Intersections, a The Sentinel/The Professionals/The Chief crossover, by Sue Castle. Rated NC17 for adult situations, violence and homoeroticism. All rights to characters included belong to the assorted persons at these various shows and no copyright infringement is intended in this amateur work of fiction. With thanks to KC and Carol for the information and Kevin for the inspiration (and all the Lads for the perspiration).

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.

From The Chief; Chief Constable Alan Cade, head of the Eastland Constabulary (rank : Chief). Elena Belinsky, his daughter, a student at Cambridge. Yvonne Belinsky, her mother, residing in Canada. 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.

All other characters are original to the author. Some fiddling with the time line was done to make it all fit together (hey, it's fiction ... adapt). Setting, present day Seattle, Washington, early summer.

Blair Sandburg shifted the loaded backpack to a more comfortable spot and tromped happily along behind his partner as the larger man forged a path through the crowded SeaTac International airport. He'd had to talk fast and offer many favors, but the two weeks he'd managed to wangle from his advisor and the other teaching fellows had been well worth it. He hadn't had the opportunity to see Seattle yet, and here he was, courtesy of the Cascade P.D., settling in for a week of observing the international creme de la creme of the law enforcement world followed by nights of discovering one of the most romantic cities in North America with the love of his life. And after that, another week camping in the Olympic National Park, testing his Sentinel's mettle in the wilds of the rain forest. He couldn't wait to get started.

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 normal reaction to new places and new people, coupled with his anticipation of the things to come in the next few days, it didn't overly concern him. When the younger man's breathing began to get a little ragged, he slowed and glanced down beside him. 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. 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. Work to do, first. I want to be prepared for that Pacific Rim panel--"

Blair raised his hands in mock self defense. "Okay, okay, okay, man, I should've known better than get in the way of the details! We've got to get to the hotel, registration, get our conference packets, 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."

Customs went more easily than he had expected. Watching the executive assistant hand over the appropriate forms to make sure the Sig Sauer 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 Italy and in a handful of other countries would pay a high bounty for his head on a plate. Or even just a bullet between the eyes. Bodie was one of the professionals there to prevent that from happening. A very small corner in the back of his mind recognized the homesickness inherent in his position, his wish, never expressed, for his partner to guard his back, a small underlying desire to return home. But that wasn't in his cards, hadn't been for eight years, and wouldn't be until the scum who had caused him to go into hiding could, themselves, be forced into the daylight. Until then, he would stay in foreign lands, guarding foreign treasures, and he would wait.

His eye settled momentarily on his current charge. The Honorable Eduardo Cimbrone was a great man, or so the beleaguered Carabinieri claimed. Bodie hadn't been in Italy long enough himself to see the judge in action, having only taken on this job 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 want to do his work, 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 gunhand unconsciously and slipping past the small ring of officious people gathered around his charge, he deftly placed himself between the judge and the others.

"Time to go, sir," he suggested quietly, the words more an order than either man would admit. Cimbrone smiled sweetly at the young woman handing him back his papers and nodded just as quietly. Four minutes later they were safely in a limousine 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.

Paperwork. It felt like the four years ... no, nearly the last decade of his life could be summed up in that one nasty word. Chief Alan Cade signed yet another paper, then heard the chime of the bell with relief. It had been a very long flight, and a restful night before, and he was exhausted. He knew he would be facing a hostile audience when he got to Seattle, and while he felt strongly 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 at an international conference on meeting the threat of drugs ... 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 people, like himself, who made and carried out the agenda at the working 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 gathered up his papers. He'd concentrate on the basics, now, get into Seattle, settle into the hotel, try to make up for the previous night's restfulness ... 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 stomped the loneliness and the need back into the darkest part of his mind once more, he took a deep breath. No laughter, no light. No love. 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 well as his expression, he fastened his seat belt and prepared for landing. It was going to be a difficult week and he could do without the distractions that thinking 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 mind 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.

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 stocky, 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 still in the business, in some manner. The only thing showing his age was the shadow in his deep blue eyes. They had always been somewhat cold, and business-like, but now there was an underlying hint of pain that he had never seen.

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 protective 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 immediate 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 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, and if anyone could get a clam to talk, Blair could.

"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 panels. 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.

His thoughts resulted in such a bright smile the clerk dropped her folders and, dazed, smiled back.

The first day had gone well, Alan thought to himself, 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 arena. He just hoped the changes in his appearance, along with his official biography, title and name, would be enough to get him through the experience unscathed. Staring moodily through the window to the skyline surrounding the hotel, 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. Very highly placed Italian judge, uncompromising in his sentencing no matter the clout of the criminal in question, 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 stop, even the unfortunate guard used so badly. He himself was only trying 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, to not allow it to leave my possession until it was given to you. 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 cleared his throat softly. "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. It could wait. He needed something to take his mind off the next day's efforts anyway. And meeting the honorable judge would be a good distraction. Not to mention the fact that he was intensely curious to discover what Donati had left to 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 to him, it really wasn't much of a surprise that he should wish to rid himself of at least one.

"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 itch between his shoulder blades and 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 like a professional 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. After the first three months he was too busy trying to keep Doyle's back covered during the day and get into his bed at night, and after the fourth month he'd been too shagged out from both 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 had to split. And he'd fought his own heart 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 broke down 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 very nearly 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, 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.

Sandburg reached out to shake Bodie's hand, shooting Jim a puzzled, 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."

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, speaking about some of his unusual experiences with various field expeditions into South American jungles, and Bodie responded in kind, sharing some of his own experiences in Africa. 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 cement. 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. 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 what he saw.

Three men were down, another half dozen wounded. He recognized Judge Cimbrone's minder among the dead. Two men in lightweight 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 blue job with a swing-out door that easily accommodated the old man and the unidentified bystander 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 man, 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 saw something familiar in the long legs ruthlessly kicking at the abductors, but then the press of people surrounding him and the all-too-familiar routine of the police at the scene of the crime boxed him in.

Staring at the lax body of the guard who had been killed in the abduction, he listened to the chatter around him and took a deep breath. Now would be a good time to draw on those old CI5 powers ... if he still had them ... and if they were in Britain ... 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 all the time 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 that were in town for the conference begin rounding up witnesses, 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 the FBI zeroed in on him and began to ask him questions. 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, out from 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 slowly around and headed for the restaurant. As he entered the dining room he leaned against the doorframe 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 right 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. And there was something about the Kicker that was really pulling 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 nonverbally 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. Anyway, it felt good 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 neuron in his brain was crosswired, 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 the thought 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." For a split second what could have been jealousy flashed across the expressive face, then what Jim privately thought of as Blair's Darwin-face pulled the generous features into a serious mask and 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' pose 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 it 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, 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 place.

"No, not specifically. But I know the sort of enemies Eduardo Cimbrone had. 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." 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."

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 ever needed. "Anyone can make a citizen's arrest." Without another word being spoken, it was decided.

The hunt was on.

It had all exploded 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 a little surprised 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, failed him this time, costing him precious seconds in which he could have raised more of an alarm. Or so he castigated himself, 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 down another with a lethal chop to the throat, kicking out desperately 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 head blows and fists held back behind him, 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 what felt like a van, managing to land only one more vicious kick before something hard bashed into the side of his skull and he sunk unwillingly into darkness.

When the light came back, it brought throbbing pain with it. Bile surged in his throat and 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 at the 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 was preferable. At least then he wouldn't see the bullet coming.

A tall, swarthy man in the ratty blue jeans and worn sweatshirt was pointing a Walther at his head. Cade took a shallow breath, the best he could manage in the curled up position he found himself in, and stared at 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 short order at him. He immediately eased off the trigger, looking down at his captive 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 until he could see what was happening behind him. 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, and quite thoroughly at that. Opposite from the chair sat a videocamera on a tripod, and a harsh light 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 rapped out a question, and his head fell forward for a moment before he straightened his neck. The effort to sit proudly showed in the white tension of his face, but the calm dignity there 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 spray 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 at Cade's head, and the Chief found himself unable to look away from the end of the barrel, which suddenly looked three inches across. The rough voice queried the man behind him, 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 other man 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 spin again.

"Hello, Mister Doyle."

Bad had just gone from worse to worst.

"My name is Alan Cade," he managed to push out past constricted throat muscles. "I'm the Chief Constable of Eastlan-"

Before he could finish the sentence, the terrorist 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 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 dropped his face toward his captive, staring into the defiant green 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, 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 may be a doppelganger for a dead man. In which case, Chief Constable Cade, I have no use for you, and I will allow Antonio here to put a bullet in your head." Staring up into the black ice above him, Cade believed every word. "If, however, you happen to be one ex-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 us, 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. Emerald eyes met hazy gray for what felt like eons, but could only have been a few moments. Finally, Cade lowered his eyes 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 unhoped for pleasure. It is going to be 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 for his own purposes, and 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 daze he had fallen into as his head bounced against the side window. He forced himself to try to stay alert. His chances for escape were slim to none, but his chance of survival if he stayed with Hofnan were 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 'locals' to listen to him. Stopping just long enough to pick up extra ammunition for his gun and all the free 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 desk clerk'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, 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 keeping 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 many times 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 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. He'd seen a link like that once before, 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 going on here.

As he watched, an errant memory rose to the surface. In the bush in Angola, watching a tribe of Ovimbundu prepare for a battle. Two men, 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 who could do things no 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 power, he was more than willing to sit back and let him.

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. 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 wrist. As the older man disappeared around the back, 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 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, covered with dark blood. There was no other indication of anyone inside, and 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 had once been his employer. Blair stood back slightly from the crime scene, looking faintly ill, and kept his eyes glued to 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.

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. "But something's missing."

"Yeah," Blair responded, staring at the corpse in sick fascination. "Half his head."

"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.

"Well, he's not dead. At least, he wasn't killed here," the detective finally said.

"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 nearly 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 had a somewhat harder time tearing his eyes from the bloody mess that had once been a man, 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 sleep. And we need to figure out why this one man is so important." 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 to the present, and he took a deep breath. "Yeah, maybe, I don't know." Awareness of how disconnected he was getting took him aback. "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. "We have to call it in."

"Yeah, but Jim," protested Blair, "if we do then we'll be sitting here answering questions for the next three days instead of getting the bad guys, man!"

"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 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 could handle it. 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, Jim reluctantly agreed.

A phone call to 911 from the car as they left to find a motel, and the judge was covered.

The car jolted across a gravel road and pulled to a stop in front of what looked to be a summer cabin of some sort. Details were difficult to make out in the early morning light, but the sense of isolation from civilization -- with its hope of rescue, fading rapidly -- made a shiver run down Doyle's spine. Antonio turned off the ignition and, looking for guidance 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 side door. The jamb broke cleanly. Doyle lost his view then 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 shoulder. With his arms tied behind his back 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.

Doyle's luck was running evenly that night -- bad all the way through. 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. Hofnan actually laughed aloud when he saw it. Complimenting Antonio on his excellent 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, Antonio casually batted the back of his head against the wooden floor, hard, stunning him again.

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. Grasping at the rope, trying to get leverage, he was soundly cuffed again. 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 slowed their 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.

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 asked him, in broken German, for his payment. 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 small caliber pistol from a belt holster and shot him, cleanly, through the back of the head. As the large body fell to the floor, Hofnan gave it a disinterested look, shoving it aside and walking further into the room, eyes intent on his hostage. Doyle forced himself to meet those cold gray eyes again, and then wished 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. The finely tailored suit jacket fell away, making a clunking noise as it impacted with the floor. Intent on his task, Hofnan didn't hear it, and Doyle drew a 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 if he was alive to reap the benefits. At the moment, that was not a particularly hopeful prospect.

The first cut took his breath away. It curved along the edge of his rib, over the fresh bruises, and at first he didn't feel it through the other, deeper pain. 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. The fourth blazed over his shoulder to his back, as his tormentor moved slowly around him. The fifth scored across the midpoint of his spine. The sixth cut across the tops of his buttocks. 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.

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 left thigh. 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 was unprepared for the first blow.

It felt like some sort of leather strap. The first lancing pain of contact was across his shoulder blades, and he arched away from it, feeling the blood drip stickily from the cuts in that area. With greater rapidity, the blows began again, crisscrossing his back, buttocks and thighs with careful precision. When the strap lashed across the backs of his knees, the scream that had been clawing at his chest ripped free. It acted as a catalyst for the terrorist, who speeded up the blows until the sound of leather slapping against flesh was nearly constant, 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 managed to pull himself somewhat upright, taking some of the strain off his wrists. Then he froze.

The fingers were back, tracing the welts now, painting them with blood. 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 the rest. You should have killed us all."

"I tried." He almost didn't recognize his own voice in the rasp that answered. Then he wondered when he'd lost his sanity, to be baiting the mad bastard like this. The fingers tightened further, 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 even find the wind to protest. 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 much as he was able, trying desperately 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 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.

He was laughing.

Doyle lost his breath as the hard face came down to meet his own, lips forcing his mouth open, a thick tongue forcing its way past his teeth. Suddenly he aware that he was unable to breathe for the tears running down his face, his nose clogged, his throat filled with his enemy's tongue. He felt liquid running down the inside of his thigh, and he began a gasping cry, small uncontrollable hiccoughs of fear and anger 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 pass out. 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.

"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 mutely at him. The terrorist yanked him 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 back of the knife was a cold point 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 contact allowed, eight years of hell with no Bodie, but thankfully the only sound that rent the air was an incoherent muttering.

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, and he screamed again as a rough hand clutched at his cleft, forcefully parting him. 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 thankfully lost consciousness, 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 was back on schedule. The air was buzzing with gossip, rumors, theories and ideas when the word filtered down 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 cel phone, 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. After a warning of the disturbing 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 the words, and the translator stumbled in turn, but the gist of the statement was that Cimbrone was 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 from 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 the reason 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 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.

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 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, 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 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.