuss at the start had to be Wilmington. Looked like the scuttlebutt about the guy shacking up with Dunne was true, judging by how out of control he seemed to be. He'd heard rumors of alcoholism, and his research before he joined had suggested that Wilmington was not above using federal resources for private research. He wondered again if the rumors about him and Dunne were true.
He let his gaze slide incuriously on to the unidentified three men, who had to be Tanner, Standish and Sanchez. Mavericks, the lot of them by all accounts. If Dunne hadn't gone bad, or gotten lazy, then it was Standish who probably set him up for a fall. Bad intel from a bad apple. His ATF file was exemplary, but Nicholson had FBI friends who had been more than willing to help a pal. Sanchez was too old to be out in the field, and Tanner was -- Tanner was staring at him like he could read every thought that crossed his mind, and didn't like any of them.
"Mr. Nicholson," Sanchez said slowly. His voice was far richer than he had expected, and he straightened a little as he met the icy blue eyes. "Welcome to our little band of brothers. I'm Josiah Sanchez."
"Thank you, Agent Sanchez," he smiled quickly. "It's a real pleasure to be here. I really hope that I can contribute to the great work this team does."
Jackson smiled at him mildly, and he felt a moment of relief at meeting a pair of eyes that didn't seem to have weighed him up and found him wanting. Jackson's tone was neutral as he added his own greeting. "Agent Nicholson," he nodded politely.
Nicholson smiled back, and perhaps was more effusive than he would otherwise have been, but the reception he'd received had rattled him more than a little, "You guys really have got a hell of a reputation, I really am excited about working with Team Seven."
"'Really, really excited'," Standish whispered audibly to Tanner, who snickered.
"Got something to say, Standish?" Larabee jumped on Standish immediately, much to Nicholson's gratification. Clearly Larabee tolerated the man but wasn't willing to encourage him.
"My heartiest felicitations on acquirin' a role your heart so clearly desires," Standish smiled, green eyes hard and glittering with insincerity.
"Thanks, Standish," Mark smiled back, equally insincere. "I'm looking forward to settling in, and showing you guys what a real computer expert can do for you."
There was a stony silence, and then Wilmington pushed his chair back abruptly. "Sorry, Chris, got a meeting."
"Yeah, a meeting," Tanner stood and stretched lazily. "Y'know. That other meeting that we were going to have."
Standish smiled and stood also. "A pleasure, I'm sure. Sadly I must leave immediately. I'm sure I will enjoy your demonstration of your," he looked up and down Nicholson dismissively, "'talents' some other time."
Mark felt like kicking himself. He knew the team had been tight. He'd been warned, for God's sake, that they wouldn't tolerate any disrespect to their missing colleague, but he couldn't help it. What the hell Dunne was doing with an A1 outfit like RMETF Seven he didn't know. The kid only had a bachelor's degree, a failed security company that he'd sold off to Gates at the first opportunity, and a rep as a hacker. A fully trained expert such as himself was going to be able to do so much more for them. "Guys, I'm sorry, I didn't mean a word against Mr. Dunne. I'm sure he was an exemplary--"
"If I were a wise man, I would drop that line of conversation immediately," Sanchez rumbled, and Nicholson nodded.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, and the three standing team members looked at Larabee. Mark caught the faintest of nods from the blond man, and he was torn between relief that they sat down, and annoyance that it took Larabee's say-so to achieve it. Still, he was the new boy, the low man on an established and much lauded team. He kept his head down. It was going to take time before he fitted into the group easily.
"Nicholson," Larabee glanced around the table, and made a decision, "Standish will get you up to speed on the case we're currently investigating after the meeting."
"Yes, sir," he offered first Larabee and then Standish a smile, not too broad in case they thought he was laughing or something, but neither acknowledged it, and Larabee launched straight into a detailed discussion of a current operation without a word of explanation to his newest agent.
Mark ended up twisting his pen back and forth, waiting for something to make sense. It never did. Half an hour later, Larabee looked around the room, gathering the attention of his five unruly agents.
"Good. Let's go."
Chairs were pushed back and Nicholson hurried after Standish, hoping that someone would explain what he was expected to do.
---------------------------------
September 25
"Who the hell put this together?" Nicholson muttered darkly as he examined the surveillance van equipment, three days later. For some reason some idiot had seen fit to jury-rig a set of unidentifiable transistors and chips, cross wired together on duct tape with a long aerial running up to the roof, and another long set of cables to hook the whole thing into the otherwise state of the art surveillance gear that he had been handed. He tugged a couple of times, and then unceremoniously yanked it off.
"Don't--" Standish started to say, and then lifted an eyebrow when he realized he was too late.
"Did you do this?" Nicholson twisted it around in his hands. "What's it for? Picking up college radio while watching the busts go down?"
Standish plucked it from his fingers and laid it carefully on a shelf at the back of the van. "That was Agent Dunne's enhanced listening equipment. Not that it's usable now. A pity."
"I didn't know," he hated being put on the defensive like this. "How enhanced?"
"An extra two hundred meters."
"Bullshit!" The word popped out before he could censor it. "No fucking way you could get more than eight hundred out of this stuff."
Standish shrugged, and said, "As you please. We certainly don't have it any more." Mark felt his neck redden.
"Look, I'm sorry, but how was I supposed to know the kid was a boy genius and MacGyver in rolled up in one handy dandy pocket sized package? Are there any other things I ought to know about?"
Standish stood and looked at him silently for a long moment. "Nothing, sir, that I believe would benefit you in any degree to learn."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Whatever you want it to. Excuse me. I have work to do." He picked up a wire and started to carefully insert it into an almost invisible hole in his jacket.
"Do you want a hand there?" he asked, trying to make amends. These guys were so darn prickly.
"Thank you, I am done. If you would like to check the performance while I step outside?"
"Sure." He waited a couple of beats, turning on the appropriate speaker.
"Standish testing, one, two, three, four--"
"Loud and clear, Agent Standish," Nicholson called softly.
"I shall get myself to the rendezvous point in that case."
"Good luck," Mark said awkwardly.
"Thank you, Mr. Nicholson. However, luck will not enter into it."
Mark's face hardened. The words might not have been an insult, but the tone sure was.
"Radio silence until I call it," Larabee said firmly, and Mark bit back his reply and waited, watching the video streams carefully, flicking between the four screens and six inputs with experienced ease.
The silence dragged on for nearly twenty minutes, and Nicholson started to wonder if the intel had been bad, or the perps had gotten wind of the raid.
"Meek as lil lambs to the slaughter," Tanner drawled softly, and Mark gaped. Hadn't the man heard about the radio silence?
"On my twelve," Standish murmured, and Mark closed his eyes, wondering what was going to happen when Larabee got a hold of the two of them.
"I got them," Jackson called in, and Nicholson just shook his head.
"Why bother with radio silence if you're not going to observe it?" he mumbled to himself.
"Someone might like to tell Nicholson that his mic is hardwired to open broadcast." Wilmington didn't seem to be addressing anybody, and nobody replied as such, although a series of muffled snorts from the speakers in front of him told him that everyone had heard.
"I've asked myself that very question many times," Larabee sounded amused. "Shut up, you yahoos. Let Ez have some time to clear out a space in that stuffed up little brain for thinking."
"Thank you so much," Standish snapped, and Nicholson shook his head, but kept his mouth shut. How did these men work like this? No discipline, no respect for each other. They couldn't even manage to keep a civil tongue in their heads when knew perfectly well that they were being recorded.
"Ah, Jim, you made it!" Standish's voice, oily and somehow, cheap.
"Underwood."
On the small video screen he could see Standish and the perp, Jim Myers, shaking hands. Myers gestured behind him and spoke again.
"The boys are bringing the materials up right behind me."
"Splendid. It only remains to discuss the question of remuneration."
"Don't get smart, Underwood, the deal was for eight, four up front, four on delivery."
"But I specified that delivery would be punctual at seven sharp. It is now," Standish made a show of consulting a watch that could not remotely have been affordable on an honest man's wage, "well, let me see, near enough seven thirty. And I won't be out of here until well past eight. Frankly, I am disappointed. Quite disappointed."
Nicholson nearly spoke, only remembering as he opened his mouth that the channel was wide open. And when he found out who the hell had done that, there was going to be hell to pay. He grimaced. It was probably Dunne again. Looked like the kid had had a habit of fucking around with very expensive gear that didn't belong to him. Which could explain a lot.
"You going back on our deal? Because I have other buyers," Myers said coolly.
Dammit, they were going to lose the bust, and the guns hadn't even turned up yet. What was Standish thinking?
"I am seeking some suitable recompense for being forced to linger in this dump for a minute longer than I absolutely have to."
Myers laughed, "Well, I can't fault you on that." He pulled out a cellular and speed dialed someone. He turned away and only said a couple of words before hanging up and turning back. Mark gritted his teeth tightly, aware that the equipment had not picked up the words. Still, it shouldn't be crucial to the case. And Standish could testify if they were. And that stupid piece of duct tape and tinfoil wouldn't have picked it up anyway.
The ground shook as a huge eighteen-wheeler rumbled past his van where it sat in a concealed yard. This had to be the guns. He scowled. He'd wanted in on the actual bust, but hadn't been able to refute the need to have someone monitoring the equipment. He'd suggested that they ought to have their own dedicated person for that job, and had received a blank look from Standish, and the information that they did -- and he was it.
Maybe Dunne had let them get away with leaving him out back, but he sure as hell wasn't going to. Next week he was going to start making nice to the tech boys and girls, and they could come and baby-sit the machines.
He turned back to the screens as Standish spoke, and watched, disgruntled as the armaments were displayed, a case of money exchanged hands and Larabee called his hell hounds down on them. He had a moment of real enjoyment when he saw Standish get taken down and cuffed right along with the rest of the crooks. And then the cops showed up, and the place was organized chaos until suddenly, RMETF 7 was nowhere to be seen, and someone was knocking on his door.
He pulled his weapon and peeked through the spy hole cautiously. A huge, rounded eye glared back at him and he made haste to let Larabee in.
"Good bust?" he asked tentatively.
"Good enough. You get all of that?" Larabee didn't seem interested in any congratulations, and Mark moved right along.
"Yeah, sure. Well, most of it. It might be a little muffled where Myers was facing away." A little non-existent, but he wasn't averse to fudging the issue.
"Did the equipment fail?" Larabee asked sharply, and Nicholson was about to explain about the non-standard attachments, when Standish butted in uninvited.
"It didn't record, because he removed the changes that JD installed."
Larabee just looked at him.
"I did remove some non-standard additions -- I wasn't sure what they were, and I was concerned that they might impede the --"
"Next time, ask first."
Larabee was already gone by the time Nicholson was able to get, "Sure, no problem, I'll remember that for next time," out of his mouth.
He drove the van back to the ATF building and dropped the tapes off with the evidence people, then headed back upstairs to write up his reports.
Later, he heard that the rest of the team had headed out to some local bar to celebrate.
---------------------------------
September 26
Chris rubbed his hands over his face in the privacy of his own office, and wondered what the hell had possessed him.
Yesterday had been bad. The bust had been good, nearly textbook perfect, and the only man on his team still speaking to him was Agent Nicholson and he really, really wished he wouldn't.
Without even looking he could feel the iciness in the silence between the offices.
Nicholson was working silently in Josiah's old office. The blond man was diligent, thorough, and in four short days had managed to make himself universally loathed. To be fair, he was never going to be welcomed with open arms, but they might have at least accepted him if he'd been halfway to a decent human being. Chris narrowed his lips.
He had to admit that he'd made a bad decision. He should have at least insisted that he meet him before signing the transfer, but he hadn't, too caught up in the disaster of the Madison case, and trying to keep the team together despite losing one of them. He'd allowed the bureaucratic idiots in HR to insist that he needed another man to bring the team to strength, and then let them foist another anti-social loner on him. He scowled. It should have worked. God knew that the rest of the team were anti-social enough for any dozen loners. Unfortunately Nicholson seemed to think that he was a welcome replacement for JD -- older, wiser, more competent...
No, Nicholson had been a mistake. But the man wasn't actively incompetent, so he couldn't just get rid of him. Maybe he could talk one of the perps into shooting him at the next takedown. He smiled, the idea had merits. He could give in to Nicholson's demands to be given an active role in busts, shutting the man up, and get rid of him permanently. Or at least, dump him in a hospital somewhere for a nice long convalescence. He ran a hand through his hair and then pulled on it. No. He really shouldn't. No matter how tempting it was.
He turned his head, ignoring the problem for now, and let his thoughts drift to the rest of his team. Josiah was in the office across from Nicholson now, his head down as he studied something on his computer. He had been worried about Sanchez, the man was as likely to go off the deep end as to be philosophical. And JD had been one of the few he called 'son'. Josiah had in turn been the only one allowed to call the kid by his given name. But Josiah was holding it together, retreating with tired grace from the emotions of the rest of his team mates when it grew too much, and then coming back again to field their anger and confusion.
Standish had pretty much stopped talking to Nicholson, especially after he'd overheard the new man talking on the phone to his old colleagues about 'picking up after the kid' just before yesterday's bust. Oddly enough, Nicholson had had a string of computer related mishaps after that which still hadn't been cleared up. He couldn't imagine how that might have happened, he thought with a faint smile. Ezra had been silent on the topic of JD, but Chris knew that the collapse of JD's undercover role must have damaged his confidence, and the loss of the boy because of that break in a cover he had helped build must have hurt. But he had never spoken of it to Chris, and all he could do in turn was respect the man's boundaries, and hope that he wouldn't implode.
Nathan was settling down the best of all of them, keeping the team on more of an even keel than he had thought possible. God knew that he himself had set no kind of example initially. The kid--he stopped himself. He wasn't going to think about JD. Not when it still clogged his throat and burned his gut that they hadn't been able to rescue him, or even give his body a decent burial. At least Nathan had finally given up trying to counsel his colleagues. He was trying to move on, and deep down, despite his gratitude that there was at least one sane man left on the team, Chris wasn't entirely sure that Nathan was succeeding as well as he seemed to be.
He glanced at the office that had been JD's once, and sighed. Vin. He could normally rely on his friend to be the one steady source of calm, but since Madison's trial, Vin had been on a razor's edge. Chris was half afraid that one day he would come in to find Tanner vanished, and a report of Madison's death in custody sitting on his desk. Vin had been the kid's official contact, the first man to know when things went bad, the first one to go in as back up. And he had failed. Chris knew his friend had done everything possible, but he also knew Vin. The kid had gone missing, and there was no way that Tanner felt that as anything but a failure. Then, to add insult to the injury, he hadn't even been able to push through the murder charges that Madison so richly deserved, though God knew it wasn't for want of trying.
Vin was coming back out of it again, though he knew that the man would never be quite the same again. None of them could be.
He hadn't wanted the kid on the team in the first place. He felt a smile pull at his lips as he remembered his outrage when Travis walked in and dumped a file on his desk. He'd opened it expecting it to be their next assignment and found a teenager grinning out at him.
"Who the hell is this?" he'd demanded, and Travis, damn him, had smirked, leaned back and crossed his ankles before telling Chris that this was his new computer wizard, and he'd better not break this one.
He'd done his best to put the kid off. They all had, one way and another. It struck him suddenly that he'd give anything to take back that wish, those first few weeks, that someone would just get the damn kid out of his hair and off his team.
They'd be okay. They were dealing in their own ways with the loss, mostly. They were holding it together for now, mostly. He rubbed tiredly at his forehead, trying to release the tight band of tension there. Mostly.
Buck... Buck had taken some stupid chances yesterday. He'd been taking stupid chances for months now, and he was starting to think that it wasn't going to work its way through the big guy's system. Buck wasn't going to pull his head together. Even with Travis's direct orders, even with Chris's attempts to stop him, Buck was still searching, silently defiant in his solitary belief that JD lived. Blaming Chris, Ezra, Vin, Travis -- anyone he could to vent some of the pain of loss.
He'd tried offering friendship; a shoulder to cry on; a drinking buddy; he'd tried being the badass boss. Hell, he'd even offered to be a punching bag. And Buck just kept turning him away, turning to alcohol, and walking the streets searching for word that wasn't there, wasn't going to be there.
Buck was a walking disaster, and Chris owed him better than that. Things were going to have to change.
Starting today.
---------------------------------
date unknown
The door clicked and unlocked, and JD looked up. He really should have put the bed across the door or something if they were just going to walk in and out like this. Atiyah walked into his bare little hospital room, accompanied by a man in his thirties. He got to his feet, keeping his eyes on the man. He was in army uniform, ribbons across his breast, and a hat tucked neatly under one arm.
"Agent Dunne?" she said politely, "Can we have five minutes of your time?"
"Come in," he said dryly. "Mi casa es su casa," he waved generously at the lone remaining chair and the bed.
"Good morning, Mr. Dunne," the man said. His blue eyes assessed him without giving anything away. A small, polite smile flickered for a moment as he held out a hand. "I'm Major George Antonov. I understand you've agreed to work with my team on the Tiengo problem."
JD stood slowly, and shook hands with the man, taking the time to look him over more thoroughly. So this was the guy in charge. "Yes, sir."
Antonov nodded and sat on the remaining chair, forcing Atiyah to perch on the bed. "Good. I've reviewed your files, and while I accept," he threw a glance at Atiyah that suggested his 'acceptance' was less than wholehearted, "that your presence is almost certainly mandatory for a successful operation, I have some doubts about your ability to respond to the command structure, or to the unique situations that this operation will entail."
JD almost shrugged, and stopped himself. Antonov was in charge. He'd agreed to do this. Therefore, he had to treat the man with respect. It went against the grain. Larabee's style of team management was nothing like the military, he suspected, and he seriously doubted that Antonov would care for his usual 'whatever' attitude, that Chris knew meant he was working on it. He'd volunteered for this, he reminded himself firmly. Okay, so he might not have if they hadn't kidnapped him first, and God knew what Buck and the others must be thinking about that.
"Yes, sir?" he said instead, and waited politely, head tilted slightly, waiting for Antonov to expand on his comments.
Unexpectedly Antonov's eyebrows quirked upwards. "Hmm."
"Major, Agent Dunne has expressed his willingness to operate within the parameters set by his team leader -- in this case, you."
JD said nothing, watching the two of them.
Antonov sighed. "Dunne, you are aware that this operation may result in your death?"
JD gritted his teeth. "Yes sir."
"Are you sure you understand what that means, son?" Antonov frowned at him.
"Sir, I could die any time I walk into an ATF operation -- come near enough once or twice." His shoulders twitched upwards and he consciously relaxed them. "I could die, and you will leave me there to rot, without any ID, and without any chance of bringing my body home, or telling my friends or fiancée what has happened." He met the major's eyes grimly. "I understand. But Director Atiyah tells me it is essential to our safety that we do this, and frankly, I'd rather go in, and risk dying, and maybe stop a war before it happens, than sit safe at home, and watch American soldiers die in a war I could have prevented."
Antonov measured him for a long moment, and abruptly he was reminded of the interview he'd had with Travis before he'd been taken to meet Team Seven for the first time. The man nodded once, and JD relaxed. "Fine words, Agent," Antonov said, but mildly. "I understand you've had a chance to look at the fort schematics."
"Yes, but--" JD said, taken aback. His plans were just for him -- he had no expectation of having to present them to a black ops soldier.
Antonov grinned wolfishly. "Well, let's see what Larabee and his dogs have taught you."
JD reached into the drawer of his nightstand. "You know Agent Larabee?" he asked cautiously.
The major looked sardonic. "I have heard great things of the man." He threw a glance at Atiyah, who astounded JD by actually reddening.
JD hesitated, his hand on the drawer containing his notes and plans. "I'm not a soldier, sir, these were just me thinking on paper, you know?"
Antonov nodded impatiently. "Of course." He held a hand out and JD passed them over silently. "Thank you." He looked at Atiyah and added, "I can take it from here, Atiyah." Atiyah's face hardened at the summary dismissal, but rose.
"I doubt I'll see you again before you go," she said directly to JD, who frowned a little, surprised. "You've got a lot to do, and a finite amount of time to do it in. Thank you, and good luck." She held out her hand, and JD stared at it for a moment, before standing to shake.
"Thanks," he said off-handedly, and sat back down barely before their hands had separated.
"Major." She nodded to the soldier, who nodded back briefly, and returned to flicking through JD's notes. She didn't look happy, but she left anyway.
"Not entirely a waste of paper," Antonov said finally. He looked up and shook his head. "For a civilian, and a computer freak."
JD gritted his teeth and said nothing. Was he a soldier? No. Was he expecting Antonov to use his plans? No. Did he want to antagonize the guy who was going to be taking him into a war zone? Definitely no.
"Of course, your ideas about range of snipers seem completely off the wall, but if we had guns that could reliably shoot that far, those weren't bad emplacements. And we don't want to starve anyone -- which dumping a thousand tons of mountain on the only road in would almost certainly do. Not to mention it's a little difficult to explain away explosives charges. And of course, the real decision about getting in is high or low opening on chutes," he seemed amused by JD's expression. "You're going to have to learn to freefall, Agent Dunne." He dropped the papers casually into the trash can and smiled coldly at JD. "Yuma should be an interesting experience for you."
"Yuma?"
"Yuma Proving Ground, Mr. Dunne. You're shipping out to Arizona tonight." He stood and added, "If you get a chance, you might want to practice your firearms skills." He walked to the door and hesitated. "If I thought you couldn't do this," he said neutrally, "I wouldn't be sending you. You might want to bear that in mind, over the next four weeks."
The door locked shut behind him. JD gaped at it.
What the hell was Yuma Proving Ground? And why did Antonov's reassurance sound so ominous?
---------------------------------
September 26
"Time to go, Buck," Chris said firmly, and met his friend's wild stare steadily. "Get your jacket, I'll get you home." He folded his arms and waited, his back to the rest of the bar.
"Fu' off," he slurred with an emphasis that tilted his head back on his neck, until it rolled forward again, too drunk to hold it.
"Vin, get his jacket."
"I c'n dri' my sel' home, Lar'bee," Buck said, slapping the table angrily, and Chris shook his head.
"No, you fucking can't. Now put the damn coat on and you can start sleeping off that hangover."
Buck grabbed his jacket out of Vin's hands and made three attempts at getting his hand into a sleeve before Chris hissed with irritation and dragged it onto him.
Buck lurched towards the doors and Chris hurried after, worried that he might actually be stupid enough to get in the truck and try to drive in this condition. A jangling set of keys appeared before him, and he glanced up to find Tanner holding the keys to Buck's truck.
"Ez lifted 'em a while back," he explained laconically, and dropped them. Larabee's hand reflexively snatched at them and he slipped them into his pocket.
"I owe ya one," he acknowledged and Vin shook his head, looking over at Buck.
"Didn't do it for you. Did it for the kid," he said quietly, and melted away into the night. Chris swore. He hesitated, staring into the darkness after his friend before looking back at an increasingly agitated Buck. The man was trying to open his truck with his house keys, and getting louder and angrier every time he failed.
"Cool it, Wilmington," he ordered, jogging over to pick the keys up from where they had fallen, and grabbing at Buck too as he swayed unsteadily.
"Fuck off," Buck told him, unexpectedly word perfect. Chris sighed.
"Couldn't you at least be a maudlin drunk?" he complained softly, and gripped Buck's shoulder. "Come on, pard, let's get you out of here."
"Fuck off!" Buck repeated, and twisted out of Chris's grip. "You shoulda known! You shouldn'a done it."
"What?" But he knew what. He just didn't want to have this conversation in a parking lot at midnight.
"You killed 'im." Buck accused. His eyes closed, pain clear on his face. Alcohol had only made him able to vocalize his thoughts.
"God, Buck, if I could bring him back--"
"You sent him out. I tol' ya not ta. I tol' ya you'd get him killed."
"You told me that every time, Buck," Chris gently reminded him, and stepped cautiously closer.
"Figures I'd have to be right some time," Buck agreed, and the half laugh broke in the middle. He turned and leaned against the truck, resting his forehead on his arms. His back shook, and Chris dropped a wary hand between his shoulder blades as the big man sobbed again. "Why'd'I have to be right, Chris," he said plaintively. "Why'n't you listen?"
Chris's hand curled into a fist as he pulled it away. He wasn't going to do this.
"Get in my truck, Wilmington," he said harshly, and turned to walk away.
"Murdering bastard! Don't you walk away from me, Chris Larabee! You killed that boy, and I want to know why! Get back here!"
"You're drunk. I ain't arguing with you like this."
"Why not? I argued with you enough times when you were drunk. Or was that different," Buck spat the word out, and caught Chris in a few long strides spinning him round to face him. "Oh, it's okay for you to mourn, okay for the great Chris Larabee to spend years of his life staring down a bottle, waiting for their killer to show up and give you your revenge, but I'm not allowed is that it?"
"Buck, just get in the damn truck. Someone's going to call the police in a minute, and I don't want to have to deal with that on top of everything else."
"What else? What else is there?" He turned and shouted to the nearly empty parking lot, "Chris Larabee killed JD Dunne!" A couple scuttled away, taking nervous glances over their shoulders at the two intimidating men facing off behind them. "There ain't nothing else! Ain't that what you told me? With Sarah n' Adam? That there weren't nothing else, not until you'd seen justice done."
"I'm telling you what you told me back then." He gripped Buck's shoulders and shook him, not too hard, well aware that the next stage was going to be messy. "Alcohol isn't the best judge. Tell me that sober, and I'll think about believing you."
"Jesus, Chris," Buck's eyes suddenly drained of their anger, almost black in the streetlights that were the only illumination. He sounded unbearably lost. "What am I going to do without him?"
Chris tentatively tugged at him and then found himself trying to support Buck's unconscious body as the man passed out into his arms.
"Shit." He staggered and then gave up and lowered the bigger man to the ground, making sure he was on his side before reaching for his keys.
"Want a hand there?"
Chris looked up and met Vin's eyes. Then they both looked down at a small sound, and Chris grimaced as Buck vomited helplessly over his boots. Without a word, Vin opened the car door and found an old blanket and the pair of sneakers Chris usually kept under the driver's seat.
Chris stepped over Buck and crouched behind him, carefully checking that his airway was clear. He accepted the blanket with a nod of thanks, and asked, "You want to get some water? And maybe something to mop him up with?"
Vin nodded and jogged back into the bar.
"Ah, goddammit, Buck," Chris said softly. A moment later Vin emerged again carrying a water jug and a huge handful of paper napkins. He reached his hand up for the water. Vin slapped half a dozen wet napkins into his palm and he gently wiped Buck's face, then lifted him carefully away from the mess. "Vin, can you get his jacket off him if I lift him?"
Vin nodded, and Chris pulled Buck into a sitting position, propping his boneless form against his chest, and trying very hard not to breathe in. Vin pulled the filthy jacket off Buck's shoulders and balled it up.
"You got a bag or something?"
"Throw it in the back. I'll hose it down later."
Vin smiled without humor. "You're not wrong about that."
"Let's get him up. On three: two, three--"
They struggled with Buck's uncooperative weight for a long moment until they managed to find their balance and then they wrestled Buck into the passenger seat, belting him in securely and locking the car door, just in case.
"You taking him to your place?"
Chris shrugged. "His is closer."
"Yours ain't got all those memories."
Chris stood stock still, remembering how much he had hated the cold, empty ranch until a bunch of rowdy yahoos had adopted him as their leader, and reclaimed it -- and him in the process. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah." He eyed Vin narrowly. "You getting smart in your old age, Tanner?"
A hint of a smile whisked across Vin's face, and vanished. "Allus was smart, cowboy," he remarked and brushed himself off. "Safe roads."
"Drive careful." Chris watched until the lights of Vin's bike had disappeared into the distance. He turned and peeled off his own bespattered jacket and threw it after Buck's, and then changed his shoes, adding the boots to the stuff waiting for cleaning. He sluiced his hands in the remaining water and then threw it over the vomit, it made virtually no difference, but it made him feel like he'd at least tried. The jug went back to the bar, with thanks and a ten dollar tip, and then he settled into the driver's seat with a grimace.
He wound down the windows and arranged Buck so his face was away from the wind, and pulled smoothly out of the car park.
"Puke in my car, Wilmington, and you're detailing it tomorrow, hangover or no hangover."
---------------------------------
date unknown
"Okay, you keep your head down, and you stay in contact. Emails daily, phone every other day, and you meet one of us every three days," Chris said firmly.
JD rolled his eyes. "I got it the first time, Chris. Jeez, you'd think I'd never been under in my life."
"Not like this you haven't, boy," Buck glared at him, and then at Larabee. "You get cocky, you're going to end up dead. Madison's killed before. He don't have any problems killing cops."
"Just as well I'm a fed," JD smirked, and ducked, but not in time to dodge Buck's hand.
"Vin's your first point of contact."
"I know." JD grinned at Vin, "If I hit trouble, I call. If Madison talks, I call. If I get a hangnail, I call."
"Damn right," Buck muttered, but the others ignored him.
Vin nodded to him, "The kids'll let you know where I am. They all know to let you through."
"Thanks, Vin," JD said gratefully. Vin's apartment in Purgatorio was going to be his starting point most days. Vin was going to be there when he could, but with Standish getting to be known in the Denver underworld, and the team's reputation as a whole so well established it was getting harder and harder for any of them to carry through successful undercover operations.
Ezra smiled at him, "You'll do just fine, son, I assure you."
JD preened a little until Ezra added, "After all, with my expert tutelage, and the work I have put into making this identity solid, even you would be hard pressed to set a foot wrong."
"Ez!" JD protested, as the others laughed.
"Never underestimate this boy's ability to put his feet in the wrong places," Buck said sourly.
"Hah! Just because your feet are so huge that a guy can't walk across a room without tripping over them once!" JD mocked cheerfully.
"Well, boy, you know what they say about a man's feet," Buck smirked, and JD groaned.
"Yeah, something about being inversely proportional to the size of his dick," Nathan said mildly, and thoroughly enjoyed the look of shock on his colleagues' faces. "Hey, if medical experience is good for anything, it's good to find out these things."
JD leaned back, a wide grin on his face. "That so, Nate?" He and Ezra simultaneously lifted their feet to the table and leaned back, crossing them at the ankles.
"I must bow to your greater expertise, Mr. Jackson," Ezra agreed, and they grinned smugly at each other over their size 9 feet, the smallest in the room.
They both broke up at the indignant look on Buck's face, and laughter resounded in the small room.
---------------------------------
September 27
"Coffee's right where it usually is," Chris called as he heard footsteps in the kitchen. He didn't move from his comfortable sprawl in one of the old wooden chairs on the porch outside the back door. He didn't even open his eyes at the slow footsteps or the creak as the chair next to him was strained by six foot plus of hung-over friend.
The day was warm, not as hot as September sometimes was. A sharp breeze was coming down off the Rockies hinting of the coming fall, and he was glad of the old, heavy shirt that he had put on first thing when mucking out the horses. He lifted his mug up and took a sip of the lukewarm coffee, black, no sugar.
He'd hoped he'd never have to do this. Had honestly started to think he might never have to. Over three years as a team they had come so close so many times. Three years of near misses and luck had let them believe in a charmed existence. They'd survived everything the streets of Denver had been able to throw at them -- and they always would. Half of the horror was sheer shock that one of them had fallen. And the other half -- it could have been any of them, but it had been JD. Twenty-three. Bright and brash and ebullient.
It would have hurt for any one of them. He knew damn well that if it had been Vin or Buck who had gone, he would be in a worse state than Buck was right now. But that was theory. Fact was, JD was gone.
And it seemed that was a fact that Buck Wilmington was only just starting to believe.
He slanted a look at his friend, then settled back to his own coffee.
Buck looked terrible. He'd showered but not shaved, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot. His skin had the color of milky tea, pallid under a faint hint of tan. Usually by this time of year the man was a healthy brown after a summer of sunning himself. The old t-shirt and sweat pants he was wearing were Chris's, the tee clung to his chest, the pants a good three inches too short, showing hairy ankles.
Buck slid a glance at him and he smirked as though at the skyline, ignoring Buck completely.
"F'you," Buck mumbled, quietly.
"Problem, Wilmington?" Chris said, sadistically loud.
Buck flinched and hunched lower in his chair.
"Want somethin' to eat?" Chris asked, half an hour after finishing his own coffee.
"Nah," Buck didn't open his eyes, letting his mug slip to dangle from one finger. "'M fine."
Chris shrugged and wandered back into the house. He pulled out bacon and eggs, found the hash browns from the freezer and the pancake mix in the cupboard, and set about cooking a full breakfast. Just for himself, of course. He breathed the scent of frying bacon in deep, and tried hard to repress the smirk as he heard Buck groan.
"Larabee, you're a f'n' sadist." Buck had followed him in and settled himself at the kitchen table, dropping his head on the cool wood with a sigh.
Chris actually found himself whistling tunelessly as he poured the pancake batter into the hot pan, and flipped the bacon. It was mostly done and he removed the rashers from the heat, left them to drain, and put the eggs on. He lifted an edge of the pancake and then shook the pan gently to loosen it before flipping the half cooked pancake over with a dexterous turn of his wrist.
"Still over cooking 'em?"
"Still doin' em just the way I like 'em."
"Promise me y'ain't ever going to show the boys how to flip a pancake."
Chris grinned. "What's it worth t'ya?"
Buck grinned. "Well, just tell me and I'll bring the video camera." He laughed abruptly, winced, then added. "Thought of Ezra, standing there like Sarah that time, pancake in her hair..."
Chris grinned. "Got a picture of that somewhere still."
"Don't think she ever forgave me for taking it."
Chris shook his head. "I told her it wasn't done enough."
"'Don't you tell me how to cook in my own kitchen, Christopher Larabee'."
They both laughed, and Buck hauled himself to his feet with an audible grunt, dumped his mug in the sink and found himself a glass of orange juice. "You want one?" he asked, waving the carton at Chris.
"Yeah."
"Here."
"Wish I'd got to teach Adam that."
"Or JD." Buck said, and paused. "Yeah. Y'imagine the mess teaching the kid."
"Yeah. Over easy?"
"Good for me." Buck fetched a couple of plates as Chris dealt with the eggs and poured another pancake.
"Hungry now?"
"Some."
Chris dished out a mountain of bacon and eggs over a stack of pancakes. "Wrap yourself around this."
Buck took the plate and smiled hesitantly at Chris. "Thanks."
Chris shrugged one shoulder dismissively. "Time I returned the favor."
Buck dropped his eyes and looked away.
"Buck?" Chris frowned, "Buck?"
"Nothing."
He sorted through what he could say -- it wasn't a chore, an imposition, a burden. He wanted to fix this, but he felt like the closest he could come was to slap a Band-Aid over the wound and hope to god it held. "Let me help you?"
Buck looked at him. Volatile emotions flickered across his face, a painful vulnerable look in his eyes. "Don't know how," he said quietly, and put the knife and fork down. "Chris, I don't know how--" It seemed as though he was going to go on, but he shook his head instead.
"Stay here," Chris said impulsively. "Put the condo up for rent, get yourself away from there. It's no good, sitting there and brooding."
One side of Buck's lips quirked up, and he sniffed before he spoke, staring at the pancakes. "Guess you owe me a bed or two."
"Guess I do -- but that's not why."
"Guess you could use a hand with all them chores."
"Guess I could, but that ain't why either," Chris smiled tentatively.
Buck shook his head again, meeting Chris's eyes fleetingly before looking back at his plate. He picked his fork back up and used it to pull off a piece of pancake, but then just dragged it listlessly back and forth on the plate. "Can't do that, Chris," he said quietly. "What if he comes home, and there's strangers there? I can't just--" he stopped, and started again, "I'm not abandoning him, okay?"
"I never said you should, I just think--"
"You just want me to quit caring, to quit worrying about what's up with him that he hasn't made it back yet. I'm not leaving the only home that boy's got, just so you feel better about yourself."
"That's not why I'm--"
"Bull shit." Buck said angrily and stood, scraping the kitchen chair back so sharply it screeched. "If he's missing there, he's missing here too, I ain't going to forget just because I'm not sleeping there! I'm not that stupid!"
"Okay, okay, calm down, it was just a suggestion."
"A bad suggestion." Buck agreed, but sat down.
"Okay, a bad suggestion." Chris agreed calmly. "You eating that or playin' with it?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm Adam!" Buck snapped.
"Then don't act like you're five years old!" he snapped right back over the pang it caused him. He held Buck's eyes until he looked away, ashamed.
"Sorry," Buck muttered, and Chris shrugged.
"It's okay."
"No." Buck said softly, "No it's not, but thanks for trying." He smiled painfully up at Chris. "I appreciate it."
"No problem." Chris smiled back. "Look, you want to stay out here till Monday? I could use a hand bringing some of the animals down for the fall. We can head in early and swing by your place to get you some clean clothes."
Buck thought about it for a long couple of minutes, then looked up. From the look in his eye he'd been well aware of Chris's twitching foot under the table as he waited, seemingly patient, for Buck's reply.
"Guess I could do that." he conceded. He grinned abruptly, and Chris felt something unclench. Buck was still right there; a little battered, and a lot tired, but there, and fighting. "Guess I ain't got much choice at that -- how the hell did I end up out here anyway? And where's my truck?"
A slow, evil grin spread across Chris's lips. "Well now. It's funny you should ask..."
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | index | gen stories
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the fandoms listed herein. I am certainly making no money off of these creative fan tributes to a wonderful, fun show.