Reunions, a Sentinel/Professionals/The Chief
crossover by Sue Castle.
Rated NC17 for adult situations, violence and homoeroticism. No copyright
infringement intended. This story is a completely revised and much expanded
version of my Intersections, separate and distinct from the story of
that name. Special thanks to Carole for motivating me to tell the rest of the
story. Previously published in Love & Guns 2 (a Sentinel zine).
Cast:
From The Sentinel;
Detective James Ellison,
an officer with the Major Crimes division of the Cascade (WA) Police
Department, a genetic throwback with enhanced senses.
Blair Sandburg, a doctoral student in anthropology
who is Jim's Guide and who is writing his dissertation on Sentinels (nickname :
Chief). They are partners, friends, and in this universe, lovers.
Naomi Sandburg, Blair's mother.
Captain Simon Banks,
Det. Ellison's boss and friend, head of the Major Crimes division.
From The
Professionals;
W.A.P. Bodie, ex-CI5 member, now bodyguard in
private security work. 
Ray Doyle, his partner, best friend, and (in
this universe) lover while in CI5.
Colin Murphy, once an A Squad member with Bodie
and Doyle, now Controller of CI5.
George Cowley, the original Controller of CI5
(now deceased).
Jax and Mac (McCabe), senior CI5
agents who were active A squad members with Bodie and Doyle.
From The Chief;
Chief Constable Alan
Cade, head of the Eastland Constabulary (rank : Chief).
Wes Morton, the Deputy Chief Constable.
Inspector Rose Penfold,
a member of Cade's personal staff.
Diana, his secretary.
Elena Belinsky, his daughter, a
student at
Yvonne Belinsky, her mother,
residing in
The Honorable Pietro
Donati (deceased), an Italian judge famous for his tough stance against
organized crime who was assassinated while in Eastland speaking at a law
enforcement conference.
Other characters
original to the author.
Blair Sandburg shifted the
loaded backpack to a more comfortable position and tromped happily along behind
his partner as the larger man forged a path through the crowded SeaTac
International airport. He'd had to practically barter his soul and he now owed
favors to half the teaching fellows in the anthropology department, but the two
weeks he'd managed to carve out of his teaching schedule had been well worth
it. He hadn't had the opportunity to see
Three paces ahead,
concentrating on dialing down his senses so that the crowd didn't overwhelm
him, the object of Blair's affections was caught by the accelerated heartbeat
coming from behind him. Knowing Sandburg's natural reaction to new places and
new people, coupled with his anticipation of the things to come in the next few
days, the quickened pulse didn't overly concern him. When the younger man's
breathing began to get a little ragged, he slowed and glanced down behind
himself. A slight flush had settled along the high cheekbones and the full lips
were moist where Blair had been licking them. Jim glanced back to follow his
Guide's fixed gaze and realized where those big blue eyes were fastened. He
flushed himself and cleared his throat, fighting his own instinctive reaction
to his partner's arousal. The eyes widened even more, but they did at least
turn from slightly south of Jim's belt level in the back to the detective's
profile. Blair bit his lip to keep from laughing. Speaking in a whisper,
knowing Sentinel hearing could pick it up when no one else could, he murmured,
"Sorry, big guy, but you know what those jeans do to me. I can't wait to
get you to the hotel, man." Laughter and lechery fought for ascendancy in
the promise.
Ellison fought back his own
grin and glared down at his partner, not scaring him in the least. "Save
it, Chief. We've got work to do, first. I want to be ready for that
Blair raised his hands in
mock self defense. "Okay, okay, okay, man, I should've known better than
stand in the way of the details! We'll get to the hotel, register, get our ton
and a half of paperwork, find out what panels we're supposed to be at and when
we're supposed to be where--" He shook his head and grinned, glancing up
and sideways at his lover through long dark curls. "Work before pleasure,
the Ellison Credo, I hear that." Ignoring the muffled chuckle coming from
the man at his side, he scuttled closer to the big, warm body and muttered,
"But when the work is done, your butt is mine, baby."
Clearing customs went with
fewer snags than he had anticipated. Watching the executive assistant hand over
the appropriate forms to make sure the Browning never left his side, William
Andrew Philip Bodie scanned the crowds milling by the international reception
area like a hawk scanning for field rats. His current boss was a man with many
enemies, and a number of highly efficient criminal organizations both within
his native
His eye settled momentarily
on his current charge. The Honorable Eduardo Cimbrone was a national treasure,
or so the beleaguered Carabinieri claimed. Bodie hadn't been in Italy long
enough himself to see the judge in action on the bench, having only taken on
this position the previous month. But he did his homework, especially on a job
that paid as well as this one did. And it was a damned good thing. There had
been three assassination attempts and one attempted kidnapping in the past
three weeks, and that was on his home turf. True, a convention of coppers was
probably the last place an assassin might be expected to be found, but with any
crowd as large as this one it was too easy for the possibility of a slip-up.
Bodie had seen too many people die too easily to let his guard down. Flexing
his gun hand unconsciously and slipping past the small ring of officious people
gathered around his charge, he deftly inserted himself in the small space next
to the judge and touched his sleeve to gain his attention.
"Time to go,
sir," he suggested quietly, the words more an order than either man would
admit. Cimbrone smiled sweetly at the professionally pleasant young man handing
him back his papers and nodded just as quietly. Four minutes later they were
safely in a nondescript navy blue sedan rumbling through the dark tunnels under
the airport toward the Four Seasons Olympic Hotel. Forty seven minutes later
they were comfortably ensconced in the best suite in the most elegant hotel in
the city, and Bodie finally relaxed. As he unclipped the shoulder holster and
rolled his tensed neck muscles, trying to ease the strain and wishfully
remembering strong fingers rubbing out the stiffness, he sighed. It was going
to be a very long week, and he was tired before it even began.
Paperwork. It felt like the
last five years ... no, nearly the last decade of his life could be summed up
in that one nasty word. Chief Constable Alan Cade signed yet another official
document, then heard the chime of the warning bell with relief. It had been a
very long flight, and a restless night before, and he was exhausted. He had a
sinking feeling he would be facing a hostile audience when he got to Seattle,
and while he believed fiercely that his program was an important, if radical,
idea of how to approach drug traffickers, there were times when he got
extremely tired of trying to explain it to people who just didn't want to know.
His dual concept of educating the users and targeting the suppliers was far
from popular even in his own patch of East Anglia.
It was heartening to be
invited to present a speech on his program to an international conference on
illegal drugs containment strategies ... but a large part of that invitation,
he thought cynically, could be laid at the door of the public relations people.
It would look good on the reports to the various governments involved, but
would he be able to sway any of the people who really mattered? The ones who,
like himself, made and carried out the policies at the street level? Or would
they shake their heads, as his own Police Authority Board did, as the people of
influence in society did, at his wild ideas, and continue to fund only those
projects that sounded tough and were completely ineffective, while more young
people died and the hemorrhaging of the nations' lifeblood continued?
Aware that even in his own
thoughts he was beginning to sound like The Grand Pontificator, he stifled the
urge to laugh at himself and shuffled his papers into his briefcase. He'd
concentrate on the basics, now, get into Seattle, settle into the hotel, try to
make up for the previous night's restlessness ... and think about tomorrow when
he had to -- tomorrow. He had a week to try to make a difference. And if this
attempt was as futile as the last several had been, he might just chuck the
whole bloody business and retire to someplace remote in the Brecon Beacons to
raise rabbits.
That thought brought
another immediately to mind, and he tried to stifle it as thoroughly as he had
his laughter, with lamentably less success. When he had tamped the loneliness
and the need back into the darkest recesses of his mind once more, he took a
deep breath. No laughter, no light. No love. Above all, no remembering and no wanting
what he could not have. Vaguely, he wondered when the last time had been that
he had actually felt alive, but he feared the answer too much to consciously
formulate the question. Carefully blanking his mind as completely as his
expression, he tightened his lap belt and prepared for landing. It was going to
be a difficult week and he could do without the distractions that memories of
the past invariably brought.
The lines were just as bad
as he'd expected them to be. Used to stakeouts and, further back, standing at
attention for mind-numbingly long periods of time, Ellison let his thoughts
drift back to the previous night. His lover had been his usual inventive self, with
the added buzz of the unusual surroundings spurring him on to even greater
heights of ingenuity. The pleasant ache in his hamstrings and the heaviness
coiled low, spreading from the small of his back down the crease of his
buttocks and centering around his well-exercised opening brought a reminiscent
smile to his sculptured mouth. It wasn't often Sandburg let himself get that
wild. Yeah, he wasn't the restrained type, but he didn't usually pound his
partner through the floor like he had last night. God, that had been
incredible.
Keeping up unconsciously
with the flow of bodies around him, trying to distract himself from the nearly
overpowering odor of so many human beings packed in like sardines, he shuffled
forward another inch and settled back down to his memories. Maybe if he turned
his scent dial all the way down, he'd be able to get their conference packets
and get back to their room without getting a splitting headache. He most
certainly didn't want to tell Blair 'no thanks, honey, my head hurts' -- the
younger man would try to dose him with witch doctor potions, and he wasn't in
the mood for drinking anything with twigs floating along the top. On the other
hand, solicitous sex was a wonderful cure for the headache. His mind drifted,
helplessly, back to the previous night once more.
They had barely cleared the
door when Blair had unceremoniously dumped his backpack on the floor by the
table and pounced on him. He'd known it was coming and made no effort to evade
his amorous partner's advance. Strong hands caught him around the waist and a
solid body hit him in the middle of the back, with just enough force to take
him off his feet and land them both on the bed. Sandburg ended on top, and
wasting no time with preliminaries, he immediately attacked the buttons
straining across the front of Jim's jeans.
"Enough is enough,
man, and this is just too much. You've been flashing that hind end of yours in
front of my face for hours, and my tolerance is at an end. I am so ready for
this I'm about to explode and I haven't even gotten my hands on you. Yet."
Jim was laughing too hard to fight back by this point, and Blair had his jeans,
underwear, socks and shoes stripped off him before he could regain his breath.
Running long, elegant fingers down the buttons on the front of the green cotton
oxford shirt, the wild haired imp grinned wickedly up into Jim's face, then
flicked each button open. Skin extraordinarily sensitized, he could do no more
than gasp at the sensation as those clever fingers finished the job of stripping
him naked. Suddenly realizing that his Guide was severely overdressed for the
occasion, he gathered enough of his mind together to remedy the situation.
Pulling his tormentor away
from his nipples, groaning at the loss of contact, he managed to grunt out,
"Naked." Blair nodded encouragingly and reached for his groin. He
stifled the urge to just give in and be ravished, and was able to grind out,
"You!"
"Oh!" The teasing
note was back, full force. "You trying to tell me you want company at this
little party, here, Jim?" But at least he got the message, inarticulate as
it had been, and stripped himself as quickly as he had stripped Jim moments
before. The Sentinel moaned aloud as the softly furred, muscular chest came
down gently across his own, each springy curl seeming to raise a spark as it
skimmed across his skin. He was a triangle of fire from his nipples to his
navel, and the much-anticipated torture was just beginning.
Blair treated him to a full
body workover, running questing hands along his muscles, scraping his nails
with a feather light touch on all the places that turned Jim to quivering
jelly. By the time the young dervish took pity on him, he was unable to make a
single coherent noise. He just raised himself to his knees, pillowed his forehead
on his crossed wrists, clenched the spread until his knuckles turned white, and
whimpered. Blair responded well to the unspoken invitation, working him with
tongue, fingers and finally cock until both men had exploded and neither could
move. When they eventually came back to themselves they'd barely had energy to
cuddle together, but he had a distinct memory of his Guide stroking his chest
and turning his head to place a single kiss at the hollow at the base of his
throat before he drifted off.
As his mind drifted, he
moved forward another inch, then another. Finally a sound impinged on his mind.
Even with enhanced hearing, the low, accented voice had to repeat his name
three times before he registered it.
"It is Jim Ellison,
isn't it?"
Turning to meet the voice,
a wide smile split his face, bracketing his eyes with deep laugh lines.
"I'll be damned! Sergeant Bodie!" He thrust out his hand to take the
offered handshake, eyes sweeping over the elegant, fit man before him. The
years had been kind to his one-time special forces instructor. The ebony hair
was silvered, but the pale, handsome face was still smooth, and the solid build
was in excellent shape. His handshake was just as firm, and the gun calluses
were still hard, so he was active in the business, in some manner. The only
real indication of his age were the shadows in his deep blue eyes. They had
always been a distance there, walls up to keep intruders out, but now there was
an underlying hint of pain that he didn't remember seeing there before.
A white-toothed smile
answered his greeting. "Not sergeant any more, lad. Just Bodie." The
handclasp was brief, but warm. They'd not been close friends, fifteen years ago
when they'd known one another, but they had respected one another's abilities,
and something about the younger man had struck a responsive chord in the older
one.
"Don't tell me you're
a cop, now," Jim responded. Bodie's disdain for the police force had been
very evident even years before. It hadn't changed much, given the instinctive
wrinkle of his nose.
"No, doing a bit of
minding. Private security." Jim nodded. That sounded more like what he'd
expect. It paid well, and Bodie had always had a taste for the finer things in
life. The older man gestured casually at the controlled chaos swirling around
them. "Had to pick up some papers for my guv'nor."
A not-particularly-polite
jostle reminded Jim that they were holding up the line, and he cast an
apologetic smile at his old acquaintance. "Any chance of taking a break
and getting together later? I'm here with my partner and I think he'd like to
meet you." Would he ever, the detective grinned to himself. Sandburg would
get an adrenaline rush just from meeting a part of Ellison's closely held past,
and maybe the garrulous anthropologist could get Bodie to open up a bit about
his own. It would make for a fascinating dinner, he'd bet. Blair could get a
clam to talk, so Bodie didn't stand a chance.
"I'd like that,"
Bodie answered, and it sounded as if he meant it. "I've some time later
this evening, after the last of the presentations are over. How about
1930?"
Ellison nodded assent.
"That'd be great." Another ungentle shove interrupted him, and he
threw Bodie a helpless glance. "See you then!"
The Englishman grinned back
at him, tossed him a casual salute, and disappeared into his own line. Jim
found himself at the table, staring down at a myriad of folders and colored
papers presided over by a harried looking clerk, and settled in to figure out
what he needed so that he could get it, escape, and pay Blair back for the
previous night.
The resulting mental images
brought such a wicked smile to his face the clerk dropped her folders and,
dazed, smiled back, hoping to get lucky. Unfortunately for her, the lucky one
was already upstairs waiting. The man standing behind Jim in line was repaid
for his impatient jostling by having to deal with a very grumpy and sadly
disappointed clerk.
The preliminary panel on
opening day had gone well, Alan thought, but the proof would be in the second
day's presentation. He was scheduled to be the keynote speaker on the
alternative approach panel, and he was feeling somewhat nervous. He'd
championed unpopular causes in the past -- often -- but never in such a
high-visibility international arena. He hoped the changes in his appearance,
along with his official biography, title and name, would be enough to carry him
through the experience unscathed. Staring moodily through the window at the sunset
painting the sky in vivid rose and deep purple, his undisciplined thoughts were
interrupted by the chirp of the telephone. Settling into the floral patterned
armchair next to the small end table, he caught up the handset by the second
ring.
"Cade."
"Chief Constable Alan
Cade?" He murmured an affirmative, trying and failing to place the lightly
accented voice. "My name is Eduardo Cimbrone."
His mind instantly supplied
a face and a sketchy background to the name. Highly placed, highly regarded
Italian judge, uncompromising in his sentencing no matter the clout of the
criminal in question, with many enemies who would be more than happy to see him
dead. "It's an honor, sir. What can I do for you?"
"It is rather what I
might do for you, Chief Cade. We shared a good friend, Pietro Donati."
Memories flashed behind his
eyes, of a good man dying by treachery in what should have been a safe place,
of his own abortive attempt to protect him and the bullet through the left
wrist he had suffered as a result. "He was a good man. I'm sorry."
Gruff words, laden with pain both from losing a friend and failing in his duty.
"As am I. Please, do
not blame yourself , Chief Cade. What was done was beyond anyone's control to
avoid, even the unfortunate guard used so badly. He himself was only attempting
to protect his family. It is a confusing and saddening place, this world we
live in. But there are good people in it as well. Pietro spoke very fondly of
you, with great respect. I was one of the executors of his will, and he left
you a small bequest."
Cade was unable to stifle
his sound of surprise. Cimbrone politely ignored it and continued.
"It is a personal
journal, containing delicate and potentially volatile information, and he left
instructions that I should give it to you in person, not to allow it to leave
my possession except to place it in your hands. Would you be available to meet
with me?"
Swallowing past the lump in
his throat at the thought of his late friend and with his mind rapidly turning
over the possible ramifications of the information in the book, Cade made a
quick decision. "I'd be honored, sir. Where would you like to meet? And
when would be convenient?"
A rustle of papers in the
background caused Cade to cast a rueful glance at his own stack of paperwork.
He had a pile of it to go through before he could meet with the honorable
judge. He was looking forward to the meeting, however. He needed something to
take his mind off the next day's efforts, and he was intensely curious to
discover what Donati had left for him.
"It is a fine night,
and I am feeling cramped in this room. Perhaps the verandah of the hotel
restaurant, after dinner this evening? At, oh, eight o'clock?" The
hesitancy in the older man's voice was underlined with anticipation. He
undoubtedly wanted to rid himself of the journal as soon as possible.
Considering the myriad threats against him, it really wasn't much of a surprise
that he should wish to rid himself of at least one potentially dangerous cache
of information.
"I look forward to it,
sir." A sincere "until later" and he cradled the receiver
thoughtfully and picked up the room service menu. If he was going to spend as
much time as he would like to talking with Cimbrone, he'd better get the rest
of his work done. Bearding the lions in the den was one thing ... bearding them
unprepared was enough to make his palms sweat.
Part of him felt a little
apprehensive about leaving the judge with the night shift, but the old man had
assured him that he would be settled in his room for the rest of the evening,
so Bodie ignored the little voice in the back of his mind that was cautioning
him to stay close. With one last round of instructions to the night shift he
left the suite to meet Ellison and his partner for dinner.
He told himself he was
over-reacting -- he'd been on-duty for nearly three weeks without a single day
off, and the strain was beginning to show. A man could only stay alert for so
long, getting by on nights of half-alert sleep, before his reflexes gave. And
he wasn't getting any younger -- he'd admit that, if only to himself. He'd
always been relentlessly honest with himself about his own abilities, even as
he'd lied -- or at least embellished greatly -- to others around him. Kept them
on their toes.
All except Doyle. Ray'd
known better. After the first two weeks he hadn't been able to slip a single
lie past his partner, and after a month he hadn't wanted to. By the time three
months had passed he was too busy trying to keep Doyle's back covered during
the day and get into his bed at night to keep up the facade. After the fourth
month he'd been too shagged out from both bed and back-up to worry about the
fact that his golli could (and did) read him like a book. They'd had eleven
years. More than some marriages. It had been eight since they'd been forced to
split. He had fought his heart and his memories every single day of the full
eight years.
Before he could sink into
the melancholy he felt lapping at his thoughts, he caught sight of Ellison,
forging across the crowded restaurant. Just to his side and half a step at his
heels trailed a young man who, for some reason Bodie couldn't identify, made
his breath catch in his throat. As they drew closer and he stood to greet them,
he isolated his reaction and tried to analyze it. True, the young man was a
beauty, and he wasn't so bloody old he couldn't appreciate lustrous sable curls
and huge blue eyes fringed with thick dark lashes, or broad shoulders topping a
strong, gorgeous body. The relatively diminutive stature couldn't hide the
strength inherent in the sturdy frame. Strong thighs, narrow waist leading to a
surprisingly broad chest and wide shoulders, all perfectly proportioned, topped
by a stunningly beautiful face, all high cheekbones, large eyes and succulent
mouth. But it wasn't the beauty of the man, or even the nearly visible energy
surrounding him as he practically bounced across the room. Something ...
indefinable was catching Bodie's interest, arousing him and interesting him in
a way he couldn't remember being caught in a very, very long time.
By the time he realized how
turned on he was, Ellison had come to a stop by his table and was staring at
him intently, a frown in the crystal blue eyes. Bodie managed to stop himself
from looking down at his groin to see if he was giving himself away, and cocked
his head encouragingly. He concentrated on trying to look friendly, not as if
he wanted to jump on the young stranger and fuck him senseless.
"Bodie, this is my
partner," Ellison stressed the word oddly, and Bodie caught the meaning
immediately. A fair warning -- this one was taken. "Blair Sandburg. Blair,
this is Bodie, an old friend from the army." From the hard edge in the
detective's voice, the friendship, such as it was, was close to being
forfeited. Bodie blanked his face and banked the fire running through his
system, more than a little astonished at his own reaction. He couldn't blame
Ellison for getting territorial. He hadn't been this immediately randy in ages.
Sandburg reached out to
shake Bodie's hand, shooting Jim a questioning, concerned glance as he did. The
younger man sensed the unexpected tension, and instinctively tried to ease it.
"Mr. Bodie, it's nice to meet you. I'd like to say I've heard a lot about
you, but you know Jim, he is so not into talking about the past. Mister
motormouth he is not. Actions speak louder than words, you know how it
goes."
Bodie found himself
grinning at Blair's cheerful exuberance. Feeling his pulse start to slow and
the tightness in his groin fade to a manageable level, he was relieved to see
Ellison relax fractionally and ease up on the glare. This was supposed to be a
friendly dinner, and he'd have to watch his own unexpected desire to spread
young Sandburg across the table and treat him like the buffet if he wanted it
to stay friendly. Shaking his head slightly to rid himself of the lingering
daze of lust, he put himself out to be charming.
No one could out-charm
Bodie when he made a real effort.
After the initial rocky
start, conversation flowed freely. Sandburg unobtrusively led the conversation,
telling some raucous and far-fetched tales of his unusual experiences with
various field expeditions into South American jungles. Bodie responded in kind,
sharing some of his own experiences in Africa, keeping to the funnier side of
the past and avoiding the harsher episodes. Jim listened intently, enjoying the
exchange of adventure stories, and offering a few of his own from his time in
Peru. An hour into dinner, stuffed prawns and cheese rolls out of the way and
the first delicious bottle of wine nearly emptied, the trio was tucking into
their main course when a sudden disturbance out on the verandah made Ellison
stand abruptly and focus through the French doors. Bodie broke off in the
middle of tale about a Nganguela priest speaking to the ancestors of a village
man and instinctively reached for his gun. Blair immediately diverted his
attention to his Sentinel, asking calmly, in an unusually gentle but very direct
voice, what it was that Jim saw. Before the big man could answer, someone threw
open the doors and the sound of the action outside made it quite clear.
Gunshots. Men swearing,
loudly, threatening in a mixture of English, Italian and German. High pitched
squeals, not all of them feminine, from the surrounding bystanders. The
distinctive wet muffled thud of bullets tearing into human flesh, and the
corresponding rustling thump of bodies hitting pavement. Bodie was around the
table and at the doors in a heartbeat. He was one step behind Ellison and right
on the heels of Sandburg, who moved together as if they were choreographed. The
detective drew his weapon with one hand and displayed his shield with the
other, bellowing, "Police! Drop your weapons!" while simultaneously
managing to shield his partner from possible return fire. Bodie slipped around
the side of the duo and cursed, filthily and at length, at the scene that met
his eyes.
Three men were down,
another half dozen wounded, four seriously. He recognized Judge Cimbrone's
minder among the dead. Two men in dark colored business suits were being thrust
forcefully into the back of a wagon of some sort, one of the four wheel drive
off-road vehicles so favored in the Pacific Northwest, a muted tan job with a
swing-out door that easily accommodated the old man and the unidentified man
being stuffed into it. Bodie managed to draw a bead on one of the bastards
kidnapping the judge, unexpectedly aided by a sideways kick from the second
kidnapping victim, but it wasn't enough. By the time he got another clear shot
the door swung shut and the wagon veered off into the traffic, causing several
other cars to swerve and collide with one another. For an instant, under the
adrenaline pounding in his head, Bodie thought he recognized something familiar
in the long legs ruthlessly kicking at the abductors. Then the press of people
surrounded him and the all-too-familiar routine of the police at the scene of a
crime boxed him in.
Staring at the lax body of
the guard who had been killed in the abduction, he listened to the excited
chatter around him and took a deep breath. Now would be a good time to draw on
those old unilateral CI5 powers ... if he still had them ... and if they were
in Britain ... which they most definitely were not. As it was, he looked up to
see Ellison approaching with a subdued Blair at his side and took another deep
breath. It was going to be a long night of questions, answers, more questions,
wasted time and breath and energy. And while the useless questions were being
asked over and over again, the bastards who'd stolen his charge out from under
his nose would be getting further and further away. This would be a political
hot potato and, seeing the local representatives of the Federal Bureau of Investigation
who were in town for the conference begin rounding up witnesses, he knew it
wouldn't be long before he would be completely out of the loop. God help the
poor bastard who'd been snatched along with the judge. Eduardo Cimbrone was not
long for this world, and whoever'd had the bad luck to be standing next to him
was a walking dead man.
Or a kicking one, he
thought on a note of black humor, before two FBI agents zeroed in on him and
began to bark questions at him. Pulling out the papers that allowed him to
carry the gun he had discharged and identifying himself as an off duty
bodyguard of the judge's, he began to answer questions. So much for a nice
relaxing dinner with an old acquaintance. At least he had an alibi. Not that he
needed one ... but it never hurt to be prepared.
Three hours later he was
drained dry, officially not under suspicion, and bone tired. But something was
nagging at him, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Watching from the
sidelines as the FBI agents asked the same questions from the same witnesses
and got the same answers for the fifth time, Bodie turned around slowly and
headed for the restaurant. As he entered the dining room he leaned against the
door frame and glanced around the room. Ellison and Sandburg, who had been questioned
and given leave to go two hours earlier, were hunched over coffee at one of the
side tables, whispering fiercely to one another. Bodie's left eyebrow slowly
arched and he peered measuringly at the two men. He wasn't one to give up, and
his professional pride was dented that the judge had been taken from
practically under his nose. It pissed him off royally. Besides, there was
something about the Kicker that was really nagging at his brain.
Ellison was a copper. Maybe
he'd have some ideas. He shifted himself from his near-sprawl in the doorway
and went over to join the others.
As usual, Jim was non-verbally
beating himself over the head for not responding fast enough to a crisis, and
equally the norm, Blair was talking a mile a minute to try to pull his partner
out of the trough of the guilts he had dropped into. Even knowing that the only
things that would help were time and objective distance didn't stop the ritual
dance. After three years, neither of them expected it would. In a strange way
it was reassuring to go through the motions, add some normalcy to the
situation. Or at least as much normalcy as they usually had in any given
situation, which wasn't a hell of a lot.
Finally managing to
pinpoint the one weird moment that stood out over all the other weird moments
in a violently weird evening, Ellison laid a gentle finger across the rapidly moving
lips of his Guide. Blair stilled immediately, lapis eyes fixed unwaveringly on
the man attached to the finger.
"His scent," the
detective finally said, with no small measure of satisfaction.
Blair stared at him a
moment longer, then caused him to lose his train of thought completely by
opening his full lips and closing them around the finger, lightly bathing the
captive with his tongue. Jim managed not to moan out loud, even tried his best
to glare at his unrepentant lover, but it didn't do any good. Eventually, when
it felt as if every nerve in his body had been alerted to the gentle suckling
of his fingertip and every neural pathway in his brain was cross-wired, Blair
took pity on him.
Letting the finger slip
from his mouth, he cocked his head slightly and stared at Jim. "Whose
scent? What about a scent? You're not making a whole lot of sense here, big
guy."
And whose fault was that?
He stared at the younger man, trying to remember how to talk. When they got
alone Sandburg was going to pay for that little stunt. Ruthlessly suppressing
his body's natural reaction to plans of just how he would make his lover pay,
Ellison ground out, "The kidnapping victim. The one who was kicking, not
the judge. He ... his scent was familiar."
Bright interest sparked the
eyes holding his, and Blair's curls practically quivered. "You recognized
his scent? With that little bit of time you actually had and such little
exposure, over the combined scents of, what, like forty or fifty people all
wearing perfume or cologne or whatever, and you could pick this one guy out?
Incredible, man, just incredible." The mobile face went completely still
as the possibilities sifted through the anthropologist's busy mind, then what
Jim privately thought of as Blair's Darwin-look pulled the generous features
into a serious mask. Taking a deep breath, Blair started to shoot questions at
him. Before the stream had a chance to build into a flood and wash them both
away, Jim held up both hands in an 'I surrender' gesture and broke in firmly.
"I recognized
it." He was certain he had, but he couldn't for the life of him place it.
"So, you've smelled it
before. This is great, Jim, we could really use this. Was it a particular kind
of aftershave, maybe, or deodorant or-"
"His scent," Jim
interrupted absently. "It was his natural scent, Chief. I don't know where
I've smelled it before, but it was definitely familiar."
"That's even better,
Jim. Listen, that means you can use his scent to track him. It won't fade over
time, like the gunpowder did that time when you were tracking the gun, and it
won't wash off him like an artificial scent applied topically would with sweat
or water or whatever. No matter how long these guys have him, you'll still be
able to track him! Now we just have to figure out a way to get included in the
investigation, so you can get in there and do your stuff. It's not like it's
gonna wear off. As long as there's life, there's hope, or in this case, smell,
right?"
"There won't be for
very long," a cool English voice broke in. Both men looked up to see Bodie
standing at Sandburg's shoulder, looking exhausted and frustrated.
"What do you
mean?" Jim got in, before Blair could chime in with something to try to
cover their previous conversation. Ellison's Sentinel abilities were a very
well kept secret. "Did you recognize the men involved in the
kidnapping?" It might at least give them a starting point.
"No, not specifically.
But I know the sort of enemies Eduardo Cimbrone has. They don't want a ransom.
They want him dead. If they ransom him he'll just go right back to the bench,
and that's not the kind of message they want to send out. They want fear, not
money. They want to intimidate, not extort. They want to send a message to the
rest of the lawmakers that they are capable of eliminating anyone who stands in
their way. And the other man is a witness. He can't be left alive." He
visibly gathered himself before going on. "Those men will be dead very
soon."
"Not if we find them
first," Jim answered before he even realized he was going to say anything.
Two pairs of sapphire eyes pinned him to his chair, and he shrugged helplessly.
"We have to try."
"Bit out of your
jurisdiction, my son," Bodie said slowly, staring at his one-time student.
"And I don't have any, anywhere. Not anymore."
Jim stared back at him for
a moment, then swiveled to search Blair's face. The calm certainty he saw there
confirmed that this was the right course of action, and that he would have all
the back-up he would ever need. "Anyone can make a citizen's arrest."
Without another word being spoken, it was decided.
The hunt was on.
It had all blown up around
them so quickly, Cade hadn't had a chance to defend himself, much less the
elderly gentleman who had just moments before been reminiscing quietly about
absent friends. He'd been somewhat taken aback by the absence of obvious
bodyguards, but his sharp eye had picked up a hulking shape looming
protectively in the shadows and he'd relaxed slightly. They'd spoken for a
little while, Cimbrone had handed him the small, cloth bound book, which he'd
placed carefully in his inner jacket pocket, and they had lingered for a
moment, enjoying the temperate breezes lightening the evening.
Then hell had erupted
around them.
At the squeal of tires and
sound of semiautomatic gunfire he'd instinctively pushed the judge down, hand
scrabbling for a shoulder holster he no longer wore, fingers clawing for a gun
he hadn't carried in years. The instincts, which had saved his life so many
times in the past, failed him this time, costing him precious seconds in which
he could have raised more of an alarm. Or so he castigated himself, much later.
At the time, there was no chance to think, only react.
The bodyguard fell first,
but not before taking down one of the attackers. Cade took another down with a
lethal chop to the throat, kicking out in a desperate attempt to keep the
others from surrounding the judge. He failed. Someone barked out a sharp order
in Italian, countered by another bark in what sounded like German, and he found
himself pinned by two bruisers who must've been weaned on steroids. Dizzy from
a blow to the jaw and with his arms twisted behind his back, he was unable to
counter the swift punches to his midsection that drove the breath from his body
and turned his vision black. Disorientation hit as he was lifted bodily and
shoved into some sort of truck or wagon, managing to land only one more vicious
kick before something hard bashed into the side of his skull and he sank
unwillingly into darkness.
When the light came back,
it brought throbbing pain with it. Bile surged in his throat, and his stomach
felt as if it was bashed inside out. When he tried to open his eyes vertigo
struck, leaving him whimpering softly, unable to stifle the sound completely. A
small part of his brain, still functioning somewhat objectively, cataloged the
symptoms of shock and concussion, then a booted foot connected with his bruised
ribs and he gasped in pain.
At least the room stopped
spinning. Turning his head cautiously to look at his captors, he decided that
that wasn't much of an improvement. Darkness might just be preferable. At least
then he wouldn't see the bullet coming.
A tall, swarthy man in
ratty blue jeans and a well-worn sweatshirt was pointing a Walther at his head.
Cade took a shallow breath, the best he could manage in the fetal position he
found himself in, and stared up into his would-be executor's eyes. What he saw
there chilled him completely. No warmth. Not even the warmth of hatred, or
rage. Just ice. If there had ever been a soul in the man, it had withered and
died years before. Cade swallowed dryly and tried to relax his muscles. He
wouldn't give the bastard the satisfaction of seeing him beg.
As the man's forefinger
began to curl around the trigger, someone spat a sharp order at him. He
immediately eased off the trigger, looking down at his captive for a long
moment with no expression, before turning and heading away from him. Cade took
a moment to close his eyes and thank Whoever was watching over him for the
mercy of sparing his life, then gingerly turned his head until he could see
what was happening in the adjoining room. His head throbbed alarmingly, but his
vision was clearing.
What he saw made him feel
sick all over again.
Cimbrone was strapped to a
chair, blood flowing freely from numerous scrapes and cuts along his face,
chest and arms. He had obviously been beaten, thoroughly and methodically.
Opposite from the chair sat a videocamera on a tripod, and a harsh light
mounted on a collapsible pole threw the evidences of mistreatment into sharp
relief. Cimbrone was saying something, his words trembling and his voice
breaking at times. Just out of the harsh spotlight a man, dressed similarly to
the thug who had been standing over Cade when he awoke, watched Cimbrone
closely. Eventually, the old man's voice stumbled to a stop. Someone behind the
camera rapped out a question, and his head fell forward for a moment before he
straightened his spine. The effort to sit proudly showed in the white tension
of his face, but the quiet dignity of his bearing was unimpaired. As Cade
watched the calm profile, nearly holding his breath from the tension in the
air, the silence was broken by a single word.
"No." There was
no quaver in the judge's voice now.
Cimbrone's lips had
scarcely closed over the word before the man in the shadows extended his arm,
placed the barrel of the handgun less than an inch from the side of the old
man's skull, and pulled the trigger.
Cade closed his eyes
involuntarily, but not quickly enough to avoid seeing the shower of blood, bone
and brain matter that sprayed into the doorway. Forcing himself to open his
eyes again, he saw the ruined head slump forward onto the gaunt chest. Then the
spotlight blinked out, leaving afterimages on his corneas that made it hard to
focus until they faded. By the time he could see clearly again, two of the men
had cut through the ropes and allowed the corpse to fall ungracefully to the floor.
Cade found himself staring helplessly, unable to fight or escape, trussed as he
was. Two men, one the man who had been standing over him when he woke and the
other hidden in the shadows behind him, came forward.
The gunman pulled his
pistol out and calmly aimed directly between Cade's eyes. The Chief found
himself unable to look away from the end of the barrel, which suddenly looked
three inches across. The would-be killer queried the man behind him, his voice
harsh in the stillness, something in Italian Cade couldn't make out over the
rushing of blood in his ears. He was surprised, then, by the unequivocal
negative the man in the background returned. It was enough to tear his
attention away from the gun pointed at his head. When the second man stepped from
the shadows, he felt the world tilt sideways on its axis again.
"Hello, Mister
Doyle."
Bad had just gone from
worse to worst.
"My name is Alan
Cade," he managed to force out past constricted throat muscles. "I'm
the Chief Constable of Eastlan-"
Before he could finish the
sentence, the criminal struck like a snake. Kneeling swiftly beside him, he
yanked the back of Cade's collar into one clenched fist, pulling Cade's torso
up from the floor sharply. The threat of strangulation and the pain in his ribs
from the awkward position cut off the rest of the Chief's words. As he gasped
for breath, the other man slowly ran one hand up his throat, spanning it,
gripping his jaw and tipping his face up to the light. He leaned his face in
toward his captive, staring into the defiant emerald eyes, before brushing a
feather-light kiss over the slight rise of the implant in Cade's right cheek.
"Raymond."
Cade looked up into the
dark gray eyes above him and suddenly recognized who was holding him. The years
had not been kind to the terrorist. Still, he kept silent, forcing himself into
an unnatural patience, waiting to see what would happen next. A smile carved
the spare features so close to his own, and his eyes widened of their own
accord.
"Of course, I may be
mistaken," the voice continued, a faint German accent adding a slight
emphasis to the consonants. "You might be a ghost. You may be a
doppelganger for a dead man. In which case, Chief Constable Alan Cade, I have
no use for you, and I will allow Antonio here to put a bullet in your
brain." Staring up into the black ice above him, Cade knew that he would
do it without a qualm. "If, however, you happen to be one former CI5 agent
by the name of Raymond Doyle, who disappeared eight years ago when the majority
of my people were arrested in an effort to save his miserable, worthless life
from just retribution from the rest of my group, then I will have some further
use for you."
As he spoke, the other man
had moved closer, until their faces were only centimeters apart. Wide green
eyes met hazy gray for what felt like eons, but could only have been a few
moments. Finally, Cade lowered his eyelids and wet his lips. Opening them
again, he felt the carefully constructed facade crumble, and the terrorist
smiled again, triumphantly.
"Hello, Hofnan,"
Doyle growled up at him.
"Hello, Raymond,"
the other man crooned softly. "This is an unexpected pleasure. It is going
to be such fun."
It wasn't.
The party had to divide
before the main entertainment began, at least as far as the German was
concerned. The men he had been assisting, for a fee, had obtained their
objective when they had executed Judge Cimbrone, with the videotape to prove
it. They were anxious to leave the vicinity, and he was equally anxious to go
somewhere more ... private for his own little discussion with Ray Doyle. He
directed Antonio to place the still-restrained ex-agent, now-Chief, into a
nondescript sedan stolen earlier to provide his escape after the assassination.
They drove until he found a place that looked deserted enough for his purposes.
The area between Seattle
and Tacoma was a welter of tiny lakes and patches of woodland, with small
communities in isolated pockets along the southeastern edge of the Sound. As
they pulled off the main highway onto a twisting mass of side roads, Doyle was
jolted out of the painful doze he had fallen into as his head bounced against
the side window. He curled his hands into tight fists, digging his nails into
his palms to force himself to stay alert. His chances for escape were slim to
none, but his chance of survival if he stayed under Hofnan's control was nil.
And he'd never been a quitter. So he'd have to try his damnedest to find a
chance and take it.
From past experience, Jim
Ellison knew better than to waste time getting the local officials to listen to
him. In a situation like this, with the Seattle PD, the FBI, and
representatives of half the law enforcement agencies in the free world milling
around, it was too insane to even try. He didn't even know who was in charge.
He didn't think any of the people who thought they were in charge knew who was
in charge.
Stopping just long enough
to pick up extra ammunition for his gun and all the loose cash he had, plus two
extra books of traveler's checks, he, Blair and Bodie were in a rental car
within twenty minutes. Blessing the concierge's eagerness to please and
slipping easily through the confusion of bodies still milling about, they set
out into the darkness to find the missing men.
"Do you have any idea
where we're going," Bodie's slightly sardonic question floated over from
the back seat, "or are we just heading nowhere in particular and hoping we
get lucky?"
Blair risked a quick look
backward, but before he could come up with an acceptable explanation, or at
least one with a modicum of a chance at being bought, Jim surprised him by
answering.
"Just putting some of
those tracking skills you taught me to good use, Sarge." A snort from
behind them was the only answer. Ellison began to follow in the direction he
had seen the wagon leave, then stopped at the corner and focused his eyes,
picking up an irregular series of burnt rubber patches on the pavement that
were only discernible to Sentinel vision. Softly, he murmured, "Stay with
me, Chief," then pulled out to follow the phantom trail.
Sandburg responded
immediately. Too low for Bodie to hear, he began to murmur encouragement and
guidance. His deep, calm tones kept the detective from zoning out on the faint
burn marks, keeping him aware enough of the early morning traffic to be able to
navigate it safely, and allowing him the freedom to concentrate the majority of
his attention on tracking the kidnappers without losing himself in the hunt.
The younger man was invaluable as a Guide, and had saved Ellison's life more
times than either man could count with his anchoring presence. The magic of
Sentinel and Guide worked once more, and it was just a little over an hour
before they pulled up in front of a small track house. By the time the burnt
marks had faded, Jim had memorized the tread mark, and was able to follow it
through the light film of road grease the rain had brought to the surface of
the street. He silently thanked his partners in the hunt for getting them on
the trail so quickly, before the tracks had had a chance to fade.
Bodie had stayed remarkably
silent throughout the drive. Peering from one profile to the other, he was
caught by the intensity of concentration and the almost palpable link between
the two men. Ellison's eyes never left the road, and Sandburg's eyes never left
Ellison. The younger man was talking continuously, but he couldn't make out
what he was saying. It was all very intriguing.
He'd seen many different
types of partnerships in his life. He'd even shared a special link with a mate
in all senses of the word, had lived with one for years, in a partnership with
a man who could practically read his mind, as he could read the other's. But
there was something different at work here.
As he watched, an errant
memory rose to the surface of his memory. In the bush in Angola, watching a
tribe of Ovimbundu prepare for a battle, waiting on the sidelines for his own
part in the local war. Two men crouched together off to the side of the main
gathering, one a warrior, one a priest. The priest spoke softly, too low for
other tribesmen to hear, as the Protector and his Shaman decided which way to
pursue their enemies. The way Blair spoke to Jim now, the strange intensity in
Jim's manner, the nearly visible connection between them, were all eerily
familiar. He'd heard tales of Protectors with some of the tribes, mythical men
who could do things no ordinary humans could do. He'd seen too much to dismiss
it out of hand, choosing instead to use whatever advantages he could find,
wherever he could find them. If his erstwhile student had somehow managed to
harness some of this strange power, he was more than willing to sit back and
let him lead the way.
Ellison cut the lights
before turning into the side street, and cut the engine a moment later to glide
silently to a stop in from of the house. Reaching up to turn off the dome
light, he stared at the house for a long moment before nodding to the others.
There was a stillness about the building that spoke of abandonment, but all
three men approached cautiously, sliding from the car and closing the doors
gently. Bodie signaled once and Ellison nodded, keeping Sandburg to his side
with one hand against his forearm.
As the older man
disappeared around the side of the building, the Sentinel focused his hearing
and his smell. There was no sound of movement within the house, no heartbeats,
no sound of breathing. But something violent had happened here, very recently.
The coppery tang of blood along with the putrid scent of burned flesh was
strong in the air.
Motioning his partner
behind him, Jim scanned the front area through the narrow window beside the
door. Focusing his vision, he saw a body on the floor, crumpled in an untidy
heap, the top portion of it covered with dark blood. The dark stain spread out
from under the head in a wide pool. There was no indication of any other
occupants, so he lowered his shoulder and jammed the door open. At the same time
both men heard the sound of glass breaking, and the back door squeaked open
shortly afterward. All three men came into the house with every sense on alert,
until a thorough and rapid reconnaissance of the building showed them to be
alone with the corpse.
Bodie's face was grim as he
examined what remained of his employer. Blair stood back slightly from the
crime scene, looking faintly ill, and kept his eyes glued on his partner.
Ellison prowled around the perimeter of the room, stopping here to stare at a faint
indentation in the carpet, there to reach out and hold his hand a few inches
above the puddle of blood under the remains of Cimbrone's skull. A pulse beat
in his jaw at the evidence of sudden death and the wanton violence of the
murder.
Blair took a steadying
breath and inched around the body to stop at Jim's side. Swallowing heavily, he
managed to ask, "What is it, big guy?"
"It hasn't been
long," Ellison answered. "The blood's still warm."
"Well, the body
isn't," Bodie cut in with disgust, wrapping three fingers around an
outflung arm. "But something's missing."
"Yeah, half his
head." Blair responded, staring at the corpse in sick fascination and
taking shallow breaths through his mouth to try to calm his stomach.
"Not that," Bodie
gestured toward the empty front room. "The other man."
Ellison immediately scanned
the room again, paying closer attention to the carpet. With a muffled
exclamation, he turned and hurried into the foyer, stopping by the doorway.
Kneeling next to some small splashes of dried brown fluid on the floor, he ran
his fingertips delicately over the carpet fibers, turning up his sense of touch
and mapping the contours of the crushed material. To Bodie and Sandburg, he
appeared to be reading the carpet in Braille. He found a few dark hairs, the
imprint of a body curled into a tight ball, and the dried blood in a deeper
indentation marking where the back of the victim's head had lain.
"Well, he's not dead.
At least, he wasn't killed here," the detective finally decided.
"Not enough blood,"
Bodie agreed. He gave Ellison, then Sandburg, a searching glance. The bigger
man didn't notice, caught up in feeling the impressions on the carpet. Blair
gave him such an incredibly innocent look from those big blue eyes that Bodie
knew not only was he not going to tell him anything, the boy was going to
adamantly deny there was anything to tell. Bodie gave a mental shrug and tried
to gather his tired thoughts enough to figure out what to do next. They'd all
been up at least twenty four hours straight, and none of them had had much
quality sleep in the days before that. Staring at Sandburg who was staring at
Ellison who was staring at the carpet, he came to a decision.
"He'll keep."
The detective looked up
from the pile under his fingers, forcing his attention toward Bodie. Blair
turned to look at Bodie and his eye was caught by the corpse behind the older
man. He had a somewhat harder time tearing his eyes from the bloody mess that
had once been a judge, but he managed, swallowing several times to keep his
dinner on his stomach. Licking his lips, he asked, "Why? I mean, this is
not real encouraging, man. These guys are so not into the sanctity of human
life, obviously, so what makes you think they're not going to waste the other
guy?" There was a distinct wobble in his voice, but his gaze was
determinedly steady.
"They didn't yet, and
none of us are in any shape to keep looking. We need a few hours rest. And we
need to figure out why this other man is important enough to keep alive. It's
not like they needed a witness, for an assassination. Damnit, I wish I knew who
the bloody hell this guy is!" Bodie was showing his fatigue, the words
starting to slur together slightly.
Blair looked over at his
partner, who was practically zoning on the texture of the carpet, and had to
agree with the need for a break. Tracking and concentrating so fiercely for
such a long period of time without lessening the focus had been draining to his
Sentinel. He nodded agreement. "You think you can pick up his scent again,
Jim, if we give it a rest for a couple hours?"
The soft question
penetrated Ellison's haze of concentration, and he looked up to meet worried,
slightly distraught sapphire eyes. That snapped him back to the present, and he
took a deep breath. "Yeah, maybe, I don't know." Aware of how
disconnected he sounded, he shook his head hard, trying to gather his
fragmenting thoughts. "We may have to risk it, but first things
first." Two pairs of dark blue eyes connected with his and he pointed to
the body. Blair automatically followed the pointing finger and choked back a
gag. Jim winced, automatically muttering an apology at him, but remained
insistent. "We have to call it in."
"Yeah, but Jim,"
protested Blair, "if we do that then we'll be sitting here answering
questions for the next three days instead of getting the bad guys, man! And
whoever the other guy is, he'll be dead long before we get to him."
"He's right,"
Bodie chimed in. "Too many explanations, too much time lost."
"Hey, how about an
anonymous tip? You know, like with the car jacking you told me about, when I
was off driving the truck and you were with the other two and the guy had the
heart attack and you stayed there and called 911?" Sandburg looked happy
to find a compromise between hunting the kidnappers and doing his civic duty.
Hopefully his by-the-book partner would run with the idea. A pursed lip, raised
brows and pleading eyes added to the persuasion. Blair didn't care, at this
point, how they did it, but he wanted to get away from that corpse. It was really
starting to freak him out. Bodie nodded, and Jim reluctantly agreed.
A phone call to 911 from
the car as they left to find a motel, and the judge was covered. Jim was
careful to give the bare minimum in detail, and he severed the connection as
quickly as possible. Blair had a point -- if they were going to rescue the
second victim, they couldn't take the time to hand over the crime scene
properly. But first things first, too, and that was to get a little shut eye
before they all collapsed.
The car jolted across a
gravel road and pulled to a stop in front of what looked like a summer cabin of
some sort. Details were difficult to make out in the dim early morning light,
but the sense of isolation from civilization -- with its hope of rescue, fading
rapidly -- sent a shiver running down Doyle's spine. Antonio turned off the
ignition and, with permission signaled from Hofnan, exited the car for a quick
but thorough reconnaissance. Nodding the all clear to his boss, he raised his
leg and planted a hard, focused blow at the side of the lock in the back door.
The jamb broke cleanly.
Doyle's field of vision
abruptly narrowed to nothing as Hofnan opened the door and pulled him from the
car. Concentrating on finding an opening, thankful that at least the throbbing
headache had calmed during the night, he was dismayed when Antonio returned and
hoisted him over one broad shoulder. With his arms tied behind his back at
elbow and wrist, and his ankles tied together, one of Antonio's arms bracing
his knees and Hofnan's gun in the back of his neck, he didn't have a chance to
do a damned thing but breathe steadily through his nose and try not to black
out again.
Doyle's luck was running evenly
that night -- bad from beginning to end. The absent owner was a fitness
enthusiast, and he had a chin-up bar on a free standing, heavy iron frame in
the back room, with a matching sit-up toe bar across the bottom of the frame.
The whole contraption was bolted to the floor, making a perfect strap up cage
for a prisoner. Hofnan actually laughed aloud when he saw it. Complimenting
Antonio on his excellent, well furnished choice of a hideaway, he watched, gun
ready, as his henchman dumped Doyle beside the frame. Before he could react and
even try to roll out of the way, or get his feet into position to kick out
again, Antonio casually batted the back of his head against the wooden floor,
hard, stunning him once more.
He felt the bonds on his
wrists loosen, but before he could shake off the effects of the most recent
blow to his head he was propped against the frame and efficiently tied to the
crossbar, arms spread above his head, a wrist at each corner. Grasping at the
rope, trying to get leverage to bring his feet up for a kick, he was soundly
cuffed again. Determinedly trying to shake off the effects, not sure whether to
pass out or throw up, he felt the restraints on his ankles give way. His legs
were roughly yanked apart and each ankle was tied securely to the bottom
corners of the frame. When his vision finally cleared, the tears slowly stopped
leaking from the corners of his eyes, and his stomach stopped trying to crawl
out his throat, he tugged experimentally.
He wasn't going anywhere
any time soon.
Managing to turn his head
enough to see his captor, Doyle was chilled to the bone at the stark enjoyment
on the man's face. Antonio turned to Hofnan and demanded of him, in broken
German, to be paid so that he could take his leave. The older man nodded, then
gestured toward the front of the house with his chin. As Antonio turned to go
out to the car, Hofnan took a Sig Sauer P229 from a belt holster at the small
of his back. Without hesitation, he shot his erstwhile helper cleanly, through
the back of the head. As the large body fell to the floor, Hofnan gave it a
disinterested look, shoving it aside with one foot and walking further into the
room, eyes intent on his hostage. Doyle forced himself to meet those cold gray
eyes again, and then found himself wishing he hadn't. This wasn't about
information, or hatred, or even solely about revenge. It was about power. He
had none, and Hofnan ... well, Hofnan had a knife.
Albert Hofnan was very good
with a blade. He didn't leave a mark on Doyle's skin as he cut away every
stitch of clothing. With meticulous attention, Hofnan continued until Doyle was
completely nude, even stripping off his shoes and socks. When the finely
tailored suit jacket fell away, it gave a dull thud as it impacted with the
floor. Intent on his task, Hofnan didn't hear it, and Doyle drew a shaky sigh
of relief. Even if he didn't survive this, the evidence would, and from what he
had been able to see in the brief time before the kidnapping, it was imperative
that the journal get into the right hands. Of course, it would do a hell of a
lot more good for him personally if he was alive to reap the benefits. At the
moment, given his past history with Hofnan and the bastard's known proclivity
to kill for the sheer pleasure of it, that was not a particularly hopeful
prospect.
Hofnan stood for several
heartbeats, watching his victim, enjoying the anticipation, building the fear.
He tapped the flat of the knife blade gently along Doyle's limbs, solid little
thumps, as if testing the firmness of the flesh and muscle, a butcher testing
the stock to decide where to begin his task. Doyle kept his eyes on Hofnan's
hands until the terrorist stepped close to him. He could feel the other man's
breath against his chest, but bound as he was he had no way to shy away from
him. He forced himself to breathe steadily, recognizing how badly Hofnan wanted
him to panic, needed to see his terror. He had fought his way to an unsteady
calm when he saw the muscles in Hofnan's shoulder move.
The first cut took his
breath away. It curved along the lower edge of his rib cage, over the fresh
bruises, and at first he didn't feel the slice through the other, deeper pain
of the contusions. Then the stinging began, and with every breath it got worse.
He held himself as still as he could. It didn't help.
The second cut followed the
line of his hip. The third, a trail of fire along his sternum, carefully
skirting the old scars from surgery to remove bullets from his heart so long
ago. The fourth blazed over his shoulder to his back, as his tormentor moved
slowly around him, whistling under his breath, enjoying his work. The fifth
scored across the midpoint of his spine, a little deeper than the ones before,
flirting with the idea of crippling him. The sixth cut across the top of his
buttocks, a lighter touch again. The blade lingered there, the point slipping
teasingly into the top of the cleft between his buttocks, scratching across the
delicate skin, not quite breaking it.
He whimpered, unable to
keep back the small sound of pain and protest that was tearing at his throat.
His mind mapped the pain and supplied images of what he could not see, and he
was incapable of completely stifling his moan.
The blade stopped.
Slowly, obscenely, he felt
fingertips trace through the blood running freely now over his shoulder, chest,
back, across his ass down onto the top of his thighs. They pressed at irregular
intervals, the fire from the wounds igniting with each unexpected touch. Caught
up in a skein of fear and anticipation, not knowing when the slicing would
begin again, he didn't realize Hofnan had stepped back until he heard a
whistling noise cut through the air. Not having enough warning of the change in
the form of his torment, he was unprepared for the first blow.
It felt like some sort of
leather strap or belt. The first lancing pain of contact was across his
shoulder blades, where the skin was thin and sensitive, and he arched away from
it, feeling the blood drip stickily from the cuts in that area. With greater
rapidity, the blows began, crisscrossing his back, buttocks and thighs with
careful precision. The cadence was deliberate, and he found himself timing the
blows in order to be able to take a clear breath. When the strap lashed across
the backs of his knees, the scream that had been clawing at his chest ripped
free. The sound acted as a catalyst for the terrorist, who sped up the blows
until the sound of leather slapping against flesh was a nearly constant tattoo,
reversing his direction and overlaying a new set of welts in a cross hatch to the
first pattern as he worked his way back up until he reached Doyle's shoulders.
By now the screams had died to pained moans, as Doyle's voice gave way.
Finally, when he was almost to blessed unconsciousness, the blows stopped.
Unaware of the tears streaming down his face, the ex-agent instinctively
managed to pull himself as upright as possible, taking some of the strain off
his wrists. Then he froze.
The fingers were back,
tracing the welts now, painting them with blood. They drew random patterns on
his skin, the touch almost tender, if not for the pain in the abused flesh
under the wandering fingertips. Doyle shivered uncontrollably as Hofnan stepped
very close to his back and began to whisper into his ear.
"You did more than
destroy my operation, did you know that, Raymond? I was stupid, I admit, and I
trusted you, and that mercenary partner of yours. That was my mistake. But you
made a mistake as well, Raymond." The fingers dipped, digging into his
hips, causing him to cry out in pain as they dug into fresh welts and open
cuts. "You did not kill me when you killed Terrell, and Frederick, and the
rest. You should have killed us all."
"I tried." He
didn't recognize his own voice in the rasp that answered. For a scant second he
wondered at his instincts, wondered when he'd lost his sanity, to be baiting
the mad bastard like this. Vaguely, his mind catalogued the names, and put
faces to them. Terrell he remembered -- he'd pulled the trigger on that son of
a bitch himself. But Frederick ... Hofnan was wrong about that one. He'd
wriggled through the net and escaped. Frederick, and Julia, and another he
couldn't bring to mind in his present state of pain and confusion. But Julia he
remembered. She and Hofnan had been close. The mad general and his most trusted
lieutenant. The fingers tightened further, yanking him painfully back to the
present, and he moaned in response to the vises on his flesh.
"You failed." The
hands pulled backwards, and he yelped at the searing pain of rough material
against his abused back as Hofnan pulled their bodies tightly together.
"You betrayed me." One hand slid around his hip and grasped his
genitals, squeezing tightly. This time, Doyle couldn't wrap his mind around any
words to protest. And trying to stay calm was a waste of effort. He froze in
fear. "You humiliated me." The other hand, the one with the knife,
curved around the opposite side of his waist. He felt his eyes go huge with
panic. "You destroyed me."
"No," he managed
to whisper past fear-frozen lips. "No, I -- we didn't -- we had to run --
had to hide -- you won --" Anything, anything to get that bloody knife
away from his balls. As the flat of the blade slid slowly under the weight of
his scrotum, he sobbed, once, then froze again, afraid to move. Instinctively
spreading his thighs as far as he was able, desperately trying to move away
from the sharp edge of the blade, he found himself whimpering, "no, no,
no, no, no" over and over again. The hand holding his penis suddenly
dropped the heavy flesh, and Doyle screamed as his own weight obeyed gravity's
command and pushed his sac against the edge of the knife. The hand that had
been holding him buried itself in the thick hair at the crown of his head and
pulled his head back viciously, so that panic-stricken green eyes stared helplessly
up into the German's face.
The bastard was laughing.
Doyle lost his breath as
the hard face came down to meet his own, lips forcing his mouth open, a thick
tongue forging its way past his teeth. Suddenly he aware that he was choking,
unable to breathe for the tears running down his face, his nose clogged, his
throat filled with his enemy's tongue. He felt warm liquid running down the
inside of his thigh, and he began a gasping cry, small uncontrollable hiccoughs
of fear and rage and helplessness. As he suffered the rape of his mouth, he
felt the knife move. The hand between his thighs turned slightly and he felt
the flat of the knife trace the bulge of his sac, before running lightly along
his penis. It tapped, twice, against the head, then traced its way back upward
until it parted his pubic hair.
Unable to move, blind to
what was being done to him, aware only of the fire in his back, the pain in his
skull, the fear that he had been gelded and the desperate need to breathe,
Doyle began to lose consciousness. With one last bite at his upper lip, Hofnan
broke contact. Dizzy, sick, and scared half to death, Doyle hung, not knowing
whether he was going to faint or regain full consciousness, and not sure which
to hope for. Praying that this was a nightmare and knowing that he wasn't going
to wake up.
"Where is Bodie?"
The hissed question broke through the haze of pain and slipped under his
defenses. Unable to think of a convincing lie, not knowing if Hofnan knew or
only guessed that Bodie was still alive, Ray stared at him in mute agony. The
terrorist yanked his head further back, bowing his spine, taking him to the
edge of sanity before releasing him with an oath.
The pressure at his back
finally eased, and his head dropped forward in relief. Then he whispered,
"please, no!" as the knife found its way unerringly to his back
again. Feet still widespread, he was open to anything Hofnan chose to inflict.
The flat of the knife was a cold line of pressure up the inside of his thigh,
along his perineum, nudging at the back of his sac. He fancied, for a moment,
that he could literally feel his balls trying to curl up into his body. Then
the knife reversed course, heading for his anus. He held his breath again,
hoping against hope that this time he really would pass out.
No one was listening to his
silent pleas.
"You will tell me, you
know." Cold metal circled on flinching flesh, and he whimpered deep in his
throat. "Easily -- or with difficulty. For yourself. Either way I shall
enjoy it."
Doyle tried to say that
Bodie was dead, but he couldn't get the words out. Then he tried to mumble that
he didn't know, they wouldn't let them see each other, no direct contact
allowed, eight years of hell with no Bodie, but thankfully the only sound that
rent the air was an incoherent muttering. The clearest word he could still
enunciate was "No!"
The knife was suddenly
withdrawn, and he heard the snick of metal against leather as it was sheathed.
Then the warm metal handle was suddenly running along the wounds across his
buttocks. He screamed, shockingly loud in the quiet room, as a rough hand
clutched at his cleft, forcefully spreading his buttocks. The long handle,
slick with his blood, was thrust without warning into his anus, tearing him
slightly, frightening him half out of his mind. To his horror, he felt it being
drawn slowly in and out, an inch at a time, as Hofnan fucked him with the hilt
of the knife. Dimly, he was aware that the terrorist was talking to him again,
but as the knife was forced deeper and deeper into him, the last of his
strength gave out and he finally, thankfully fainted, escaping the rest of the
nightmare, for a little while at least.
Things at the Convention
Center in Seattle had just started to settle down, and the program of events
was back on schedule. The air was buzzing with gossip, rumors, theories and
ideas when the word filtered down through the grapevine that CNN had received a
videotape of the judge reading a prepared statement. Less than an hour later,
an announcement was read.
Eduardo Cimbrone had been
murdered. The body had been discovered, thanks to an anonymous tip from an
untraceable cell phone call, at an abandoned house just north of Tacoma.
A hiatus was held in
scheduled programming, and the CNN broadcast was shown on monitors in the main
meeting hall of the Center, as well as in hallways and meeting rooms throughout
the building. After warning viewers of the graphically violent contents of the
tape, the newscaster fell silent and the voice of a translator could be heard.
The videotape showed the judge, battered and bruised, reading from a plain
white piece of paper. He stumbled over a few words, and the translator stumbled
in turn, but the gist of the statement was that Cimbrone had been tried on
behalf of those in Italy who would deem their own power to be greater than that
of the people. Mutterings in the crowd made it clear what the members of law
enforcement thought of these 'people' -- a poor euphemism for crime lords. Then
with appalling suddenness, the judge dropped the paper, looked with utter scorn
into the lens, and said, "No!" A moment later, the muzzle of a gun
appeared from the shadows, the loud report of a shot was heard, and Cimbrone
fell sideways out of the frame. The newscast cut back to the anchor, who was
pale under her makeup. She announced that a second man had also been kidnapped
along with the judge, but that there was no word as yet on his identity or any
possible explanation for his abduction.
The mood of the gathering
was subdued. After the initial broadcast, meetings were back on, and men and
women were chatting quietly amongst themselves, speculating on the events of
the previous night. In one large meeting room, a panel and an packed audience
waited impatiently for the keynote speaker to arrive. Fifteen minutes passed,
then twenty. When the speaker didn't answer his page, and the telephone in his
room went unanswered, a gopher was dispatched to bring the man down personally.
The young man reported back that there was no sign of Chief Constable Alan Cade
in his room, and no one reported seeing him at all that morning. He had not
been in the dining room for breakfast and no room service had been requested.
Further questioning brought forth the information that none of the panel
participants, or anyone else for that matter, could remember seeing him all
morning.
After a minor flurry of
activity, someone finally thought to check the internal phone logs. Upon receiving
the information that Chief Cade had gotten a room to room call from Judge
Cimbrone the previous evening and that the Chief hadn't been seen since dinner,
a connection was finally made, and the second victim had a name and a face.
Sandburg and Bodie stayed
in the car as Ellison went into the Motel 6 and asked for two rooms. The
disinterested desk clerk spared a thought for how handsome the big bruiser was,
counted back his change, handed over the keys, and went back to the latest
Amanda Quick novel. Lost in the joy of well written Regency romance, she paid
no further attention to the car full of tired men who fell into adjoining rooms
and slammed the doors behind them.
Neither room had a working
television set, since a recent windstorm had taken out the cable and no one had
bothered to call the problem in. Bodie took just enough time to lay his clothes
neatly across the back of the single chair before falling naked into bed. He
was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow. It had been a long, tiring
three weeks and he needed to recharge. He wouldn't have seen the news broadcast
even if the television had been working.
Next door, Jim lay across
one of the double beds with Blair curled up beside him, long sable curls
nestled into the juncture of Jim's thighs as Blair lay with his head in the
bigger man's lap. Long fingers carded through the curls, giving Blair a scalp
massage, trying to bleed some of the tension out of the Guide's body. It had
been a tough night. So much for their anticipated night out in Romantic
Seattle.
Sandburg tossed the remote
onto the unused bed with disgust. Not even anything on the tube to watch, to
replace the grotesque visions that kept playing across his mind with something
mindless and bright and repetitive. "What I wouldn't give for the cartoon
channel, man, just something loud and crazy. I'm feeling loony tunes anyway, so
I might as well have company." The teasing grumble in his voice didn't
quite disguise the residual shakiness.
Knowing how Blair felt
about guns, and how the gruesome murder must have affected him, Jim set about
distracting his partner. The smaller man felt it immediately, in the purposeful
way the fingers in his hair changed motion. From strong, mind-soothing strokes
to lighter, teasing swirls, Jim's fingers telegraphed his intent. More than
happy to be distracted, especially if that distraction came in the form of
seduction, Blair squirmed slightly and rubbed the back of his head against the
incipient erection he found there. Yes. Indeed. That was the way to put his
mind on other things. Or at least stop him from thinking all together. Couldn't
brood if he couldn't think.
Closing his eyes, the
better to enjoy the sensations, Blair felt the strong fingers slide from his
hair down the side of his neck, framing his jaw. He sensed rather than felt the
approach as Jim lowered his face until their mouths met in an upside down kiss.
Blair immediately relaxed his jaw, opening his lips for his lover to explore,
enjoying the feeling of possession as Jim proceeded to stroke every surface of
his mouth, lapping at his teeth, twining around his tongue, thrusting into his
throat. When the need to breathe finally broke them apart, the urgency of
arousal was strong on both of them. Forcing his heavy eyelids to open, he
looked up into a sight he would never tire of seeing -- Jim Ellison, caught in
the throes of arousal, a wild, wanting look in crystal blue eyes, a flush
staining the high cheekbones, the sensitive mouth parted with need. Knowing
that his lover could smell and hear and feel every evidence of his own arousal
merely notched Blair's need even higher.
Reaching up with one arm to
pull that face back down again, Blair murmured a protest when Jim shook his
head and put both hands under Blair's armpits, pulling the slighter man into a
better position against the pillows. Silently, as was his wont, the Sentinel
proceeded to uncover his love, one button at a time, covering every tidbit of
skin with tiny licks and bites as it was bared. Clenching his fists in the
cover, trying to cooperate, trying to reciprocate, Blair was steadily driven
out of his mind with lust as Jim used every one of his senses to ascertain
Blair's most vulnerable spots and exploit them. With one last try at coherent
thought, before he gave up thinking as a lost cause, Blair decided that Jim was
determined to drive out all the bad thoughts by simply causing every neuron in
his brain to fire randomly from pure excitement. Deciding that this was not a
bad thing at all, he stopped thinking and sank into sensation.
Nimble fingers pulled the
rest of the intrusive clothing off and piled it alongside the bed. Jim and
Blair worked perfectly together in this as in everything else, ignoring the
occasional fumble, going around the occasional blockage, until they were nude
and breathless, twined around one another. Jim turned them both until Blair was
sprawled against the pillows, open to his touch, ready for anything and
everything the Sentinel would do to him. Faced with a feast, Jim decided to go
with the urgency. Take the edge off. They were both too tired and too strung
out to be able to handle any kind of extended foreplay. They did need rest, but
first they needed to rid themselves of the horror they'd seen earlier. Burning
it from their minds with lovemaking was as close to spiritual cleansing as
either could imagine.
Running large hands along
the velvet fur on Blair's chest, pausing only slightly to tease at the curve of
a pectoral muscle, pluck at a nipple, dip into the navel, Jim headed directly
for his partner's erection and swallowed it. Blair came up off the bed with a
satisfying moan, words spilling out in no understandable order, a mixed plea to
'stop' or he'd come and 'it was so not fair to do that without any warning man'
and 'oh god whatever you do please don't stop.' Jim let that voice wash over
him like a benediction, carrying them both away to a place of their own making,
inviolate by anything destructive or painful. Wrapping large hands around his
partner's hips, kneading the soft flesh and hard muscle, he settled in to a
strong suckling rhythm. Blair didn't have a chance, the need and its
fulfillment wracking him, tearing him from his moorings, tossing him up in the
air and shattering him in his lover's arms. The climax caught him by surprise,
but not Jim, who had felt it coming in the change in pulse and body temperature
under his hands. When the initial explosion subsided, Blair tried to pull his
partner up where he could reach him to kiss him, but the most he could manage
was to run his fingertips over the soft cropped hair and over the fine bones of
Jim's face.
"Please, babe. I need
to ... I gotta ..." I have to remember how to talk, Blair thought with an
inward chuckle, as soon as I remember how to think. And breathe.
As always, Jim seemed to
read his mind, following the mandate in those trailing fingers. His own
breathing erratic, his need unfilled, he lowered his body over the smaller body
of his lover and kissed him deeply, sharing the sweet taste with the source. As
Blair spread his legs, relaxed, offering whatever Jim wanted to take, the
Sentinel contented himself with settling between those muscular thighs. Running
his palms along the outside of Blair's hips, he pushed in gently but firmly,
creating a channel between his Guide's legs for him to plumb. As he pumped in
and out, he felt the soft sticky weight of Blair's genitals cradled against his
pelvis, the springy force of his inner thigh muscles contracting to create
friction for his own thrusts, and his partner's strong arms wrapped as far
around his own broad back as they could reach. One long arm slipped lower,
curving down into his cleft, seeking and finding the hidden heat. A finger
slipped in, probed, sought and found, rubbing the small bump of Jim's prostate
and driving him even higher. Losing himself in the scent and feel of his lover,
Blair murmuring encouragement and love in his ear and urging him on with his
hands, Jim sought his own oblivion and lost himself in his Guide. Reaching
completion with a soft moan, he retained consciousness long enough to roll to
the side and pull his Blair up against him, nuzzling his face into the soft
curls, and falling into sleep.
Blair snuggled contentedly
against his sleeping Sentinel, hands wrapped possessively around his flanks,
content to have the nightmares held at bay once more. Tomorrow would be soon
enough to face the real world again.
Doyle's short respite
didn't last. Sharp slaps alternating between each side of his face roused him,
and he gasped as full consciousness returned. Part of Doyle had hoped that by
now Hofnan was tired of playing, but it didn't look like the power games were
quite over yet. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. As badly as he hurt, at
least he was still alive. When the fun of hurting him was no longer enough to
keep Hofnan's interest, he would be dead. He knew this with a certainty that
chilled the blood in his veins. He had to escape. Had to, had to. No one was
going to help him. No one was looking for him. No one left, no one there.
Gritting his teeth and wrenching his mind away from the self-defeating
thoughts, he swallowed painfully and took stock of his situation.
Experimentally, keeping his
eyes locked on the bastard in front of him, he lightly clenched his buttocks,
biting the inside of his cheek at the pain. The lack of obstruction gave him
some relief. At least that goddamned knife was gone.
Unfortunately, Hofnan was
only mildly distracted. Sometime while Doyle was out of it, the terrorist had
found Donati's journal. He had been using it to slap Doyle back into alertness.
Now he flicked through the pages, stopping to read a page every once in awhile.
His face darkened as he read, and Doyle was dismayed to see that the rage,
barely banked before, was back, stronger than ever.
"The old son of a
bitch. Where did he get this information?" He looked up from the book and
glared at Doyle. The utter lack of sanity in his expression compounded Ray's
feeling of hopelessness. No one knew where he was. No one would be looking. He
was a dead man. Screaming at himself in the privacy of his own mind, he knew he
had to fight back. Somehow. Psychologically, if no other way. At least he
wouldn't go without planting some thorns of his own in Hofnan's mind.
"It's evidence,"
he croaked out, his voice broken from screaming and dry from the remnants of
his fear. "On you, and the few of your gang that managed to escape. He'd
been collecting it for me."
A spark of interest
flickered over the harsh planes of the other man's face, and he moved closer,
waggling the book in front of Doyle's nose, running the spine down the side of
his cheek and jaw. "Why? Why would he do such a thing, risk himself like
that, for you?"
Ray cleared his throat
painfully. "Donati was an old friend of my father's. He knew me from when
I was a lad, and he hated that I had to go into the witness protection program
to get away from something like you."
His head snapped back as
Hofnan clouted him across the cheek with the spine of the book. Shaking his
head to try to clear it, he ground out, "It's not the only copy. He gave
the original copy to Cimbrone, and put second copy in a safe place. If Cimbrone
wasn't able to get this one to me, or I couldn't act on the information, the
second copy goes straight to CI5. 'Cause Donati knew the only way either of us
would fail is if we were dead. And if that was true, then Murphy would take the
case and whatever way it went, you'd be dead." His voice broke completely,
and he hacked, unable to stop the muscles of his throat from spasming. The
whole story was a fabrication, of course, but Hofnan had no way of knowing
that. And with the only copy of the evidence now in his enemy's hands, Doyle
found a slow burning anger start in his gut and spread up toward his heart.
This was not how it was
supposed to end. Hofnan had no need to keep him alive anymore, other than as a
plaything, to torture, to make him pay for breaking up the gang. And time was
running out, even on that diversion. Hofnan would have to leave soon, which
meant that Doyle would have to die. Leaving Hofnan free to roam, free to find
Elena, when Doyle could no longer protect her. Free to keep looking, now that
he knew Doyle had survived, until he found Bodie, and free to kill him, with no
Doyle to give warning. His anger spread as his focus shifted from his own
survival to that of his loved ones. Some of his strength began to seep back, a
last desperate surge of adrenaline, and with it came an insane plan.
Hofnan stared at the
journal, weighing what he'd heard. Doyle watched him, through a growing red
haze, trying to fight back the animal urge to kill that was slowly destroying
his ability to reason. He had to keep a cool head. He had to escape. Had to
warn Bodie. Had to protect his daughter. So many things he had to do, and he
could do none of them if he was dead. Emerald eyes locked on the madman holding
his life in his hands, Doyle found himself doing something he hadn't done in
years, playing his last card, preying on the only weakness he could remember
Hofnan ever showing. The man was a predator, with a weakness for dominating
others. Physically, emotionally, sexually, any way he could. Drawing the last
reserves of his strength, relying on his rage to help see him through it, he
went into action.
His slowly relaxed his
body, until he was almost slouched in the restraints. His head fell back and
slightly to the side, baring the expanse of his throat. Ignoring the burning
pain in his wrists and his bleeding skin, he arched his chest, throwing his
hips and groin into sharp relief. Every inch of him screamed silent submission,
the beta wolf baring his throat to the alpha wolf. Hofnan couldn't miss the invitation.
Dark gray eyes lifted suddenly, alerted by the subtle movements in his captive,
and locked on the man posing for him in the soft light through the window. The
terrorist's entire body went rigid.
"Are you asking for
something, Raymond?" he managed to ask disbelievingly, smiling icily,
moving forward. Interested in spite of himself.
Using his eyes to best
effect, parting his full mouth as invitingly as he could under the
circumstances, Doyle responded roughly, "Will it get me anywhere?"
Invitation was painted in every line of his body. Watching closely, he saw
capitulation and anticipation in the cold face of his enemy. Tossing the
journal carelessly onto the pile of clothing he'd cut away from Doyle earlier,
Hofnan moved closer still, framing the rounded face with his hands, running his
fingers through the short hair at Doyle's temples, cupping his chin and raising
it to the light. Ray stayed completely still, telegraphing acceptance with his
expression and his stance, waiting for any kind of an opening.
Closing his mind completely
to what he was doing, acting on survival and protective instincts stronger than
any he had ever felt, he allowed Hofnan to tilt his head to the side and kiss him,
relaxing his mouth to allow the bastard full access. At the same time, he
pulled against the restraints on his ankle, running his right knee as far as he
could up and down the outside of Hofnan's thigh, doing his best impression of a
bitch in heat. Somewhat to his surprise, the ruse worked.
Hofnan drew back just far
enough to see Doyle's face, seemingly satisfied with what he found there.
"You always were a whore, Raymond!"
Refusing to answer, Doyle
simply dropped his head further back, and rubbed a little harder with his knee.
Unfortunately he couldn't will an erection to go along with the rest of the
pantomime, but judging from the prominent ridge of flesh Hofnan was pressing
into his belly, the kidnapper had more than enough excitement for both of them.
Hofnan chuckled, the sound grating on Doyle's ears, and lowered his left hand
long enough to slice through the rope binding Doyle's right ankle. Sliding his
hand back up the abused skin on the back of the knee and thigh, he pressed
deliberately, enjoying the flinch of pain on Doyle's face. When he got to the
softly rounded buttocks, he traced the welts there, clawing at the broken skin
as he lowered his face into the bend of Doyle's shoulder and bit deeply at the
side of his neck.
Doyle gasped at the sharp
pain, and reflexively curled his right leg around Hofnan's hips, fighting his
own instincts in order to pull the terrorist closer. Hofnan jerked in pleased
response and ground his erection into Doyle's groin, bruising the soft genitals
there. Doyle ignored the pain as well as he was able and concentrated on
shifting his weight. The timing had to be perfect, and he would only get one
chance. Swallowing hard and forcing the words out, he rasped, "Let me
touch you." He nearly vomited, but he articulated his demand clearly
enough. The only immediate response was an increase on the force of Hofnan's
humping into his groin, and a deeper bite along his neck, drawing blood this
time. Then the terrorist stopped, pulled back, and looked at him consideringly.
A cruel smile curved his mouth as he slid the point of his knife along the
underside of Doyle's arm, tracing his biceps, across the tender skin at the
inside of his elbow and along his forearm, leaving a thin trail of blood in its
wake. When it arrived at the wrist, it flicked sideways, and Doyle's left arm
was free. It fell, deadened from bearing Doyle's body weight for hours, and
Hofnan began to massage it roughly, smearing the blood along the skin as if it
was lotion.
As the feeling returned,
the pain intensified, until it felt like his whole arm was on fire. Doyle
closed his eyes against it, fighting to hold on, then jolted and yelped with
pain when sharp teeth bit him on the outside of the wrist. He instinctively
tried to escape the bite, writhing away from the pain, but Hofnan held him
fast. As his yelp died away into gasping pants, he felt his captor nip the full
length of his arm, along his shoulder, up the side of his throat, over his jaw,
until his lips were caught again. Haplessly allowing the tongue to force its
way into his mouth, Doyle nearly vomited again at the taste of his own blood,
gathered on the trip up his arm. He felt himself spinning away into blackness
as Hofnan reached down between their bodies, and forced himself desperately to
remain conscious. Bodie's face, and Elena's, floated in front of his closed
eyelids, and he willed himself back to alertness. It wouldn't be long, now. One
way or another, it would all be over soon.
The sound of a zipper
rasping down was accompanied by a sweaty hand clutching at his penis. He felt
the slimy heat of Hofnan's erection forced against his own flaccid length, and
made himself curl his face down into Hofnan's shoulder, biting gently. The
added caress broke the terrorist's control, and he began to thrust hard against
Doyle's body, jerking him in his bonds, causing the iron frame to sway against
its bolts. With a bitten-off oath, he climaxed, grinding himself hard against
Doyle, clenching his arms around the bound man's body in a grotesque parody of
a lover's embrace. It was exactly what Ray had been hoping for, the one
opportunity he wouldn't waste.
Lifting his right heel and
bringing his leg forcefully around the back of the German's knees, he
simultaneously wrapped his left arm around Hofnan's neck and clutched his chin
with his left hand. Pulling opposite directions with his arm and leg, he took
advantage of the momentary relaxation of orgasm and snapped Hofnan's neck in an
instant. As the terrorist's body seized, then slowly slid down his own, he
screamed at the agony of a hundred and eighty pounds of dying man pulling
against every cut and welt on his body. The pain, on top of what he had already
suffered, nearly made him lose consciousness again, but his panic and need to
escape held the darkness at bay. Ripping at his bonds with fingernails and
teeth like a wild animal, he finally succeeded in getting first his right
wrist, then his left leg free.
Panting from the effort,
exhausted from the beatings and lightheaded from the concussion and the stress,
he slid to the floor in an ungainly heap and tried to collect himself. He knew,
in the back of his mind, that he had to get up. Had to find clothing, a
telephone, some help from somewhere. But the urgency was muted, now that the
immediate threat was past. The strain of the previous day and his accumulated
injuries, as well as the relief of killing Hofnan after eight years of hiding
from him, caught up with him and he slumped over, unconscious.
It wasn't his usual
nightmare, more like a combination of several. Bodie tossed in the rumpled bed,
trying to escape, half afraid to wake up. This dream started like the others,
Ray being shipped off to France, his own departure for New York, no time for as
much as a good-bye in private, their eyes having to say what their words could
not. A foreign land, again, a foreign name, again, a new life, but for once,
soul deep pain at leaving the old one behind. They'd resisted being separated, fought
the bureaucrats who had insisted, until three CI5 agents had lost their lives
in attempts on them. Attempts that they knew were linked to the Hofnan gang,
but couldn't prove that linkage, and couldn't catch the bastards behind the
bombs. Then the news from Canada -- someone was stalking Yvonne Belinsky and
her teenage daughter Elena. At the pain in Doyle's eyes, Bodie felt his resolve
crumble. Too many losses, too many threatened, for them to insist on staying
together. Cowley had put his foot down.
In his nightmares, he
relived that loss, over and over. Scant contact through triple blinds routed
through a dozen different networks and relayed through faceless agents at
switchboards in nameless places. When Cowley's heart finally gave out and
Murphy, his hand-picked successor, had taken the reins, the contacts continued,
but it wasn't enough. They needed to see one another, hear one another's voice.
Touch. And they couldn't. Bodie's dreams grew darker, the fears he wouldn't
consciously admit taking over his nighttime hours, breaking his rest with
visions of shadow figures killing his Ray while he was thousands of miles away,
unable to cover his back. As always, they were shadows with no discernible face
or form, nothing to strike back against. And as always, this one felt real.
There was a force to the fear, an urgency that pulled him from his sleep and
brought him to wakefulness covered in sweat, heart racing with adrenaline,
fingers clawing under the pillow for his gun.
Finding himself in a
darkened hotel room, heart racing, mind fully alert, not in the middle of a
crisis situation, he fell back against the pillows and tried to regroup.
Staring at the ceiling, he knew that it would be useless to attempt to get any
more rest. He was awake, he was primed, and he was ready to hunt. Might as well
get on the trail. God knew the poor bastard they were trying to find didn't
have much time to spare. Feeling marginally better for the sleep he had managed
to snatch, in spite of the nightmares, he dressed, armed himself, and went to
pound on the door to Ellison's room.
Within a few moments, a
sleepy looking Sandburg peered out, looking rather like a hedgehog dragged
backward through a bush, barely out of hibernation. Bodie nodded at him and
pushed in, one glance taking in the single mussed bed and the detective poised
in the doorway to the washroom.
"Good, you're
up," he stated approvingly. Not giving either man time to ask questions,
he continued, "Since we're all up and about, let's hit the road. Can you
track him?"
Jim looked at Blair, and
some sub-verbal communication took place, then Jim nodded and reached for his
pants. Not wasting time on any further conversation, each man feeling urgency
pulling him on, they packed the car quickly and headed out. Within five minutes
the key was dropped off at the office window and the rental car was on the
road.
Easing onto the side road
where the house sat that they'd found the judge's body in earlier, Ellison
stared at the surrounding area. He'd seen tracks leading out the side door on
their first visit, and had traced them until they disappeared at the tarmac,
but had lost them at the main road. As he watched and concentrated, Blair began
to ask him questions, clarifying his impressions of what he saw, how it had
changed, if he could pick anything out. Rolling down the window, he leaned
forward slightly and listened. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing useful. A
breeze tickled at his nose, and carried with it a myriad of early morning
smells, and he remembered what he'd told Sandburg about the scent of the
kidnapped man. He mentioned it to his Guide, and the tenor of the questions
changed. With some assistance in filtering out the distracting odors, and
holding that deep, calm voice as his anchor, he separated the scents carried on
the breeze from the house. He finally identified three that seemed to be wound
together ... the kidnapped man's scent, the tang of blood, and fine grained
leather, like that used for gloves, or weapon sheaths.
Following the scents,
attention split between keeping a bead on the faint trail and holding on to the
sound of Sandburg's voice, ignoring the tense, silent presence of Bodie in the
back seat, balanced on a thin thread between concentration and zone-out, the
Sentinel went on the hunt. There were a several false starts, and three times
he had to stop to regain his bearings, but eventually, he met with success. He
had a raging headache and was dizzy from focusing so hard for so long, but he
found his man.
The smell of blood was
strong even to non-Sentinel enhanced noses, long before they got the door open.
Blair made an involuntary retching noise at the sight of another man with half
his skull blown off, lying in a heap, most of his face missing from the exit
wound. The sound was echoed by a growl from inside. The three men entered the
foyer and froze, Ellison at point, at the tableau that met their eyes.
Past the dead man, into the
main room, a naked, blood streaked man with short dark hair and feral green
eyes crouched next to a second corpse. The head on the second body was at an
odd, unnatural angle to the shoulders, indicating a broken neck. There was
blood smeared around its mouth. Its hands were curled into claws and streaked
with blood, and its trousers were open. Flaccid genitals covered with semen and
blood lay against the dark material. The surviving man held a knife expertly in
one reddened hand, directed at the newcomers in a defensive posture. His body
was covered with welts and cuts, with the occasional bite mark on his neck and
chest. Rope burn marks around his wrists and ankles plainly showed where he had
been tied to something, most likely the metal rack behind him. The mixture of
sweat, still-dripping blood from the knife wounds, and semen splashed across
his abdomen made detailed explanations unnecessary. But it was the eyes, and
the mouth, twisted into a snarl of hatred, that caught Bodie's full attention.
Shaking off Ellison's
instinctive, restraining hand, he eased forward past the first corpse, eyes
intent on the man with the knife. As he neared, he slowed, bending his knees
until he stopped, resting on his knees in front of the survivor. Reaching out
his hand with excruciating slowness to take the knife, he asked, gently,
"Ray? Ray-mate? You in there, love?"
The wildness began to fade,
and some of the tension in the figure went with it. With a visible effort, the
dazed eyes focused on the dark man kneeling so close to him. Doyle blinked,
then blinked again, and the snarl softened into a hesitant smile.
"Bo-die?" The two syllables stretched out and died away, as the knife
fell to the floor with a clatter. Ray closed his eyes and fell forward,
trusting his partner to catch him.
In the doorway, transfixed
by the action, Blair was barely aware of Ellison pulling out his cell phone and
dialing 911 yet again. This time, he gave details. And requested an ambulance.
The scene at the hospital
was barely controlled chaos. Sandburg and Ellison were perfectly content to
stay out of the way, leaving it to Bodie to bully everyone in sight until
Doyle, or Cade, as the doctors insisted on calling him, was given the level of
attention he deemed the man deserved. Not that he had to bully very much. As
soon as the ambulance had pulled up at the emergency room entrance, Ellison's
rental car right on its bumper, a swarm of activity had surrounded the
stretcher. As the Sentinel and his Guide watched from a safe distance out of
the traffic flow, Jim gathered Blair up against him, chest to back, and wrapped
his arms around him. The scent from Blair's hair tickled Jim's nose, and he
tensed. Blair felt it immediately.
"What's the matter,
big guy? Something bugging you?"
"Yeah, Chief," he
answered, distracted. Lost in his thoughts, he didn't immediately follow up the
affirmative with an explanation. Blair got antsy.
"Well, don't leave me
hanging, man, you know I'm no good at this mind reading gig." He snuggled
further into the larger man's embrace, straining to look up over his shoulder
into the intent face behind him.
Crystal eyes met his and
warmed, gradually pulling back from what had distracted the detective, and he
smiled, happy to have solved at least one mystery. "I figured out why that
man's scent was so familiar. It's a lot like yours." At Blair's completely
blank look, Jim's grin broadened. "Yeah. He smells enough like you to be
your brother. Or your father," he finished, considering the age difference
and the possibility of Naomi wandering through England in the early seventies.
Leaving his Guide to chew the suggestion over, he uncurled himself from around
the younger man and went to check on Bodie.
Left behind, leaning
against the wall, Blair turned over this newest chunk of information, trying to
make some sense of it, make it tie in with the rest of his research. If the
Sentinel said he and Doyle were related, then he'd be willing to bet money on
it. For a grad student on a limited income, that was the ultimate vote of
confidence. Watching the goings-on around the nurses' station with a
calculating eye, he spied an older woman wearing a white jacket, with an air of
authority, and pulled out his wallet. Taking out his Cascade PD identification
badge and clipping it to his shirt, he made his way over to the desk.
Five minutes of famed
Sandburg charm, two discreet flashes of official ID (held far enough away so
that she couldn't see the fine print) and a heavy layer of double talk later, a
genetic screening was added to the battery of tests already scheduled for one
Alan Cade, AKA Ray Doyle. Following a friendly young technician into a small
side room, he rolled up his sleeve and winced as the cannula was inserted into
his arm. Maybe there'd be an unexpected side bonus to this little adventure.
Any opportunity for research was a plus, he told himself, careful not to get
too excited about any other possible discoveries that might be tied to the
unexpected similarity.
Bodie refused to leave his
ex-partner's side, so after a short and futile attempt to get him to leave, the
doctors worked around him. He could do an uncanny impression of a brick wall
when he needed to, and he felt the need, so no one was in too great a hurry to try
to shift him. X rays, stitches, and an IV later, he found himself sitting
beside the bed, staring into the battered, unconscious face of his best friend.
Pulling a cell phone from his jacket pocket, he dialed a set of numbers from
memory and waited for the series of clicks that assured him he was on a secured
line.
A pleasant female voice
answered on the first ring, and he growled, "3.7 reporting in, priority
one. Contingency echo bravo oscar. Hotel spotted, contact terminal. Patch me
through to Alpha."
The woman repeated his code
words exactly, and a second series of whirrs and clicks sounded. A tenor voice
with a few remnants of sleepiness, fast disappearing, came over the line.
"Must be nasty for you
to call for an emergency beam out, Spock," the voice teased lightly. Bodie
easily read the concern underlying the friendly tone.
"Damned nasty, Murph.
We're blown so far out of the closet we may as well be dancin' naked in the
middle of main street under a spotlight."
"Details, 3.7,"
the controller demanded.
In concise, terse sentences
Bodie recapped the last two day's activities. Finishing with an update on
Doyle's condition, he awaited further instructions.
"I'll arrange air
transport back to England as soon as he's able to travel. You're both
reactivated as of now. You'll come directly back to London, and we'll put you
in CI5 protective custody. I'll arrange for protection for his daughter as
well."
"Elena's in
England?" Bodie hadn't realized that. This made the threat both immediate
and high risk, if the remnants of Hofnan's gang were still in Europe, and close
at hand.
"Yeah," Murphy
responded, "at Cambridge. We'll watch over her--"
The rest of the words were
lost as a bruised hand reached out and tugged the receiver away from Bodie.
Looking down at the determined, if slightly fuzzy, expression on his partner's
face, Bodie didn't fight too hard to keep it away from him.
"Murph?" An
interrogative squawk sounded from the receiver. "Yeah, it's Doyle. Lissen,
there's somthin' you don' know yet. Shu' up for a sec' and lissen." The
pain medication in the IV was kicking in and Doyle's voice was starting to
slur. He forged on, trying to get it out before he went under. "Donati
lef' me a notebook with information in it 'bout Hofnan's gang. 'S with the body
at the house. Gotta make sure you get it -- got info in there 'bout where to
find the res' of the bast'rds." His eyelids closed of their own volition,
and Bodie rescued the telephone, patting Ray's split knuckles gently.
"I'll make sure we get
the book, Murph. We'll bring it back with us." After receiving an
affirmative from his new boss, he folded the phone and slipped it back into his
pocket. Looking up, he spied Ellison standing quietly in the doorway.
"Jim?"
The big man moved silently
into the room. "What's up, Sarge?" They pitched their voices low so
as not to disturb the sleeping patient.
"Could you see about
getting a book that Doyle was carrying with him from the evidence lock-up? It's
got information in it we'll need to track the rest of the mongrels down."
The detective nodded.
"I'll see what I can do. It should be returned to him along with the rest
of his stuff, but I'll go along and id it just to make sure."
"Thanks, mate, I
appreciate it." Ellison smiled gently and turned to go. "And,
Jim?" He turned back to look at Bodie, waiting patiently. "Thank you.
For finding him. And, well, and everything."
The two men stared at one
another for a long moment, dark and lighter blue holding, reading many things
that would never be put into words. Finally, Ellison shook his head. "No
thanks needed, buddy." Gesturing to the figure on the bed, he added,
"Take care of yourself, and look after him," then turned and left.
"Oh, I intend
to," Bodie whispered. Giving in at last to the need to rest, holding Ray's
hand tightly in his own, Bodie laid his head down on the sheet next to their
joined hands and fell asleep.
By the next morning, Doyle
had had quite enough of the hospital. He wanted out, and he didn't care who
knew it. Bodie knew better than try to stop him, and the doctors gave up after
losing one too many shouting matches. Doyle had been a lousy patient as a young
man, and age had not improved him in that regard.
Two men in their late
twenties with unusual credentials to go with their British accents showed up
and, after giving specific pre-coordinated passwords, were allowed to escort
Bodie and Doyle to the airport. Bodie was able to call Jim once, but the
conversation was necessarily brief. It wasn't until the partners were on the
airplane heading home that Bodie was able to fill Doyle in on the men who had
helped save his life.
Shifting slightly in the
padded seat, still in quite a lot of pain from the stitches and the bruising along
his back and legs, Doyle watched his Bodie and tried to figure out what the
next move was likely to be. "I'd've liked to've met them."
"You'd've liked 'em, I
think," Bodie returned, not paying attention to his words. He was too busy
staring back at Doyle.
"I feel like a right
idiot," the other man finally muttered, grinning at the fact that they
were sitting there staring at one another like a couple of loons. "Thought
of all the things I wanted to say to you if I ever got the chance, and now that
I actually have the opportunity there's not a thought in my head. Except,
maybe, thinking you're going to disappear and I'm going to wake up in bed in
Norwich wondering how the hell I came up with this one."
Bodie grinned back,
quirking one eyebrow and shaking his head slightly. "If it's an
hallucination, mate, count me in on it." Abruptly, he lost the grin.
"Are you sure you're all right, Ray?"
Doyle licked his lips and
took a deep breath. "Yeah. Maybe. I'm not sure, Bodie. There's so many
things changed so fast -- hell, Elena doesn't even know what's happened yet,
I'm holding off on telling her until I can do it in person -- and with
everything that's happened I'm not even sure where I stand with you."
"Right next to me,
sunshine," Bodie immediately answered. "We can sort out the details
later. But I have to know ..." He took a deep breath of his own, trying to
figure out the best way to phrase the question. "I know what I saw when we
busted in. And I read the doc's reports on you. They mentioned -- there were
some indications -- they said that you'd --"
"He didn't rape me,
Bodie," Doyle cut in softly. Bodie stopped, tongue tied, staring at him,
waiting for the rest, unable to ask. "He knocked me about, cut me up some,
and ..." His face closed, and he glanced around the cabin. "When we
get home, mate. I'll tell you, I promise. Not here. Then."
When I can hold you, Bodie
thought but didn't say. Instead, he nodded, and brushed his fingers
reassuringly over the fist that Doyle had clenched on the armrest between them.
"Later."
The rest of the flight
passed in silence, full of promise, and easy with long practice, but with new
and unsettling crosscurrents that they would have to deal with. As Bodie had
promised, later.
The mailroom personnel,
along with the majority of the support staff at the Cascade PD, were aware of
the civilian observer in Major Crimes. All three of the women working in the
mailroom had, at one time or another, wondered what the pocket Adonis who hung
around the cops upstairs would be like in bed, until one of them had seen the
way that the gorgeous young man watched his detective partner. Then the
wondering turned wistful, hope fading into might-have-beens. But the admiration
remained. So when a manila envelope from a community hospital in Tacoma came
through addressed to Detective Blair Sandburg, it was automatically delivered
with the rest of Jim Ellison's mail.
Blair saw the envelope as
soon as he came into the bullpen. Thankfully skipping ahead when Simon pulled
Jim aside to grill him about the paperwork on a recent case, he snatched up the
yellow envelope. Quickly tucking it in with his papers in his bulging backpack,
he settled down in his customary seat at the side of Jim's desk and set up his
laptop. By the time his partner sat down beside him, he was engrossed in
paperwork of his own. Jim gave him an inquisitive glance, which he answered
with a sunny smile, staring up at him over the top rims of his glasses. With a
little shrug, Ellison settled down to his neglected reports, and Blair stared
at the screen for a few more moments. Finally his curiosity got the better of
him, and he drew the envelope out.
Licking his lips to wash
away the sudden dryness, laughing at himself for his nerves, he slit the flap
open and pulled out the lab reports. One fast skim and one thorough
read-through later, he was surprised to realize his hands were shaking.
Lowering the sheets, he looked up to see Jim staring at him, concern flaring in
his eyes. Without thinking, he rushed to reassure his partner.
"I'm okay, man, just
got knocked a little off kilter there for a minute, you know?" A raised
brow and a slight tilt to the other man's head indicated that no, he didn't
know, and he'd appreciate an explanation. Blair swallowed heavily and continued
with some difficulty, stumbling over a word or two. "I got to thinking,
about the scent, and the similarity you noticed between Doyle's natural scent
and mine. It was just too much of a coincidence that two unrelated people
should be so, well, so alike in such a weird way. So while they had Doyle under
the needle, I sort of added a test or two to the ones already on the
slate." He paused for breath, and to gather his thoughts.
"Impersonating doctors
seems to be a rare talent of yours, Chief," Jim interposed dryly.
"No, no way, man, I
didn't draw the blood -- Yeesh!" He spared a brief glare at his teasing
friend before continuing. "No, I convinced one of the doctors there that
we needed a genetic screening for the benefit of the investigation, and that we
would use my own blood as a control sample. Fed her some stuff about looking
for genetic markers from the crime scene and a double blind." Jim stared
at him in disbelief. "Hey, big guy, don't look at me like that -- it
worked! Anyway, I had them send the results to me here and, well, here are the
results." He stared blindly at the papers for a long moment, until a
gentle nudge from a blunt finger to his elbow jolted him back into the present.
"Yeah. Wow. I need to talk to Naomi."
Ellison leaned toward his
partner, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. Blair leaned into the warm
grip slightly. "You okay, Chief?"
"Yeah, I guess. I just
didn't think this would ever happen, man. This is so outside the realm of
possibilities that it never even occurred to me that it might actually be the
truth."
"What, Blair?"
The gentle question centered his scattering thoughts, and he looked up to meet
his partner's eyes.
"He's my dad, Jim. I
finally found my dad." The two men stared at one another in stark
disbelief for several moments. "Heck of a way to find out, huh?"
Jim slid his grip from
Blair's shoulder to the back of his neck, and pulled him in for a hug, ignoring
the stares from the people around them. They should be used to public displays
of affection between them by now, and if they weren't, well, too darned bad.
Blair needed a hug. "What are you going to do now, Chief?"
The answer was muffled
against Jim's chest, but still quite definite. "Call my mom."
Murphy met Bodie and Doyle
at the airport, a fact which impressed their two young bodyguards no end. When
the warm handshakes gave way to hard, fast hugs between the old colleagues, the
younger agents were rendered speechless. Time had been kind to Colin Murphy,
and he wore his responsibilities well, with a natural dignity and quiet
strength that no doubt came in handy when he went to Whitehall to argue budget
figures. After a night's sleep and a very thorough debriefing at CI5
headquarters, which included formal reinstitution of the former agents to
active status, Murph, Bodie, Doyle and a tall Amazon named Alison drove down to
Eastland to put out some public relations fires -- and start a few more.
The executive secretary at
the Eastland Constabulary Headquarters looked up from her desk guarding the
Chief's private domain to see her Chief Cade himself come in, surrounded by
three vaguely threatening looking persons. She barely had a chance to stand and
say, "We're so glad you're safe, sir," before he stopped at her side.
Touching her shoulder gently, a rare personal contact from such a reserved man,
he smiled sweetly at her.
"Thank you, Diane. I
appreciate that. Please contact as many members of the Police Authority Board
as you can round up and have them come here. We're having an emergency meeting
in my conference room at 2 pm. Also, get DCC Morton and Inspector Penfold to
meet me here now. Pull them off of whatever they're on -- this has
priority." Flashing her another smile, he swept into his office, the other
three trailing along behind him like twigs caught in a strong current. She
stared at the now closed door bemusedly for a scant moment, then reached for
the telephone.
Chief Cade was back, and
chaos reined once more.
Blair Sandburg shifted on
the couch cushions, holding Jim's hand in one of his and keeping the telephone
handset to his ear with the other. After explaining who he was looking for to
three different youngsters at the Hawaiian mountain retreat headquarters, he
waited patiently while they ran down his mother and brought her to the phone.
Idly weaving his hand through the long fingers, his head pillowed against Jim's
chest as they sat leaning against one another on the couch, he wondered what
she would have to say about his most recent discovery. He didn't have long to
wait.
"Hi, sweetie!"
She never varied. Thank god. Always so full of energy.
"Hi, Mom. How's the
retreat going?"
"It's amazing, Blair.
The air is so clear, and the trees ... it's just incredible. I feel so close to
my center here, without any strain at all. I can really hear the voices, you
know?" Not waiting for an answer, she changed the subject abruptly.
"What's wrong, sweetie? Are you okay? Is Jim okay? You wouldn't go to the
trouble of finding me in the middle of Kalaupapa if it wasn't something
important. What is it, honey?"
Giving up on ever keeping
anything from his mother, Blair twined his fingers strongly with Jim's and
forced a note of light interest into his voice. "Have you ever been to
England, Naomi?"
Dead silence greeted the
question. Hearing his answer in the soft breathing coming over the line, he
coaxed gently, "Tell me about it?"
"How did you
know?" No accusation in the question, just honest curiosity.
"We -- Jim and I --
saved him from some kidnappers. He's fine, and he's back in England with his
lover chasing down more bad guys. So tell me, Mom ... how'd you get hooked up
with a cop?" The affectionate teasing in his question worked, and she
responded immediately.
"It was an accident!
No, really, honey, it was. I was visiting some friends in London, and there was
a protest going on, it was, let me see, 1969. Uhm-hm. Or was it 1968? I think
it was '69."
"I was born in 1969,
Mom," Blair reminded her dryly.
"Oh, it was definitely
'68 then. Anyway, the pigs were out in full force, and there were some rocks
thrown, not that I threw any. You know how I feel about violence, sweetie.
Anyhow, one of them started beating up poor Lynda and I had to do something, so
I was trying to pull him off, and one of the other pigs started hitting me, and
next thing I knew this lovely young thing with all these brown curls and the
biggest green eyes stops the pig from beating on me.
"Of course, it took me
a minute to realize he was a pig himself, but he had the prettiest eyes. He
pulled me away from the big riot that was really starting right about then, and
said his name was Ray, and what was my name? And one thing sort of led to
another, and that was the rest of the summer. I didn't hear from him again,
well, it wasn't his fault, I never told him my last name, or that I was
pregnant or anything. And you know when I first saw you with your hair long
like that, so 60's, for a minute there you really reminded me of him. And you
have his mouth. But you've got my eyes. Your chin's a bit like his too.
"You say he's okay? Is
he still a pi-- cop? Someone Jim works with or something? In a way I'm sorry I
never told you about him, but it wouldn't have done much good. I never learned
his last name either."
Blair waited for the
torrent of words to stop before trying to say anything. "He's in CI5,
Naomi. Sort of super-pigs." The chest under his head rumbled with Jim's
laughter, but he ignored it and concentrated on his flighty parent. "Jim
and I helped his partner get him away from some terrorists. Everybody's okay
--" he hurried on to forestall any questions, skipping over the corpses
he'd seen in the course of the rescue. "I was just wondering if, well, I
should, like, say anything to him about the fact that he's a dad. My dad."
Both ends of the line were
silent after that question. Finally, Naomi offered, "You say he has a
lover? You think she'd be jealous if I got in touch with him? It has been so
many years, and I wouldn't be making any claims or anything. Just an
introduction. Not that I'm too sure I want you in any closer contact with even
more pigs. Especially super-pigs. No matter how pretty their eyes are."
He chuckled at that.
"No, I don't think his lover would be jealous of you, Mom. He's pretty
secure." A startled "oh!" interrupted him, but she didn't add
anything, so he went on. "Jim and I still have a couple weeks vacation
left. We were thinking of seeing what London looks like in the summer."
"You do that,
sweetie," she answered. "I'll make a call. We'll see what happens.
Love you!"
"I love you, too, Mom.
Oh, and Mom?" He grinned at the phone, secure in the knowledge that she
couldn't see him and trying to keep his voice steady. "His last name's
Doyle."
"Oh! Thanks, honey!
That's right, I'll need that, won't I. Okay, I'll take care of it. Bye,
sweetie!"
Listening to the dial tone,
he slowly replaced the handset and leaned back against his partner. "This
could be interesting, big guy. Naomi's gonna call Doyle." The chest under
him shifted again.
"Think I should call
Bodie and warn him?"
A wicked smile split
Blair's face, and he pulled away to share the look with Jim. After a moment, an
answering grin curved the older man's mouth. "Nah," they said in
unison. "Let her be a surprise," Blair added, ducking his head to
bury his smile in the warm skin at the base of his lover's throat.
The meeting with Rose and
Wes was private, between Doyle and his trusted staff. He explained the
situation, apologized for not being able to tell them the truth beforehand, and
thanked them for their help and their friendship. He also told them he didn't
know when or even if he would be allowed to continue as Chief, but that it was
his sincere wish to be able to do so. It was a short, quiet, and very painful
meeting for everyone involved.
The convening of the Police
Authority Board, on the other hand, was long, noisy, and painful for everyone
in it as well, for utterly different reasons. It began with a briefing,
degenerated into a shouting match, and ended up with an ultimatum. But the ride
along the way was the interesting part.
The eyes watching the
doorway when Doyle entered the conference room ranged from friendly curiosity
to hostile antipathy. All of them widened at the sight of the stocky, lethal
looking man in casual clothes, the tall, distinguished man in the Saville Row
suit, and the racehorse of a woman in flats and a shoulder holster who followed
him in. The three men took their places at the table while the woman stood,
relaxed but watchful, on guard duty by the door.
"Thank you for coming
in on such short notice-" Doyle began, only to be immediately interrupted
by one of his enemies on the board, a smarmy politician who had tried in the
past to shoot him in the back, metaphorically speaking.
"It's not as if we
were given much choice, Cade! What the devil do you mean by this? Of course,
we're all quite happy that you were returned to us in one piece," this was
patently untrue, "but what on earth--"
"I'll explain if
you'll give me a moment, sir!" The impatient snap silenced not only the
speaker, but all sound in the room. This was Cade as they had never seen him,
without a single ounce of hesitation, as if he honestly didn't care who he
pissed off. He'd never been one for diplomacy, but he usually at least
attempted to appear as if he was being tactful and diplomatic. Just now, he
didn't even try. He just barked, and they all stared at him in complete
disbelief, even those he could count as allies if not friends. The lethal
looking man behind him smothered a grin, but no one on the Board noticed. They
were all too busy staring at Cade.
Taking a deep breath, he
continued. "I've brought a gentleman with me who will make the situation
as clear as possible. Please give him your full attention." A few of the
board members started to bristle, but he glared them into submission.
"This is Mr. Colin Murphy, the Controller of CI5. He has information to
share with you. The information is confidential in nature and is not to leave
this room. Before we adjourn, we will have a statement for the press-" A
throat was cleared preparatory to protest, but Doyle raised his voice and
easily defeated the minor rebellion. "-which will be agreed to by the
members present and which will be the only statement made on my leave of
absence."
Several people started to mumble
quietly at this unexpected news, but Doyle's sharp voice silenced them once
more. "Mr. Murphy, if you please, sir." His respectful deference to
the tall, well dressed man whetted their curiosity, and they focused on him,
one or two still shooting sideways glances at Cade as he sat down at the table
next to the lethal looking one.
Murphy stood and surveyed
the table for a moment, ensuring that he had everyone's attention. Then he
smiled, a gentle smile with a hint of sharp teeth behind it. "I will tell
you the background of the situation first. No doubt you will have questions.
Save them, please, until the end of this short briefing. At that time I will
answer those questions which I may, within the context of this situation.
"Eight years ago CI5
mounted an all out operation against a gang of terrorists led by one Albert
Hofnan. During the course of that operation, CI5's two finest agents were
assigned to infiltrate the gang, collect information, and arrange the final
meeting that would lead to the arrests of the gang members. It was an extremely
dangerous undercover mission. The two men, Agents Bodie and Doyle, did an
outstanding job, resulting in the complete breakup of the gang and several
arrests or terminations of gang members. However, in the course of the final
confrontation between CI5 and the gang, four of the terrorists, although
wounded, managed to escape. These included Hofnan himself, who swore vengeance
for the destruction of his criminal empire.
"Within the month
following the close of this operation, three CI5 agents were assassinated in
attempts to kill Bodie and Doyle. Then word came through that family members of
the agents were also being targeted. In an attempt to stop the slaughter before
it extended to innocent dependents, Bodie and Doyle entered into witness
protection. They were given new identities in places far from Britain. Bodie
went to the United States and worked in private security. Doyle went to France,
and utilizing his actual background as a member of the Metropolitan Police,
became Alan Cade."
Several shocked gasps and
an involuntary outcry or two met this revelation. Stares were split between the
man holding them sway with his astonishing story and the still, silent form of
the Chief Constable they thought they had known. Cade, or Doyle as they now
knew him to be, stared patiently up at Murphy, waiting for the end of the
story. Or, perhaps, the continuation.
When the momentary furor
died down, Murphy continued placidly. "Based on current intelligence on
the terrorist situation and ongoing investigations, CI5 and the protection
program determined that there was acceptable risk in allowing Doyle to return
to Britain when the Eastland position became available. He was allowed to apply
for the position, as Cade, and no attempt was made in any way to influence the
results of the application procedure. He won the position on his own
merits."
"His past history was
fraudulent!" expostulated the politician, going somewhat red in the face
from the force of his indignation. Doyle shot him a bored look then returned
his gaze to Murphy.
"No, it was not,"
Murphy answered calmly. "Some dates were changed. His service in CI5 was
translated into a service record with the Met, true -- but none of his
qualifications were falsified. His early training with the Police Force was all
completely true." Abruptly, his manner became much less friendly, as he
pinned the politician with a steely glare. "You do realize, of course,
that any contract of employment entered into with a person under the witness
protection program is legal and valid even when that person is removed from
witness protection, I trust. Any sundering of that contract would be both
illegal and unethical."
The politician clammed up
immediately.
Murphy's manner softened
slightly. "Now onto the current status of events. Doyle was kidnapped by
Hofnan while in the United States doing his official duty as Alan Cade. Bodie,
with local assistance, was able to find him, by which point Doyle had managed
to terminate Hofnan, at considerable cost to himself." By this time, the
board members' eyes were swinging back and forth from Murphy to Cade as if they
were spectators at a tennis match. Bodie was getting dizzy watching them. Doyle
just kept his eyes on Murphy.
"As a result of
Hofnan's death and the expectation that the remainder of the gang is aware that
Doyle and Bodie were responsible, witness protection was deemed no longer
sufficient cover for the agents. They were returned from the United States to
England under CI5 protection, where they will remain until the threat from the
last of the original terrorists, along with any new associates, is neutralized.
Both Bodie and Doyle have been reactivated as current CI5 members. They are on
assignment in London until such time as they are no longer in danger from the
remainder of the Hofnan gang. At that time, they will be given the option of
returning to the professions they have been practicing for the last eight
years. In Mr. Doyle's case, this means that, by law, he has the right to
return, as Alan Cade, to Eastland Constabulary, as Chief Constable. It is up to
us, ladies and gentlemen, to create a cover story that will explain his absence
in such a way as to allow that to happen.
"Are there any
questions?"
Dead silence met his query.
The majority of the Board looked stunned, with the exception of the politician,
who looked as if he'd swallowed his tongue. Finally, at the point when Bodie
was about to lose his fragile hold on his composure and actually burst out
laughing, a tall Indian gentleman, the Police Liaison for the Board and one of
Cade's few friends on it, cleared his throat.
"Perhaps a health
problem related to his kidnapping, for which he must go to London for
treatment? The length of which is not yet known?" The deep, melodious
voice was hesitant, but his wish to help and support for Cade were clear. Doyle
flashed him a grateful smile, which was returned in full measure.
"Surely you don't mean
to go along with this farce?" The aggrieved exclamation came from the
local representative of the Home Office, another opportunist who had, at one
time, planned to use Cade as his way to a knighthood, over Cade's broken
career, if necessary.
"Yes," interposed
a cool feminine voice. The nearly-feuding members quieted and looked at the
Chair of the Board. "We will, because we have no legal recourse to do
otherwise, and because Chief Cade, pardon me, Mr. Doyle, came to us under no
false pretense of his own. He has done his duty to this constabulary to the
best of his ability and current circumstances are not of his making."
Murphy nodded approvingly at her, and she frowned back at him. He was not the
least abashed by her reaction. She took a deep breath and continued. "When
the current threat passes, we shall have to re-evaluate the Board's position on
Mr. Doyle's capacity to act as Chief. Until then, we have no choice but to
abide by Mr. Murphy's outlined course of action."
The room erupted.
Within moments the veneer
of civility wore off, and all the petty rivalries and fierce disagreements over
Cade that had been brewing over the last turbulent four years boiled out into
the open. Murphy subsided into his chair, staring with sick fascination as the
Board turned into a vitriolic free-for-all. Bodie stared raptly at the Cade
supporters and the Cade detractors who were very nearly screaming at one
another. Under cover of the din, he leaned sideways and whispered into a
resigned-looking Doyle's ear, "Looks like you still know how to charm 'em,
sweetheart."
If looks could kill he'd've
had green daggers through his chest. He couldn't help it. He rested his head on
Doyle's shoulder and quietly, helplessly, laughed himself hoarse.
He wasn't laughing three
hours later, in a small study room, confronting the vivacious young brunette
Doyle introduced as "My daughter, Elena."
Murphy and Alison were
introduced, then excused themselves to quietly arrange for security and leave
father, lover, and daughter to talk. Elena Belinsky was a petite spitfire of a
woman, with Doyle's smile and his temper. The growling match between the two of
them was impressive, underlaced with stubbornness and love, but Doyle's sincere
fear for her safety finally convinced her to accept protection. She was adamant
that she would not leave her studies, and he was equally adamant that she not
be unguarded. A compromise was eventually reached, and she chose a female
bodyguard, whom she would introduce to her friends as her new girlfriend.
"My bisexuality is a
known fact, Dad," she asserted pragmatically, then shot a measuring glance
at Bodie, standing silently at the side of the room. "Not like yours, kept
under wraps for fear of what society might say."
Doyle bristled at that.
"Bull, Elena. The only reason I haven't proclaimed to all and sundry that
I'm bi is because the only man I'm in love with is Bodie. And if I couldn't
have him I didn't want anyone! Besides, it's nobody else's business."
A pleased smile split
Bodie's face. It faded when she responded, "Didn't leave the women out,
though, did it? What about Maria Romero? And that Frenchwoman?" She didn't
say her name -- her father's one long-term relationship had been with a snotty
French businesswoman who'd done her best to make Elena feel like a Colonial
farm girl, and she hadn't warmed to her at all. "Or that publicity
woman?"
Doyle snorted with exasperation.
"So I got lonely. I'm human, aren't I?" He spun around and grabbed
hold of Bodie's wrist, pulling him forward. "This is Bodie. We're
together. We're gonna stay together. All right?" He glared at Elena.
She stifled a grin and
nodded, then winked at Bodie. "It's all right with me, if it's all right
with him."
"It is," Doyle
answered for him, and Bodie gave them both a bemused smile. "And you'll
have a bodyguard until this is all cleared up, and no more argument.
Right?" It wasn't a question. She sighed, finally giving in.
"Right," she
muttered. "But she better be able to keep up."
As she nodded politely to
Bodie, hugged Doyle briefly but fiercely, and swept out to inform Murphy of her
choice, both men turned and watched. Feeling as if he'd just been struck by a
small tornado, Bodie mused, "She's a Doyle, that's a sure thing."
Doyle just glared at him.
The ride back to London was
a quiet one. Doyle had a splitting headache from the confrontation with his
daughter, all the papers he'd had to sign and all the Board members he'd had to
keep from ripping one another apart in Eastland. Bodie was fatigued, not yet
having caught up on his rest from the trying times in Italy. Murphy was
preoccupied with coming up with a strategy to lure the rest of the terrorists
out of hiding, preferably without making either Bodie or Doyle a dead
sacrificial goat. Alison was just naturally quiet. When they arrived at
headquarters, they split for the night, Bodie and Doyle heading to their flat,
Murphy to his office, and his minder off to get some sleep.
There had been a few
questions raised when they first got rooms together, but Murphy merely approved
the housing request and went on with the business at hand -- tracking down
terrorists. His squad followed his lead, and no further questions were asked.
CI5, thanks to George Cowley's practice of hiring the best and protecting them
fiercely, had been the first government security agency to make gender
orientation a non-issue, so Bodie and Doyle's living arrangements were not
uncommon. Privacy, on the other hand, was scarce.
Deciding to ignore the
surveillance for once, and just get on with it, Doyle led Bodie into the
bedroom and crawled under the duvet with him. Allowing himself to be cuddled,
basking in the warmth and security of his partner's embrace, he forced his mind
away from the recent events in Eastland and made himself relive the hours that
Hofnan had held him. The words came in fits and starts, but eventually Bodie
knew everything. It was silent and tense in the room when Doyle finally ground
to a stop.
Unsure of his mate's
reaction, damning himself now for ever telling him everything, Doyle was caught
by surprise when Bodie reached down and began to kiss his throat, right where
Hofnan had bitten him. Holding completely still, barely daring to breathe, he
waited to see what Bodie would do next. He didn't have long to wait.
Throwing off the duvet,
flicking on the bedside lamp in order to see what he was doing, Bodie began at
Doyle's knees and proceeded to trace every one of the fading marks with his
lips, laying gentle kisses along the path Hofnan had abused with strap and
knife. He lingered over the healing welts on wrists and pelvis, kissing sweetly
along the scar lining Doyle's ribcage, over his shoulder, along the inside of
his left arm. Still silent, concentrating in the dim light, he turned Doyle
over onto his stomach and journeyed down the remnants of marks crisscrossing his
back. By the time he reached the swell of Ray's buttocks, the other man was
breathing heavily and moving rhythmically, trying to ease a growing erection.
Splaying one hand on the small of his back, Bodie stopped the movement, easing
the tensed thighs apart, and moving to kneel between the spread legs. Placing
soft kisses on the marks around each ankle, he leaned up and nudged Doyle's
relaxing thighs further apart.
He traced the thin scar on
the underside of Doyle's scrotum with one fingertip, causing an involuntary
moan of pure arousal with the caress. Lying down fully between the splayed
knees, Bodie carefully licked from the base of Doyle's sac backward, replacing
the memory of Hofnan's blade with the heat of his own tongue. Doyle began to
quiver, his skin drawing up in goosebumps at the light touch. Ignoring for the
moment the erection digging into the mattress, Bodie laved the entire area
between Ray's thighs thoroughly, taking his time. He licked again, more firmly
this time, grazing gently at the sac with his teeth and the tip of his tongue,
then nibbling along the perineum until he arrived at the lower curve of Doyle's
buttocks. Easing back slightly, he raised his hands and gently parted Ray's
buttocks, easing his tongue up the length of the cleft now exposed.
At the first rough slick of
tongue over his anus, Doyle yelped and buried his face in the pillow. It had
been so very long since he had had anyone do this to him, and he'd forgotten
just how incredibly sensitive he was to that particular caress. As Bodie
continued the delicious torture, he forgot Hofnan, forgot the knife, forgot the
invasion of his body by the hilt held by the madman. All that was left was
Bodie, all he had room for in what was left of his mind was the wave after wave
of wanting that was leaving him trembling. He found himself pleading, now,
incoherent begging words, asking Bodie to 'stop it, damn it, don't you dare,
please, fuck me, please love me, please' ... as the words died off into moans,
unable to move his tongue to form the words any longer, he felt the welcome
weight of his partner slide up the length of his back, easing the pain as he
went. Careful as Bodie was to keep his full weight off Doyle, there was still
enough skin touching skin to provide the reassurance Ray needed. With the first
touch of Bodie's erection at his entrance, Doyle screamed "Yes!"
It was all the reassurance
the other man needed. Warm silk wrapped around iron eased into him, filling
him, stretching him past the point of pain and into mind-twisting pleasure. The
last remnants of memory faded, as the knife was displaced in his mind by the
hot weight of Bodie filling him, easing from him, and filling him again. He
felt as if the thrusts were reaching all the way through his body and battering
at his heart, as if he was filled to the throat, as if he would never be empty,
never be alone in his skin again. It felt as though it went on forever, or
maybe he just wished it had, when the thrusts increased. A strong, square hand
eased around his hip to grasp his erection, and the combined sensation ripped
him apart. Stifling a scream in the pillow below his face, he thrust into that
hand as hard as he could, feeling his penis clench and the echoing spasm in his
channel, wrenching an answering orgasm from Bodie. Sharp teeth bit into his
shoulder, and the hand holding him clamped down hard, wringing the last of his
seed from him. As the heavy body collapsed onto him, pressing against the
burning skin of his back and pushing him into the soft mattress, he had time to
unclench one fist from the bed sheet and close it over the fingers still
encircling his penis, before falling into sleep, completely content. Home, and
safe.
Bodie managed to shift
himself off his smaller mate, determined not to hurt him in any way, and realized
that Doyle had grabbed his hand before dropping off. Leaving their sticky
fingers entwined, he snagged the duvet with his free hand and dragged it over
the two of them. Curling his body protectively around his partner, he took a
deep breath and relaxed as well. As blackness claimed him, his last thought was
that whatever happened now, they would face it together, as they should have
been all along.
Three o'clock in the
morning, and the telephone rang. Both men, long accustomed to broken sleep and
emergency call-outs, woke immediately, although not without a great deal of
grumbling. Bodie beat Doyle to the handset, not that the older man tried that
hard to get there first. Doyle subsided into the pillows, one eye half opened
to gauge Bodie's reaction and thereby see if he had to wake up the rest of the
way. Bodie glowered at his mate and growled into the phone. The chiming
feminine voice that filled his ear took him aback.
"Ray? Is that you,
Ray? It certainly doesn't sound like you. I mean, of course, it has been a long
time, but I clearly remember that you were a baritone. I'm sure men's voices
don't go a tone higher after they've hit puberty. Do they? Of course not, not
unless they go through it twice, and who would ever willingly go through that
twice? Once is bad enough. Are you there, Ray?"
Bodie pulled the receiver
away from his head, stared at it for a moment, shook his head to clear it, and
returned it to his ear. The voice was still talking.
"Oh, my dear, I
completely forgot about the time difference, it must be, what, early morning
for you, isn't it? Or is that early evening? I never can keep it straight.
Perhaps I should call back. Well, no sense in that, you're up already. Aren't
you? After all, you did pick up the phone. Ray? Are you still a grumpy bear in
the morning? Is it morning yet?""
By now Bodie had finally
managed to get his tongue in working order, and recognizing a break in the
torrent of words, he dove in.
"Hallo. This isn't
Ray, this is Bodie, perhaps I can help you?" His most charming tone.
Whoever this bird was, she knew his Ray, and it might prove very interesting to
find out just how she knew him.
"Bodie? OH!"
Pleasure filled her voice, making it, if possible, even chirpier than it had
originally been. "You must be Ray's lover! Oh, how karmic. I was hoping
we'd get a chance to talk. I knew, even when he was still a pig, not that he
was ever as bad as some of them were, well, most of them really, that I
met-"
"Hm, my impression of
the most of them, as well," he cut in quickly.
"Oh, yes! I just knew
he'd find someone who appreciated that there was more to him than what was just
on the surface. He always put on such an attitude, you know? But it was all a
put on, really, he was so sweet under all that tough guy swagger. Of course
he'd end up with someone who could see through the screen, you know, someone
who could see into the beauty of his center. He has a beautiful soul, that's
one of the things that drew me to him from the first. Well, that, and he has
the prettiest green eyes. At least, he did then, I assume he still does-"
"Yes," Bodie cut
in again, enjoying himself tremendously by this point. Doyle had both eyes open
now, and was frowning at him, confusion gathering in his face. "Absolutely
stunning eyes he has. And the rest of him isn't bad!"
"Oh, my, no, anything
but," the happy voice continued. She, whoever she was, dropped her tone to
a confidential whisper. "I've always enjoyed a nice broad chest on a man,
don't you? All that lovely soft fur, too. Fingertip fur, I always called
it."
Bodie murmured an
affirmative, staring lustfully at the chest in question. Doyle followed the
stare to look down at himself, completely confused by now.
"And his legs. Oh, but
that man had an incredible pair of legs."
"Still does. And a
real peach of an arse," Bodie solemnly agreed, a grin splitting his face
at her enthusiastic agreement in his ear. By this time Doyle was sitting up,
staring at Bodie in complete disbelief.
"Does he still make
that lovely little moaning sound in the back of his throat when you bite the
side of his neck?" she asked, genuine curiosity coloring her voice.
"Yes!" Bodie
nearly crowed. Doyle made a swipe for the receiver and Bodie twisted out of
reach, determined to continue the conversation. "And he gurgles when you
lick the hollow at the base of his throat!" Doyle lunged full force for
the phone at this point, and Bodie relinquished hold of it, her "Oh, my,
yes, I certainly remember that!" ringing clearly from the handset as Doyle
scurried to the side of the bed, curling his body protectively around the
phone, glaring at Bodie and daring him to try to take it back. Bodie didn't
even attempt it, just fell over on his side and giggled uncontrollably.
Doyle gave him an utterly
disgusted look and growled into the phone. "Who is this?"
"Ray?" He didn't
recognize the bright, clear voice.
"This is Doyle, now
who the hell is this?" The growl got stronger.
"Oh, good, you are still
a baritone. Your Bodie really took me by surprise."
A faint memory teased at
the back of Doyle's mind, and with it, a horrible suspicion began to arise.
"Please. Who are you?" The growl faded and entreaty took its place.
"That's more like my
sweet Ray. This is Naomi. How are things with you, dear?"
The memory crystallized.
Doyle looked at his helplessly giggling lover, and closed his eyes. It was much
too early in the morning to deal with this.
"Hello, Naomi. It's
been a long time. I'm fine, how are you?" He felt like he was trapped in
an episode of the Twilight Zone.
"Oh, I'm doing just
great, you know me, free and calm, keeping my center. But you're the reason I'm
calling, dear. I know it has been a long time, and things were, well, really
casual between us. Not that I didn't love you, you know I loved you, but it was
a summer kind of love, and it was the time for it after all. Nineteen
sixty-eight and we were both just kids, really. Who knew it would end up like
this?"
"Like what,
Naomi?" He concentrated hard, remembering now why they'd spent so much
time kissing when they were going out together. It was the only sure way to
shut her up. Bodie was somewhat recovered from his laughing fit by this time,
and was nibbling the outside of Doyle's thigh, devilish blue eyes daring him to
do anything about it. Doyle glared at him and tuned back into the uninterrupted
flow of words that was assaulting him from the telephone receiver.
"So, of course, I told
him I'd call you and let you know, so it wouldn't be a complete surprise. I
mean, of course it had to be a surprise, after all, I didn't know your last
name, and it's not as if I could have told you at the time. Or even would have,
really, we weren't at a place where it would have been a good thing for either
of us for me to lay that load on you then, but now it's another matter-"
"What, Naomi?"
Doyle demanded, jerking his leg away from Bodie and sitting upright on the edge
of the bed. He had a feeling he'd missed something important.
"Well, Blair, of
course, dear. One of the men who rescued you, along with his partner, Jim
Ellison."
"Blair?" He was
completely lost. Bodie sat up behind him, resting his chin on Doyle's shoulder,
reacting to the sudden tension in the slender body.
"He's your son, Ray.
Haven't you been listening?" There was a very mild censure in her voice,
as if he was a naughty child to be remonstrated with love.
"Bodie distracted
me," he whispered in response, shock making his entire body go rigid.
Bodie reacted instinctively, wrapping his arms around his waist, leaning his
torso against Doyle's back, supporting him.
"Well, that's not
really surprising, I remember how often we made love. There's just something so
elemental about you, dear. It's no wonder he can't keep his hands to himself.
Anyway, Blair will be coming over in a week or so, he has some research he
needs to do, he's really amazingly smart, and such a beautiful boy. He has your
chin, I think, but he's got my eyes. So, now you know, and you two can have
such a wonderful time bonding, as friends, really. I'll let you go now, I don't
doubt Bodie's anxious for a little quality time, now that you're both awake and
everything. It was wonderful talking with you, Ray. I may see you soon, I don't
know. The past is something you leave with no regrets and no anchors but I can
hear it calling to me. I think I'll call Blair now and let him know we talked.
It's been awhile since I was in England, and I have some Druid friends I
haven't seen since Solstice when they were here in, what, '87? I don't remember.
I'll give them a call while I'm at it. This really was inevitable, a circle
closing upon itself. I'll come along with Blair and Jim. I just have to let
them know that. See you soon!"
The dial tone rang in his
ear for almost ten seconds before Bodie took it from his hand, listened briefly
to ascertain that the call had indeed ended, and cradled it gently on the
stand. Moving around to sit next to Doyle, he slipped an arm around his waist
and put a finger under his chin, tipping it so that their eyes could meet.
"What's up,
mate?" Worry had displaced the laughter by this point. Doyle looked
blankly at him, green eyes dazed.
"You know Blair
Sandburg?" His voice sounded rusty.
"Yeah, Ellison's
lover. Good man, a little green in the field, but then he's an anthropologist,
so I guess dead bodies aren't an everyday thing for him. At least not fresh
ones. Brainy beauty, too." His teasing didn't seem to penetrate Doyle's
fog. When the silence had gone on long enough that he was seriously considering
shaking Doyle, his mate finally shook his head and focused on Bodie.
"He's my son."
It was Bodie's turn to
freeze. Without conscious volition, his mouth opened and words fell out.
"So that's why I wanted to nail him to the table as soon as I saw
him."
Doyle apologized very
nicely for Bodie's resultant black eye.
An ocean and a continent away, Jim Ellison
knocked briefly on his captain's door and asked permission for a private talk.
Simon Banks waved him in, an inquiring look on his broad face, and motioned for
him to close the door behind him.
"What's up, Jim?"
Ellison gave his boss, and
friend, a half grin. "Never thought I'd be saying this again, Simon."
A look of consternation flashed
in the deep brown eyes, and he raised a brow, staring at his detective.
"Tell me your senses aren't going whacko, Jim. Please. I don't think I
wanna hear it this early in the morning, before I've had my coffee!"
"No," Jim laughed
in return. "Nothing like that, I promise. It's just, well ... I need to
take the rest of my vacation. I need to go to England."
"Is this related to
that kidnapping case you handled in Seattle? Speaking of which, the Feds want
to talk to you about that. They were chasing off following a lead in the
University District while you were hightailing it down to Tacoma. They want to
know what your source was. If it is about that, then it would be official
business. We could arrange for the time if we call it liaison work with those guys
at CI5."
Ellison thought about it
for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't know if I'd be comfortable
classifying this as official business, Simon. Yeah, I'm going to see Doyle, the
man who was kidnapped, but not in any official capacity."
"Then why the trip?
Got this sudden urge to see if their weather is just as bad as ours is?"
The grumpy tone didn't hide the real curiosity. It was taking Ellison forever
to spit it out.
"No," Jim grinned
unwillingly. "It's -- I'm -- he's -- oh, hell. I guess I'd have to say
it's to meet my in-laws."
Simon looked at him in
disbelief. "Naomi's in England?"
"Not yet, but soon.
And Doyle is," the other man corrected him. "He didn't get a chance
to meet Blair, not really. He was out of his head or unconscious most of the
time, and by the time Blair found out that Doyle was his father, we were back
here again."
Simon nearly dropped his
cigar. "His ... father?"
"Yeah, his dad."
There was a certain tenderness in Jim's angular face, seldom seen and usually
directed at Blair Sandburg. "He's finally found out who his father is, and
he'd like the chance to get to know him."
His boss stared at him for
a long moment, then chuckled softly. "In that case, you take all the time
you need." Jim smiled his thanks at him and started to leave. Simon's
voice caught up with him at the door. "Try to keep it to two weeks, okay?
We're short handed. And don't get in any shoot-outs or blow anything up,
please. Transatlantic paperwork's a bitch."
Jim tried to keep a
straight face but it was a futile effort. He was laughing as he left the
bullpen in search of his partner to give him the news that they'd be on their
way to England as soon as they could pin down Naomi.
Stepping off the plane at
the Gatwick airport, Jim, Blair and Naomi were surprised to see a cute
brunette, about Blair's height, standing in the reception area beyond Customs
holding a gaily decorated cardboard sign that said 'Sandburg' on it. Naomi cocked
her head to one side and teased her son, "You didn't tell me he'd had a
sex change, sweetie. And wherever he's gone to get those age-reversal
treatments, it certainly worked!"
Blair rolled his eyes at
his mother and ignored the smothered laughter from his lover. He hadn't been
too sure about her coming along on this trip to begin with, but trying to say
'No' to Naomi was pretty much like trying to hold back the tide. You just ended
up with no voice, sucked into the undertow and taken along for the ride.
Shouldering his backpack and taking a deep breath, he reached back with one
hand and snagged Jim's jacket pocket, pulling gently on it. He needed his
Sentinel at his side. He didn't believe how incredibly nervous he was feeling,
now that he was actually here.
Ellison felt the increase
in body temperature and could hear the rush of Blair's pulse as it accelerated.
He'd been aware of the increase in tension in his partner's body throughout the
long airplane trip, but since landing it had increased tenfold. His Blair was
scared to death, and determined not to show it. Placing one hand reassuringly
in the small of the younger man's back, he leaned forward and whispered, just
above the noise of the crowd around them, "Hey, there, Chief. Hang on,
it's gonna be okay."
Grateful lapis eyes glanced
up at him, then fixed on the young woman staring with utter delight at his
mother. Naomi's mouth was going a mile a minute, and the woman appeared to be
charmed by her. "Better go rescue the messenger, huh, Jim?" he muttered
back, then cut through the crowd to stand at his mother's side. Ellison
followed directly behind, trying to convince himself that he was just standing
close by in order to not lose Blair in the crowd, not that he was hovering
protectively. Although what was a Blessed Protector to do, if not hover?
Especially when the Blessed Protectee was shaking in his boots.
By the time the men caught
up with Naomi, she had taken one of the multicolored silk scarves from around
her neck and was holding it against the young woman's blouse, exclaiming at the
'confluence of colors' and the obvious need for her to wear it, since the two
matched so well and there was a harmonic going on that was not to be denied.
Blair stopped beside them, Jim at his back, as Naomi gently twined the scarf
around the other woman's neck, trailing the ends over her shoulder and
complimenting her on her coloring. Laughing dark eyes bounced between the three
as she thanked Naomi, her accent alike and yet subtly different from the myriad
British accents around them.
"You must be
Blair," she said finally, turning to hold out her hand toward him to be
shaken. As he took it in both of his and gave her a sparkling smile, she
couldn't help but grin back. "I'm Elena, and now I know you're my brother
-- your smile is just like mine -- not to mention the build!"
It was Naomi's turn to be
speechless. Blair's eyes widened, and he spluttered, "Sister?" as a
large hand extended itself over his shoulder and he finally dropped Elena's so
she could take it.
"Hi," Jim rumbled
softly. "I'm Jim Ellison, Blair's partner."
Her entire face glowed.
"It is such a pleasure to meet both of you. I so wanted to thank you both
for saving Dad's life. And to think," she grinned mischievously at the
three of them in turn, "you didn't even know he was your Dad!"
Looking around the crowded reception area, she tucked the placard under her arm
and rubbed her hands together briskly. "There are much better places to
get acquainted than here, I think. Let's go collect the luggage and find ourselves
a bite to eat. Are you hungry?" She was competently shepherding them
through the busy aisles as she talked.
"Is Doyle all
right?" Jim had to ask, since neither Naomi nor Blair seemed to want to
bring it up.
"Oh, yes," she
returned reassuringly. "He and Bodie are tied up at headquarters pursuing
some lead or other. They called and asked us to meet you, and I jumped at the
chance to get to meet my little brother." She tossed him a mischievous
look as she said this, and Blair finally began to relax. Ellison felt the
easing of tension in his partner's frame and found himself relaxing as well.
"Us?" Blair
asked, making a show of checking her pocket with one teasing finger.
"Kim," Elena
looked around, and a young woman whom only Jim had noticed materialized at her
side. "This is Kim Chen. She's, er, watching me until all this mess with
the terrorists is cleared up." Chen was a lovely Asian woman, slightly
taller than Elena, with a competent look about her. She smiled greetings at the
party, but her eyes were never still, fanning the crowd constantly. Jim nodded
to her and Blair chipped in with, "Hey, Kim," and a smile for her.
Naomi, on the other hand, looked faintly disturbed.
"Is there a
threat?" she asked, direct for once in her concern for her son and for
this sweet young woman with the bright aura.
"A slight one,"
Chen replied matter-of-factly. "But protective measures are in place, and
it shouldn't be for much longer."
"Good to hear." Jim
fell behind to provide flank coverage automatically, and Chen instinctively
took point, with Blair, Naomi and Elena is a protected clump between them. The
three chattered easily all the way to the baggage claim, quietly protected by
those chosen by fate and Murphy to do so.
At HQ-CI5, things were
tense. There had been some initial jockeying for position between the newer
agents, for whom the illustrious 4.5 and 3.7 were either legends or has-beens,
and the agents in question, who were not only in the shape to whip the
youngsters at their own game but were definitely in the mood for it. The third
time they were left out of the information loop and got to the scene just as a
suspect slipped through the younger men's hands, Doyle blew his stack.
Bodie watched from the
sidelines, glowering blackly enough to scare off anything with any native
intelligence, as Doyle verbally tore strips off the agent in charge of the
operation, one Mike Howard. When the younger man was foolhardy enough to shoot
back that Doyle had been out of the field so long he was useless in the real
world, Doyle reacted instinctively and set him on his back before the younger
agent even saw the kick. One fist in the young man's collar brought the stunned
agent to eye level with the enraged Doyle, and he blanched at the look in the
feral green eyes.
"It's my hide, and my
partner's, and my family's that's at stake here, you stupid arsed son of a
bitch," he snarled into the startled face slowly purpling above his
clenched fingers. "We've been in this up to our necks since it started,
goddamnit. We've got experience up the arse and you're too fucking stupid to
take advantage of it." Contemptuously, he thrust the agent away, to land
in a heap on the cement floor. "Don't make me go above your head. And
don't make me have to kick your arse again. Next time, we're in it from the
beginning, or I take it out of your hide!"
His voice neither rose nor
wavered, and the agent in charge of the investigation revised his opinion of
the older man. Perhaps he wasn't quite as out of shape as he'd believed ...
especially if the bastard could take him out so easily. Looking around, Howard
saw that Bodie had managed to freeze all the other agents in their tracks,
leaving him to deal with a royally pissed off Doyle all on his own. Gathering
his composure, he pulled himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his
bruised ribs where Doyle had taken him down.
"Yes, I'm sorry, I
will," he choked out, then picked up his R/T and cell phone from where
he'd dropped them and limped out the door.
Doyle swept the onlookers
with a look hot enough to blister lead, and they all suddenly found pressing
tasks that just had to be taken care of immediately, elsewhere. Bodie waited
until the room had cleared, then grinned at his mate.
"Got your point across
quite smartly, there, didn't you, Sunshine?"
"This is absolutely
asinine, Bodie!" Doyle groused back. "They've been following this
damned trail for the last eight years, there's more activity now than any time
since we first busted the bastards, and they lose them. Not once, but three
times! Bloody incompetents!!" He rubbed at a strained shoulder muscle from
where he'd slugged Howard. Bodie saw the movement and came up beside him,
massaging the muscle for him. With a sigh of relief, he sank into the soothing
movements of strong hands digging into the knots there.
"Besides," Bodie
put in quietly, "you missed meeting Blair at the airport because of another
tip that turned up bad."
"Yeah," Doyle
responded absently, head falling forward as Bodie's fingers continued to work
their magic. "And it's too late to see them tonight. Have to leave it for
tomorrow."
"Every cloud has a
silver lining," Bodie said dryly. Doyle's head shot up to stare at him
accusingly.
"And what's that
supposed to mean?" A harsh question, a defensive reaction Doyle usually
got when he felt vaguely guilty about something. Bodie dropped his hands and
took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his mate with a
plain look.
"You know precisely
what it means. You've been antsier than a cat walking across hot tar about this
meeting ever since Naomi called."
Ray was unable to control
his wince at the name. Bodie's eyebrow shot up, and he gave a sudden lopsided
grin. "That's it!" he crowed. "It's not that you're afraid to
meet Blair-"
"What's another child
I didn't get a chance to know growing up?" Doyle growled in an undertone.
Bodie ignored him and continued.
"- it's her! Naomi! You
don't want me to meet the chatterbox! What is it, you afraid she'll spill a
secret or two? C'mon, Ray, it's not like I don't know you inside out. What
could she possibly say about you that you don't want me to hear?" He was
circling his partner now, watching his face intently, unable to curb the smile
threatening to split his face in two. Doyle glared at him with mock-dislike.
"It was almost thirty
years ago. It was just a single summer. I just don't fancy the thought of what
that bubble brain might say to you, that's all. She can be," he paused for
a moment, considering his word choice. "Extremely embarrassing," he
finally finished.
Both Bodie's brows wiggled
at this. Doyle closed his eyes and heaved a disgusted sigh. "I can see I'm
not going to get out of this unscathed." Turning and heading for the door,
he tossed over his shoulder, "Let's go home. There's not a bloody thing we
can do here, and I'm tired."
"Not for long,"
Bodie caroled, and followed his mate out the door.