Title: A Sentinel Takes A Guide
Author/pseudonym: alyjude
Rating: NC17
Pairings: J/B
Category: Drama, first time
Date: July 29, 2001
Email: alyjude@webtv.net

Disclaimer: Actually, I'm making a *fortune* out of these guys. I rent
them out, including the lube and condoms and for an additional fee, add
quite a few *toys*. But for writing about them? Nah, not a penny. Who's
turn is it to rent them, btw?

Notes: Thank you to the alyjude team of betas: Greenwoman, melvin and
Lisa. They're the best pit crew in the business! And only they know how
hard a job that really is, well, actually, everyone knows. But they make
it seem easy so my eternal thanks.

I also have to say that this story is one of the many *Brackett returns
as a sentinel and steals Jim's guide* stories. For more information and
spoilers, please scroll down below the Summary and Warnings, past the
*Spoiler Space* and read the real warnings and further notes.

Warnings: h/c, angst, Blair owwies. Scroll past the Spoiler Space for
very important warnings if you need to be spoiled. Otherwise, delete
after Summary.

Summary: Wherein Lee Brackett escapes and finds that Jim Ellison has
something Lee  needs. In addition, Jim does some honest talking and
Blair is forced to reveal past secrets.


S
P
O
I
L
E
R
S
P
A
C
E
S
P
O
I
L
E
R
S
P
A
C
E

CAVEAT: Yeah, this has been done and by quite a few better than I.
Wanna read a real good one, go to Brenda Antrim and her Distortion
::sigh::. And I must also mention Kathleen's Rough Trade. It's hard to
do a Brackett/Sentinel story that doesn't share similar traits when so
many of us saw much of the same things in Rogue. Here's my humble
attempt. I love Brackett and saw almost as many good things in him as
bad, but ultimately found that he could not be redeemed.
WARNINGS: Non-consensual sex, rape (but off-screen and only later
discussed), and discussion of child molestation. Yes, past Blairsecrets
are revealed. Also death of a guest star. Guess who?

A Sentinel Takes A Guide
by alyjude

The man had been planning for eight weeks. Amid blinding headaches, skin rashes, and emotional highs and lows that would leave a normal person in a straight jacket, he'd plotted.

He'd listened over and over again to each beep of the alarm system, to every conversation, every footfall. His first orchestrated food strike occurred two weeks into his plans, with another two weeks later, and the last one two weeks ago. They were now expected and ignored.

Today, the first day of the fourth food strike, he made his move. He screamed and fell to the ground, limbs jerking spasmodically as he gripped his head with both hands and begged for mercy.

Carstairs came to the door, slid open the window and peered inside. There was protocol for this and as expected, this particular guard failed to follow it. He unlocked the door, swung it wide and stepped in.

It was over in seconds. Carstairs, now dressed in the prisoner's gray uniform, lay dead on the bunk as busy hands plumped up the pillows, turned the body on its side and covered it. Lee Brackett pocketed the key card that would serve as his ticket out of the top secret, maximum security prison just outside of Washington D.C. and wearing the guard's uniform, cap pulled low and Carstair's forever-worn sunglasses in place, he walked out, closed the cell door, locked it and proceeded slowly down the hall as if he hadn't a care in the world.

At the double doors that would release him from the ward called solitary, he inserted the card and punched in the numbers he'd been able to reconstruct from listening to the daily beeps as guards would come and go. The green light shone brightly and the doors slid open.

The rest of his escape went just as smoothly.

Walking to the lockers, he changed into Carstairs' street clothes (a tight fit, but doable), took the man's wallet and belongings, and ten minutes later he was striding through the underground garage toward a black Mustang.

At eleven pm on Friday, June 5, 2001, Sargeant Carstairs was seen leaving the prison following his shift, about to begin a two-week vacation. The man at the front gate waved him out, recognizing the ID badge as it was pressed against the window, coincidently obscuring the man's face from view.

The Mustang made a left onto the open highway and sped up.

The plan that had been eight weeks in the making was just - beginning.

Blair shuffled down the hall, waving as students and other T.A's called out his name or waved in return. He moved slowly, not particularly anxious to get where he was going, namely home. It had been a long week at Rainier, with an even longer week at the station and the nights at home, nights that should have been full of relaxing banter between two friends, were now filled with prolonged and awkward silences.

He walked out the doors of Hargrove Hall, down the steps, and in trying to ignore the fountain, he ducked his head and moved hurriedly on.

Blair jogged to his car, opened the door, threw his stuff into the passenger seat, sat down, pulled the door shut, but didn't immediately start the vehicle. Behind him, the university. Before him - home. Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place.

Not that things weren't getting - better, they were, at least in the shallow end of the pool, the only place either he or Jim would be caught dead. Blair gave a dry chuckle at that thought. Dead. Caught dead. Ha, ha. But hey, at least he and Jim were joking again, and to some, it probably appeared that their friendship was on the mend. And perhaps it was; but only in the busy busy-ness of the day.

Once home, both fell uncharacteristically silent. Perhaps a little discussion about dinner, or what to watch, but other than that... no real communication. After an hour of Jim's silence and his own inability to talk, Blair would usually end up behind closed French doors and each time that he'd finally rise and say, "Well, guess I'll head to my room," he'd be painfully aware of the almost visible relief of his partner.

No, he was not looking forward to another night of -- nothing.

Blair started the car and pulled out of the parking lot. He drove home, failed to pass go, failed to collect his two hundred dollars.

Sandburg, stake-out tonight with Conner thanks to Rafe and the flu. Don't expect me much before dawn. There's some of that Indian lamb dish you like in the fridge, I picked it up at lunch for you. See you tomorrow.

The relief at Jim's message gave Sandburg a sudden clarity regarding Jim's relief when Blair would go to his room. Sighing, he erased the message and faced the kitchen.

So Jim was on stake-out. Well, okay then.

Blair put his stuff away, changed into old jeans and pulled a ratty blue sweater on over his undershirt, kicked off his shoes and wearing only socks, walked back to the kitchen and checked out the lamb. The cashew almond sauce, ripe with sliced lamb and saffron-infused Basmati rice beckoned and he took out the carton, emptied the contents into a bowl and popped it into the microwave. Three minutes later he grabbed a beer and the bowl and sat down to eat.

Munching happily, he smiled at the idea that Jim had done this for him. Nothing like that had happened since....

Best leave that train of thought alone on its track.

When he was done, he washed, dried and put everything away, grabbed another beer and headed into the living room where he picked up the TV Guide, perused the possibilities and decided on a Soccer game.

What a terrific Wednesday evening.

"Let me guess. You're wishing I were Sandy, right?"

"Conner, give it a rest."

"Well, you're not gonna deny it, are you?"

"Frankly, Conner, I'm wishing I were alone. Happy now?"

"Whew. Okay. At least you're being honest."

Megan Conner turned in her seat and faced front, eyes trained on the apartment building they were parked across from on Fifth Street.

"So, do you think she'll show?"

"No."

Megan rolled her eyes and huffed a bit. "My, we are verbal tonight, aren't we?"

"Conner, right now I'm ready to make a pact with the devil himself to be on this stake-out alone."

Glancing at the detective from out the corner of her eye, Megan frowned. Jim was being a real prick.

"You know, you're being a real prick, Ellison."

"Thank you, Conner."

"You do wish Sandy were here. You do."

Jim gave an exaggerated sigh and turned his full sentinel attention to the third floor, second balcony from the left. They were watching the apartment of John Sturgis, a man suspected of killing his wife because he was in love with another woman. Right now, Jim and Conner were hoping that the other woman would show, would confirm their suspicions. Jim was also wishing, fervently wishing, that Sandburg were seated beside him. But he'd be damned if he'd admit it to Conner. He barely admitted it to himself.

And why was that?

A light went on in the watched apartment and at the same time, a forest green PT Cruiser pulled up in front of the apartment building.

"Is that her, Jim?"

"Yep. Whadya know."

The loft was almost in complete darkness. Only the flickering of the television screen provided any illumination. Blair was sound asleep, curled on his side, the drone of the eleven o'clock news keeping him company. Until the knocking on the front door.

Blair shifted and groaned, but didn't awaken.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

Blair's eyes popped open. He blinked a couple of times, then recognized the noise. Sitting up, he swung his legs over, rose, checked the time on the VCR and shook his head somewhat disgustedly as the knocking came for the third time.

"All right, all right, I'm coming, I'm coming. I can't believe you forgot your keys again, Jim. Twice in one month?"

As Blair gently berated, he moved to the door, scratching his back, then running his hand through his hair. He yawned, turned the lock and opened the door.

"Jim, man, I can't believe...."

A fist connected with his jaw and he would have dropped like a stone if the man who'd hit him hadn't grabbed the blue sweater and pulled while at the same time bending at the waist.

Blair's body dropped over Lee Brackett's shoulder. Brackett rose and walked easily over to the couch where he lowered the inert body.

"Well, that was easy," he said quietly.

As Brackett gazed down at the unconscious man, he removed a packet from his jacket pocket. From the plastic bag, he took a vial and a syringe, filled the syringe, tapped it, squirted a small amount, then without any further preamble, stuck the needle in Blair's neck. When the plunger reached the end, he withdrew the needle, placed it and the vial back in the baggie and returned it to his pocket. After patting the man on the head, he walked into Blair's bedroom.

Lee stepped the few paces to the closet, took down a couple of shirts, a warm jacket, and from the floor he picked up Blair's old duffel bag. He set the bag on the bed, stuffed it, added a couple pairs of jeans, some socks and underwear, then zipped it up. He opened the fire escape door and used the duffel bag to prop it open, then walked back into the living room.

"Okay, Mr. Sandburg, time to go. Say good-bye to your old world. Oh, wait, you can't, you're unconscious. Allow me."

He turned to face the upstairs bedroom and bending at the waist, arm sweeping into his chest, Brackett said, "Good-bye, Detective Ellison and thanks - for nothing!"

Grinning from ear to ear, Lee Brackett turned back to the couch, lifted Sandburg to his feet and once again allowed the body to drop over his shoulder. He headed to the bedroom and the open door.

As he left number 307, 852 Prospect Avenue, he laughed softly.

A kaleidoscope of colors, some pain and a mouth of cotton all worked together to convince Sandburg to close his eyes again. But he ignored it all and tried to focus.

"Finally awake, are we, Mr. Sandburg?"

Blair clenched his jaw and just on the off chance that he wasn't bound, he tried to move his hands. He was bound. What a surprise. He squinted in the direction of the voice - of that voice and tried to speak.

"wha'...."

"God, please tell me you're not trying to say what happened? Tell me that a man of your intelligence can come up with something more original?"

"eat... shit - an' die?" He managed to hiss out.

Brackett chortled at that and Blair felt something give next to him and correctly ascertained that he was on a bed, arms raised over his head, wrists tied together and bound to something behind him, maybe a headboard. He also realized that what had given had been the mattress as Brackett sat down beside him.

"Very good, Mr. Sandburg. Although, given our current circumstances, I think I can call you Blair. How are you feeling?"

"wha' did you... give... me?"

Lee ran a finger gently over Blair's right cheek, just under his eye, and said with some amusement, "You mean besides a possible black eye? And I'm proud of you, you didn't pull away when I touched you. You're full of surprises, Blair. And don't worry about what I gave you - it was just a sedative. I needed you to stay out of things for awhile."

"so, i'm... not in kansas anymore, i take it?"

"Where you are is of no concern to you, Blair."

Blair's vision was starting to straighten out and he could now clearly see the man next to him. Brackett didn't look much different, if slightly thinner. His hair seemed a bit longer too, but otherwise, the same arrogant man that he and Jim had met two years earlier gazed down at him. He shifted his gaze away and took in the room in which he was a prisoner.

A bedroom. Just a nice, ordinary bedroom. Curtains on the window, shades pulled down. Nice, striped wallpaper in blue and tan, a Shaker dresser and nightstand, some rather attractive artwork on the walls, a book shelf piled with some impressive titles and in the corner, by the lower window opposite the bed, a nice reading chair. Not his typical prison. How refreshing.

"You like the room?" Brackett asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"different."

"Imagine so. But hey, your comfort means a great deal to me. You're resting on a Posturpedic mattress. Only the best for you, Blair."

Sandburg rolled his eyes dramatically, then in a voice gaining strength with every passing moment, asked, "And you've kidnapped me, why? No, let me guess. I'm the bait, right?"

"And why would I use you as bait?"

"God only knows and trust me when I say that it would certainly be a mistake, I can tell you that much. I suppose you want Jim to use his senses in order to make you a very rich man, or better still, to help you take over the world as we know it?"

"Oh, please, Blair. I'm not some meglomaniac, you know. And trust me when I say that I don't need Jim Ellison and his senses."

Blair frowned and his eyes narrowed as he looked at the man's face, trying to study the expression in order to understand, but then he had to shift his body away as Brackett raised a hand and dropped it on Blair's chest.

"Do you have any idea, Blair, how complicated the process of taking blood into the heart and then pumping it back out is? Did you know that Ellison, if he chose to do so, could actually feel that process?"

A black dread spread through Blair's body as the words, the hand on his chest and the expression of satisfaction in Brackett's eyes told him the horrible truth.

"You've figured it out already, haven't you?" Blair said nothing.

"Of course you have. I can feel your heart working now, I can feel it speed up with fear and truth. Do you realize that you even smell different right now? And your pupils just dilated and you've started to sweat. You can't begin to fathom everything your body is doing right now, but I know. I know it all."

Blair swallowed the lump in his throat and had the hysterical thought that maybe Brackett could analyze the lump for the sake of posterity? So in the future, authors could write, 'the frightened man swallowed the chunk of viscous material made up of...'

Then again, maybe not.

He tried to relax, tried to calm his heart, slow it down and he could see the smile spreading across Brackett's face and he understood that the bastard knew exactly what he was doing....

"Poor Blair. So where does that leave you, eh? If I don't need Ellison, than why are you here?"

"Vengeance. Petty vengeance. You need to get back at the man who put you in jail. Poor Brackett."

The smile changed and Blair felt his skin crawl and his blood turn to ice. It wasn't a nice smile.

"I'm going to leave you with your thoughts for a few hours, I've some last minute plans to firm up, but then I'll be back and we can ... talk ... a bit more and won't that be nice? You stay put, you hear?"

With that, he rose and without a backward glance, left, closing the door behind him.

God damn it to hell.

Blair threw out a few fucks, shits, and exasperated damn's before settling down and trying to escape.

He tugged at the ropes that held him, craned his head to see the headboard and discovered that the rope was threaded through a ring that had been imbedded into the wall above the headboard. This wasn't good. On the other hand....

He twisted, turned, pulled, and wiggled, all in a vain attempt to move the ring through the plaster. It didn't budge. Which meant....

"It's a stud, Blair. Don't bother trying anymore, you'll just hurt yourself."

Blair looked at the closed door and mumbled, "fuck you, asshole."

His answer? Laughter from the other side.

Jim climbed the stairs to the third floor, concentrating hard on each step. He was tired, they'd failed tonight and amid curses aimed at the Mayor, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys. As he hit the third floor landing, he paused....

Something - wrong. He focused and immediately discovered what was off kitler - no heartbeat. No Sandburg.

But that was impossible. The Volvo was downstairs and....

He hurried forward, got the door open and his gun out. Entering carefully, he found nothing amiss but he also found - nothing.

Putting his gun away and smirking at his caution, he began to investigate. All the signs said that Blair had been here and less than three hours ago. Warmth still hovered over the couch and from the way it was spread out, Blair had been asleep. A beer bottle sat on the coffee table, half empty. The set was off, but the remote and TV Guide were next to each other.

Jim could smell Indian food, knew without a doubt that Blair had eaten it. But he walked to the kitchen and checked under the sink just to be sure. Yep, the empty carton sat in the trash. Jim opened the cupboard and was able to identify the bowl Blair had used, cleaned and put away. Worry gnawing at his gut, he moved to the French doors.

Inside Blair's room, all seemed normal ... except... walking quickly to the door, he opened it. His hand connected with the door frame and he froze.

Small, nearly invisible splinters of wood held a few strands of Blair's hair. His hair had brushed past this point....

But not standing up. That would have been impossible. Jim closed his eyes and tried to envision the circumstances that would have allowed Blair's hair to connect and catch....

Dangling. Fireman's carry.

Blair had been carried out of his home.

Panic flared, fed by facts. Jim whirled around and started for the phone, but at the last minute, held back. No, he wasn't done. He needed more. For Blair's sake, he needed to concentrate, discover everything he could. Bringing forth every technique Blair had taught him in the last three years, Jim closed his eyes and focused....

Smell.

Blair. His TIGI shampoo, the odors of saffron, spices, all mingling with Blair's natural scent. But - no fear. There wasn't a trace of fear in the whole loft. But there was... something else.

Jim moved back to the living room and paused near the couch. He closed his eyes again and inhaled sharply. Cocked his head, frowned, inhaled again.

Something... medicinal? And... blood? Pale, ice blue eyes flew open and sentinel vision took in the couch....

There, on the edge... a minute trace of blood and something else... he touched it, rubbed, brought his finger to his nose, sniffed, then tasted. A sedative? Blair had been injected with a sedative?

He moved quickly to the front door, inspected it, found absolutely no trace of forced entry. Blair had opened the door to someone. And there was absolutely no odor of the person anywhere in his home. How was that possible? Moving on, Jim checked the floor and found scuff marks that didn't belong to him or Blair. He followed them to the couch, then to Blair's room, back out, then finally back and out the fire escape door. He couldn't fail to note that at times, the scuff marks were deeper - as if carrying a weight. As if carrying - Blair.

He spent a few more minutes investigating, discovered that some of Blair's clothes were missing, and his duffle bag. Strangley calm, Jim walked to the phone and called Simon.

The phone rang and on the second ring, Simon picked up.

//Banks//

"Simon, someone has taken Blair."

For all of Lee Brackett's careful machinations, there were some things that were totally out of his control. Like the man who'd be placed on Carstairs' shift while the man was out on his two week vacation. There was no way that Brackett could have foreseen a guard with a heart. There was no way that he could have known that after two days of delivering food to the man known as prisoner J11383 and then picking up said food untouched, that the man would open the cell door and try to get the prisoner to eat.

Jack Kelso rolled into his office on Thursday morning and after turning on the lights and powering up his computer, he poured himself a cup of coffee from the automatic, timer-set coffee maker in the corner. Adding cream and then two spoonfuls of sugar, he took a healthy swig, then rolled to his desk.

He was knee-deep into writing another book, so his first order of business was to bring up the current chapter. As it was loading, his computer pinged, letting him know he had new mail. He opened up the Outlook screen, moved the cursor to the mailbox, and surprised at the addy, read the single sentence.

' The snake is loose '

The single message sent fear lancing through his heart. He quickly picked up the phone.

Fifteen minutes and three calls later, he had all the answers he needed and now had one more call to make - to Captain Simon Banks, Major Crime. He prayed he wasn't too late.

Simon watched his best man closely. Jim was seated at the table, a cup of now cold coffee in front of him. He appeared calm. He was listening. He wasn't fooling any one.

When he'd received Jim's phone call last night, it had taken Simon sixteen minutes to get to 852 Prospect. It had taken Forensics three minutes longer and Joel Taggert had pulled up less than four seconds after Simon. Inside number 307, they'd found a quiet, pacing Jim Ellison. The man had taken them through his investigations, ignoring the fact that much of what he had to contribute couldn't possibly have been discovered by a normal person. But then Serena Chang was used to Detective Ellison and his abilities. So was Joel, who'd long ago given up any idea that some book was responsible for the many amazing things Ellison seemed able to do.

Still, for the sake of evidence holding up in court, Serena and her crew had done their thing; scraped door frames, scanned and scraped the couch, tested the floors, and used every piece of special equipment at their disposal. Their conclusions? The same as Detective Ellison's.

No one was surprised.

Now Joel, Conner, Henri Brown, Serena, Jim and Simon sat around the table discussing their next move while Jim maintained all semblance of sanity and order.

"Conner, what did the investigation of all Jim's cases and arrests yield?" Simon asked, hoping for the magic words, "I think we've found something." He was immediately disappointed.

"So far, Captain, nothing. Everyone who could have done this is either still behind bars or dead. And we went back over five years."

"Serena, your people come up with anything new?"

Glancing worriedly at Ellison, Serena shook her head and as Joel put his arm reassuringly on hers, she said softly, "I'm afraid not, sir."

"Brown, what about the neighbors? How are those interviews going?"

"We've talked with everyone in the building and no one saw or heard anything unusual. Mrs. Dobbins on two said she saw Blair come home, they spoke briefly on the stairs and she commented that other than looking tired, Sandburg was his usual helpful self."

He too shot a glance over at Ellison before continuing.

"We've interviewed the businesses around the loft, those that were open late and again, no one spotted anything. However, Mr. Montez, the owner of the Mexican bakery next door, did say that from about ten to midnight, he'd noticed a guy named Reggie loitering around the alley that runs between his building and Jim's. But so far, we've been unable to find him."

"He's a homeless guy that Sandburg befriended a few weeks ago. Try St. Lawrences on Lucas." Everyone glanced over at Jim, who'd spoken his first words since the meeting had begun. Simon, one eye on Jim, said, "Brown, follow up on that."

Henri excused himself and hurried out.

Finally Conner said quietly, "Maybe our first real break, if this guy saw anything."

At that moment, Rhonda stuck her head in and announced, "Simon, important phone call. It's Mr. Kelso, from the University."

Face a study in puzzlement, Simon got up, followed by Jim.

"Sir, if it's Jack, I'm betting this is about Blair." Nodding his agreement, Simon picked up the phone and punched the blinking light.

"Banks here."

//Captain, Jack Kelso. I have some disturbing news//

"Go ahead."

//Sir, if I may, has anything unusual occurred in the last few days?//

Simon glanced up at Jim, who nodded.

"Yes. Blair is missing. He was abducted last night."

Simon could hear the hiss from the other end of the phone, followed by a sound much like a hand would make as it slammed down on something hard - like a desk.

//Damn it. I'm too late//

"Jack, what's going on? What do you know?"

//Brackett escaped last Friday, Captain Banks//

Simon shot to his feet as he exclaimed, "That's impossible!"

//I'm afraid not. My sources are very sure of their information. He left a dead guard in his bunk. From everything I've been able to gather, his disappearance wouldn't have been noticed for up to two weeks if not for a sympathetic guard//

"Explain."

//It seems Brackett has been staging hunger strikes every two weeks. He started another one on Friday. Carstairs, the dead guard, was, coincidentally, supposed to begin a two week vacation right after his shift. I think you see where I'm going with this?//

"Damn. He did have it well planned. But still, he must have had inside help. Getting to the guard is one thing, but getting out of a top secret prison is something else again."

//Everything we have says he had no inside help, which tells me something even stranger is going on//

There was a pause and then....

//I'm not stupid, Captain and I've known Blair Sandburg for quite awhile. I also know his dissertation subject and I know Lee Brackett's job duties when Jim Ellison was rescued in Peru. Do I have to say more?//

Simon glanced up and caught Jim's eye. Again, the man nodded. "You may not need to say more to me, but would you hold on a moment?"

//Of course//

Simon punched the red hold button and announced, "Everyone, take a break. We'll resume in fifteen."

The room emptied quickly, with everyone but Jim piling out. As soon as the door closed behind Conner, Simon handed the phone to Jim. When he reconnected, Jim spoke.

"Jack, it's Ellison."

//Jim, I'm so sorry I didn't hear earlier//

"I understand. Tell me what you weren't saying to Simon."

//I think that you and Brackett suddenly have a great deal more in common than your shared backgrounds in Covert Ops, Jim. Do I need to spell it out?//

"You're saying he used our... common interests to get out of prison?"

//Exactly//

Jim's hand clenched the phone and for a minute, Simon feared for the safety of the invention. Then fingers relaxed and Jim spoke again.

"Jack, I need your help. I have to have everything on Lee Brackett that you've never been able to come up with before. I need the man's entire history. Where he was born, raised, what schools he attended, his first girl friend, you name it, I need it and I need it - yesterday. Can you do it?"

//Between favors I can call in and favors you could call, yeah, I suspect I can. Give me twenty-four hours and a few names. Can do?//

"You got it. We'll meet at your office this time tomorrow."

//That works//

Jim gave the man a few surprisingly powerful names and before they hung up, Jack added one more thing.

//Jim, he really is a rogue this time. They're after him. They'll shoot and ask questions later// "I understand. Guess we'll have to find him first."

As Jim hung up, he wondered why, if indeed Brackett was now a sentinel, why he hadn't sensed the man.

Simon, seeing the strange expression on his detective's face, asked, "Jim, what?"

Staring at nothing, Jim answered, "Why didn't I sense him, Simon? Like I sensed Alex?"

"Who says you didn't?"

Blinking as if trying to focus, Jim shook his head and said, "What?"

"Who says you didn't? You've been quiet, withdrawn, barely exchanging two words, and I couldn't help but notice that you haven't let anyone physically closer to you than a couple of feet. I chalked it up to everything that's happened since... well, you know. But maybe...."

"Yeah... maybe."

In spite of Brackett's words, Blair continued to try to pull free. By the time Brackett returned, Blair's wrists were bruised and chaffed.

"Tsk, tsk, Blair. Of course, I'm not surprised. But really, now look at your wrists."

Brackett sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out a finger to touch Blair's right wrist. He ignored the hiss of pain and proceeded to do something surprising... he ran his finger down the length of the arm.

Blair watched, almost fascinated, as the finger traveled down, and further down. What the hell was going on?

"What are you up to, Brackett? What do you want? What kind of game are you playing with Jim?"

Brackett, his eyes on the tense arm, just smiled. He rose suddenly and walked to the dresser. He opened a drawer and took out a small box, then carried it over to the nightstand where he set it down.

"You're smart, Blair. Surely you figured it out by now? This isn't about Ellison. He has nothing to do with this. This is about you --- and me, Blair. I need you to do everything for me, that you've done for him. It's that simple."

Blair looked at the man suspiciously. This wasn't about Jim? Yeah, right.

"So you think I'll help you? Is that it? You think you're a sentinel? Like Jim?"

"Blair, I don't think anything. I know. I am a sentinel. All five heightened senses. And I need you. You should be flattered. Two sentinels, but only one, what did I call you? Oh, yes, guide. Only one Guide. And poor Jim. Because I have you."

Fingers closing into fists, Blair shook his head. "You are not a Sentinel. You may have heightened senses, even all five, but trust me, that doesn't make you a sentinel. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Use your Websters, Brackett. A sentinel is a guardian. A sentinel protects, a sentinel is good. And there is only ONE guardian and that happens to be Jim Ellison. You're just some psychopath with senses off the chart."

Brackett's eyes glittered dangerously as he studied the man below him. His jaw clenched but he fought down his anger. Fought it down because the man belonged to him and since taking him, his senses had been quietly settling down, if not completely working, and he hadn't had a headache in hours.

Finally calming, Brackett smiled stiffly. "I may indeed be a psycho, Blair, but I'm now your psycho. And you will help me."

"No way, man. As far as I'm concerned, you can go over the deep end and zone until you stop breathing."

Brackett just shook his head. "You really are a piece of work, Blair. But I'm going to have fun breaking you. Starting now."

The man opened the nightstand drawer and took out a large, gleaming knife and set it next to the box he'd put down earlier. He removed the lid and pulled out a brown vial and another syringe. He set both next to the knife.

"You think drugs are going to help you?"

"Eventually, yes."

Brackett picked up the knife, palmed it and held it to Blair's cheek. To his credit, Sandburg didn't even flinch.

"Scare tactics now? I'm disappointed in you, Brackett."

Grinning hugely, Brackett said, "No, not scare tactics, just simple need." With that, he quickly slit open Blair's blue sweater - right down the middle until it hung on either side of him.

"What the fuck...."

"Exactly, Blair. Exactly."

The torn sweater still left the undershirt. But as Blair stared at the man above him, he realized the white shirt would be no more of an obstacle than the sweater had been.

At that moment, Blair Sandburg realized that something very real was going to happen. That there would be no seventh inning stretch, no last minute save, no cavalry arriving to save him from the proverbial fate worse than death crap. No Jim.

The asshole with the sick grin and a mind that knew no wrong was actually going to touch him, to feel him and even....

"You never struck me as the same gender type of psycho, Brackett. Why don't you just get to the I'm gonna break you, Blair part and skip the sex and the attitude?"

The grin that split Brackett's face was broad and genuine.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I am a gay psycho sentinel."

He sat back down, reached out and slowly rolled up the white undershirt so that it was bunched just under Sandburg's armpits. As his eyes roamed freely, Brackett, in an almost conversational tone, said, "To tell the truth, I was attracted to you from the get-go, but that meeting was strictly business. This time, you are my business so I get to indulge in a few of the fantasies that kept me going in prison."

"Oh, great. So now you've seen my hairy chest, big fucking deal."

"You, Mr. Sandburg, have become quite - mouthy, haven't you? You barely spoke first time around and I only glimpsed a bit of anger on that bridge. Could two years really have made such a change in one man?"

"Evidently - or perhaps it's the current company?"

Brackett laughed out loud at that, but his eyes took on a dark edge that sent quivers of apprehension skimming up and down Sandburg's back. The hand that ended up on his abdomen only fueled the unease.

"You're trying so hard to be cool, Blair. But you're forgetting what I am now. I can see, feel," he paused and let the palm of his hand rub gently over the taut skin, then added, "and hear your fear, Blair. Your heart rate is skyrocketing and there are now small beads of sweat covering your upper lip. Among other places. Maybe it's time to taste your fear...."

Brackett leaned over and before Blair could move, hands captured his head and held it in place as the older man licked up a trickle of sweat that was crawling its way down the right side of Blair's face. When he was done, he met Blair's unwavering gaze, their faces so close that their noses almost touched. Almost unwittingly, Brackett's eyes were drawn to Blair's lips and he moved in closer....

"Stick anything in my mouth and you'll regret it, Brackett."

Brackett's blue eyes darkened at Blair's words, but the darkness had nothing to do with anger.

"I don't think so, Blair. I think I can put anything in that beautiful mouth of yours that I so desire and you'll have to take it. Because neither of us wants to see you hurt."

"You won't hurt me. You can't afford to. According to you, you need me too much."

Brackett's hands were still on either side of Blair's face but at the younger man's words, he lowered his right hand until it rested on Blair's throat. He positioned his thumb over the soft indentation....

"Blair, you forget. I can hurt you in ways...." he pressed his thumb in slowly....

Blair's eyes grew round as the pain and the pressure not only took his breath away, but he felt his world tilt and an overwhelming need to expel everything from his stomach took over his every thought. He couldn't move, couldn't twist his head away, he was paralyzed by whatever Brackett was doing. The only thing he could do was gag... over and over again....

Just when he thought his eyes would burst from the pressure and his stomach explode... Brackett released him. His body started bucking up as he tried to turn his head, to finally throw up even as his tortured lungs attempted to bring air in....

"You won't vomit, Blair. Not this time. But a few more seconds... you see?"

Brackett began to smooth Blair's hair back as a finger gently rubbed the small spot where he'd applied the pressure. Then without warning, his mouth fastened on Blair's.

He didn't have to force Blair's mouth open, the younger man was still gasping. He simply took advantage. The slight taste of acid surprised him, but he realized that it shouldn't have. Not after what he'd just put his new Guide through.... he ignored it and concentrated on other tastes....

Brackett thought he might actually drown. There was so much and he couldn't keep up with any of it, but he didn't want to either. Kissing had never met anything to him. It was a means to an end, but now, as a sentinel, God, the overwhelming sensuality of the act. The plunging of his tongue into Blair's mouth, matched by his body's movements against the man below him, and he thought, I could come from this....

He felt Blair stiffen, felt the younger man's jaw tighten and he grinned into the kiss even as he brought his thumb up and caressed that special spot on Sandburg's neck... and the body stopped fighting him.

Realizing how much more he had to experience, Brackett finally pulled away. But only a few inches. Eyes boring into Blair's, he said, "Good boy. I honestly don't want to hurt you any further."

Blair said nothing, but neither did he lower his cold, angry gaze. Brackett just grinned. Lee straightened and let his eyes roam over the body until he came to Blair's jeans.

"I think it's time to see all of you, Blair. I hope the temperature in the room is comfortable?"

When Blair didn't answer, Brackett moved his hand to the top of Blair's jeans and undid the button, then grabbed the zipper. He started to lower it and Blair spoke.

"Don't do this. I'm asking you."

Brackett's hand froze.

Then he continued.

When the zipper was down, he changed his position by moving to the end of the bed, then kneeling, his legs on either side of Blair's body. Brackett rested his hands on Blair's hips, his thumbs under the waistband of the jeans, stroking Blair's flesh beneath his shorts.

"Don't even think of trying to buck me off, or kicking, Blair. You won't like my method of retaliation."

Satisfied that Sandburg understood, he slipped his fingers under the material and gripped the flesh of Blair's ass, thumbs still rubbing over the hard bone of his hip.

"Nice," he murmured.

Sandburg shut his eyes and decided it might be time to recite every fucking African tribe he knew....

Alphabetically.

He tried to organize his brain, tried to think of nothing else, of all that he was about to lose and all that he'd never had as Brackett pulled his jeans and shorts down over his hips. He felt the cold air hit his groin and Brackett was still rolling his jeans down, over his knees then, and finally pulling them from his legs....

Maybe the African tribes backwards?

A hand traveled up his right leg and came to rest on his thigh. He opened his eyes to see Brackett on his knees above him, taking in his, for all intent and purposes, naked form. Anger stole over him. Intense, black anger. This man was not going to win. There was nothing of value that he could take. Nothing.

"All right, now you've seen a naked man. Wow."

Dark blue eyes, souless and fathomless, lifted to gaze at Blair. A grin split the man's face. The grin seemed - surreal.

"I've seen many naked men, Blair. And you're right, wow. But this time, it's different." Blair waited. But it took every ounce of strength he possessed to keep his gaze locked on Brackett's.

"This time, this particular naked man, and this," Brackett ran a finger down the length of the soft penis as it rested in its bed of curls, "dick belongs to me."

"Taking something doesn't make it yours. None of this means anything."

Blair's anger grew as he spat out more words.... "You're nothing, Brackett. You're not a sentinel, you believe in nothing, you feel nothing. And you'll feel even less when you're done here. There won't be any satisfaction, no sense of connecting, of belonging and you'll get nothing from me. Nothing."

The words might be just words, and Blair doubted that they would make a difference to Brackett, but Blair drew strength from them. Still, when Brackett's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched, Sandburg felt like crowing. He'd pierced the man.

Or just made him angrier.

Brackett lowered his hand and gripped Sandburg's balls as the nerve in his temple beat an angry rhythm against his skin. Slowly, he squeezed....

And squeezed tighter... and tighter still.

Until Blair cried out and tears streamed down his face.

As quickly as it had started, it was over.

Brackett's fingers opened and he sat back on his heels, his breaths coming harshly. After several minutes where the only sound came from Blair as he groaned, Brackett dropped forward and crawled up Blair's body until once again, his face was mere inches from Sandburg's.

"I'll take everything from you, Mr. Sandburg. Everything. And you'll feel all of it."

Rising in one swift movement, Brackett walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

A sob of rage and pain caught in Blair's throat as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Blair tried to remember if he'd ever hated anyone before. Hate as in wanting to physically destroy, to kill. The answer was yes, but the person had been himself. Not the same thing.

And he did hate Lee Brackett and he did want to destroy him.

He forced his body to relax in spite of his lack of clothing and he began to count slowly as he struggled to find his center, to conquer the pain. Escape would come. He'd find a way. Oh, there would be no rescue, he knew that. Brackett might not, but he did. Jim would do what he could, Blair didn't doubt that, but it would be as a cop, a good cop, not as a - friend. There would be no urgency, nothing like he'd felt when they'd gone to Peru for Simon and certainly nothing like - Alex.

No one would come for Blair Sandburg. No one would come because they needed to. And his mother, when she was told, well, there would be nothing she could do.

So. Up to him.

A small voice whispered from deep within....

//But he came when Lash took you. He broke rules to get to you//

That was then, this is now.

//But he hardly knew you then// He doesn't know me now.

//Trust him//

To do what?

//To find you//

To find him.

Jim Ellison, Sentinel of the Great City to find... him. Sandburg. Chief. Darwin. Conan. Blair.

//You've always trusted him. From the very beginning, without question//

But it was never a question of trust. Not his trust, anyway. Facts are facts and with nothing to go on....

//He's a sentinel//

Blair closed his eyes again. It was tiring arguing with himself and he was so good at it that the damn debate could go on forever.

No matter what, the bottom line was simple; he had to be stronger than Brackett.

"Terry, you owe me. Big. I need this."

//Jack, you're asking more than I can deliver//

"No, I'm not. I know what you're capable of retrieving and I need this."

Jack wheeled to the window as he held the phone between his shoulder and cheek. Once in place, overlooking the fountain, he grabbed the phone again.

"Terry, this is important. A young man, a good man, well, his life depends on this. An important life, Terry. Please."

//I can't. I'm sorry, Jack//

Kelso closed his eyes and counted to ten, then, "Terry, you wouldn't be on this phone right now, if not for me and I wouldn't be here if not for him."

There was a pause, then....

//He's the one?//

"Yes."

//I guess that means I owe him too//

"In a word, yes."

//How do I get the info to you?//

"You know exactly how, you're the expert. Channel it through. And Terry, after you send it, hide it. They'll be looking for it soon so I need you to bury it deep, you understand?"

//No amount of burying will....//

"I know, I just need you to buy us some time, to get to him first. No one has asked yet, have they?"

//No. Give me twenty. I'm gonna bounce it around a bit, take a nice, safe, circuitous route//

"I'm not going anywhere."

Simon Banks sat in his recliner in front of the television, a beer in his hand. He had no idea what he was watching. Instinctively he knew that tomorrow it would start - the search. He accepted that the information they desperately needed would be provided by Jack. And then, Jim would go.

Simon rose, walked into the kitchen, dumped the beer and stood gazing out his kitchen window onto his dark backyard. He could hear the memory of Henri Brown yelling at Sandburg to get his butt back to the barbecue and he could see the younger man's head shaking as he laughed at Brown and tossed the frisbee to Joel....

....he could visualize that moment, six weeks ago, the fountain, the - body and Jim running, followed closely by Conner and it was funny because all Simon could ever see after that memory, no matter how hard he tried, was the --- billowing jacket.

There had to be a reason for that, right? Just a - billowing jacket....

Simon knew how much his team meant to him, how every single man and woman in Major Crime was his family. But damn, Sandburg was different.

Simon leaned against the counter, his hands gripping the edge as he dropped his head and closed his eyes tight.

Like a son.

A son.

Jim would not go alone tomorrow. And Simon would not sleep tonight.

Brackett had taken one of theirs.

Had taken one of his.

Jim stood on the balcony, a beer in his hand. Frosty blue eyes took in his city, absently catalogued the sights and sounds and just as absently filed them away. He was, at least outwardly, calm. But inside, he was coiled like a spring.

Oddly enough, he felt none of the panic he usually experienced when Sandburg was in danger and he wondered about that. All day his mind had been a cold, logical machine instead of the mass of worry, manic thoughts and doom-laden self-generated prophecies that usually accompanied moments like these. And in the last three years, there'd been quite a few moments like these.

Maybe it was the cold anger. It coursed through him like mercury in a thermometer, quicksilver, fueling his body, readying it for what was to come. And he was angry. But the need to track, to find, and to take back was stronger than his hate and anger. Those needs tempered the anger, turning it cold and useful.

To take back.

What was - his.

A strange thought for him. One he didn't fully understand, although Sandburg could probably explain it, between bouts of raucous laughter. It was strange that there'd been all these weeks of adjusting, of trying to come back to where they'd been before Alex, weeks of internal battles, of trying to reclaim what he'd discovered in the Temple, and it had taken Brackett to bring it rushing back?

Jim slowly and deliberately downed the last of the beer. He considered going up to get some sleep before tomorrow, but discarded the idea. There would be no sleep for him tonight, just as he expected there was no sleep for Blair....

Lee Brackett stood stiffly in front of the large bay window and gazed out on the quiet residential street.

His father's home. In Cascade. Only twelve miles from 852 Prospect. The irony delighted him normally, but not now.

He was angry, red-hot anger that enveloped him, consumed him from within. And Sandburg, a twenty-nine year old anthropologist, had done it.

Lee Brackett had never once, in forty-two years, lost his temper. He had no temper to lose; at least that's what he'd always believed. But tonight - tonight, he'd lost it. Even now his anger interfered with his ability to think. Other than to admit that the young man in the bedroom upstairs was not the same man he'd met two years ago. That youngster had not been afraid to be afraid.

Brackett could still see him standing behind his, what, his guardian? And he could clearly hear his questioning of why he, a mere grad student, would be required to join them on the mission to steal the stealth plane.

Lee narrowed his eyes, put his finger against his temple and willed the encroaching headache to dissipate. So many headaches lately. Fuck, had Ellison put up with this kind of thing?

And he was - hard. And upstairs, Sandburg lay exposed.

Time to show the kid who was boss and who would win the war. Only one of them had the necessary equipment and experience. He turned from the window, walked past the dining room where sea charts were spread out over the large table, and headed upstairs to finish what he'd started earlier....

He lay with his eyes closed, but awake. Blair knew it was night as his prison was now completely dark, but sleep was virtually impossible. His mind was too full of his predicament to give in and rest, but he had managed to relax somewhat, once the pain had receded.

Footsteps just outside the door forced his eyes open and his body to tighten....

The darkness hid Brackett's features and the knife in his right hand. The same knife he'd used earlier to cut away Blair's sweater.

Blair strained to see past the pitch black of his room, but other than a dark shape moving toward him....

Brackett's face was expressionless, his eyes dark and unforgiving as he stared down at the young man, the darkness no barrier to his eyesight. Dispassionately he took in the naked body, the compactness of it, and realized that Sandburg had lost weight in the two years since their last meeting. He stared at the man's chest, at the brown hair covering the not very broad expanse and he'd been surprised about that. He'd always envisioned almost jet black hair on Blair's body. This was - better. The hair curled in on itself, but wasn't kinky or tight. It stretched across almost from shoulder to shoulder, then narrowed down to a fine, darker line that pointed the way to the soft penis. Slender thighs that had been stocky two years ago, now tensed as if their owner knew exactly where Brackett's gaze had come to rest.

Lee was also surprised by the amount of hair that covered the compact, muscular body, or should he say the lack thereof? He'd expected that a man with Blair's head of hair and heavy five o'clock shadow would be covered with more of the same, only darker. He wasn't. The hair on Sandburg's legs was light brown and downy soft, as was the hair on his arms.

Brackett placed the knife against the white shirt and cut through the material. Then he cut all four sleeves and pulled the sweater and shirt away, letting both drop to the floor.

There was now nothing between him and his guide. And nothing to stop him from doing what he'd come in to do.

He set the knife down, quickly stripped to skin, opened the drawer of the nightstand, took out the things he'd need and threw them onto the bed. Then he picked up the knife, rested it against Blair's throat and applied pressure. The blade cut into skin and Brackett could see the red as it popped up around the sharp, silver edge, but Blair said nothing. Lee applied a bit more pressure until he heard the gasp of pain. He removed the knife. Message received.

Brackett climbed onto the bed and straddled Blair's body, then placing the tip of the knife just under Blair's right eye, he again applied a small amount of pressure. This time, the gasp was more of a shocked no!. He set the knife down and released the right wrist cuff. Before Blair could realize what was happening, Brackett flipped him to his right, then over on his stomach. Blair's right arm was once again secured by the wrist cuff. The whole procedure had take only seconds and with Brackett straddling him, had succeeded in leaving Blair's body stretched out, his upper body raised above the mattress.

Lee placed his hands on Blair's shoulders, pushed down and raised himself up. Blair grunted beneath him, but said nothing. Brackett scooted himself down until he was resting over Blair's legs.

He started at the top, his eyes taking in the shoulders, the muscles trembling with the strain of his captivity and uncomfortable position, then moving down the back and again found himself surprised because Blair Sandburg was pale. He'd expected an almost olive tint to the youner man's skin, not this smooth, almost cream like whiteness. He felt his dick harden even further at the sight, at the complete vulnerability of the body.

His eyes finally came to rest on Sandburg's ass... round, high, clenched tight, skin rippling as his muscles tensed. It was time.

Blair's fists clenched as he felt Brackett move above and over him. He could feel the man's dick as Brackett moved down his body and he clenched his jaw as he lowered his head, forehead to pillow. He thought it strange that there were only three other incidences in his life where he'd felt this helpless... Lash, Alex, and....

He realized with a start that Brackett was at his feet, holding his legs down with his weight. He bit back a groan as the man's hands landed on his butt. He wanted to flood the night, inundate the dark room with words, biting, sarcastic words, but somehow, instinctively, he understood that saying nothing, making no sound, responding in no way, would be more powerful. As two thumbs pressed into him, Blair figured it was time for those African tribes - backwards.

Eyes closed tight, fists still clenched, Blair's mind supplied him with the first tribe....

Zulu.

Then the second....

Yoruba.

And....

Xhosa... no - Xesibe, then Xhosa.

Watusi....

Thembu... Tutsi

Oyo --- Ngoni....

Mukanda....

Jbo.

Mpondo.

Kabylia....

...alpha... beti... cal... ly.

Lamba.

Lozi.

BUBI....

Jack wheeled himself to the door and welcomed Detective Ellison. One look at the man's face and it was clear that he hadn't slept. "What do you have for us?"

Jack had been about to offer the detective some coffee, but at his terse words, he wisely decided the bottom line was a good place to go. He picked up a file and handed it to Jim.

"Everything you need is there. And my friend has buried the information so deep that when the CIA goes looking, as we're certain they will, it will take time. Time you need to find Blair."

Jim nodded as he opened the folder and began to read. Less than three paragraphs in, he froze, then his head jerked up to meet Kelso's concerned gaze.

"Have you read this?"

"Yes."

"None of this was in the file you gave us two years ago. This says that he grew up here. In Cascade."

"Apparently so. According to that information, Brackett's mother left her husband and took her son back East. She reverted to her maiden name, Brackett and even had Lee's name changed. As you read further, you'll discover that his father died a few weeks ago. The man's family was and is, quite wealthy. His estate still hasn't been settled."

Jim couldn't believe it. As he went back to reading, the parallels between him and Brackett were astounding. Hell, they'd even gone to the same schools, albeit Brackett a few years ahead of him. And the chances were good that his own father had been an acquaintance of Phillip Hemmings, Lee Brackett's father. Jim put himself in Brackett's shoes. And he knew where they were. Brackett would find it too enticing, too ironic to be holed up a few miles from Ellison and the entire Cascade Police Department. But he wouldn't be there long, he'd know that the CIA would eventually tumble....

"Thank you, Jack."

"You're heading over there, aren't you?"

"Yes. It would be just like him to hide in plain sight, so to speak."

Jack agreed and then said, "Find him, Jim. Bring him back."

Jim understood that Jack was talking about Blair, not Brackett.

"He's here, in Cascade, Simon."

//Give me the address, I'll send back-up//

"2314 Azalea Drive. And make the back-up silent, Simon."

Jim could hear his friend scribbling, then barking out an order to Joel. Then he heard the gasp.

//This address, Jim. It's what, two blocks from....//

"From my father's house, yes, I know, Simon. I'll be there in fifteen."

//The bastard//

Back-up in the form of Simon, Joel, Conner and Brown, arrived seconds behind Jim. They parked at the south end of the street and congregated by Simon's car.

"Jim? Anything?"

"Nothing. But if he's using...."

"Got it. So we go in slow and careful."

Slow and careful got them inside the empty house. It took them ten minutes to sweep the residence and confirm that Brackett and Sandburg were nowhere to be found.

Simon holstered his gun and turned to look at Ellison. They were standing in the upstairs hall, the others now downstairs.

"Jim?"

Ellison didn't answer. Instead, he turned and went into the bedroom behind him. Stepping inside, he ran his gaze quickly over the room, then moved to the frame that now held only a box spring.

"This is where Brackett had Blair."

"Do I need to ask how you know? There's no evidence that anyone has been in this home for weeks."

"Really? Then how do you explain how clean it is, Simon? No dust accumulation, no musty odor, how do you explain that?"

"I - guess I don't. So how do you know Blair was here?"

"I can smell him. Brackett tried hard to hide their odors - I think he used something with lemon juice and ammonia."

"Ammonia? Now, Jim, I know I'd smell that."

"He used just enough to interfere with my ability to smell."

"Then how can you tell Blair was here?"

Pale blue eyes turned to Simon and for a moment, both men stared at each other. Then Jim turned back to the bed.

"Oh. I see."

Jim ran his hand over the bed, keeping it a few inches above the mattress. Nothing. No residual heat. How had Brackett masked that? His gaze strayed to the head board and something....

"What's this?" Jim moved closer and leaned down to inspect the odd patch just above the headboard. He touched it with his finger....

"Wet. This was repaired, maybe, last night?" He dug his finger in and a small piece fell away, revealing a small hole.

"What, Jim? What does it mean? Is that a - bullet - hole?"

Focusing his vision, narrowing it down to the hole, he could see....

"No. A screw was in there, I can see how it dug into the plaster. Heavy duty, all the way into the stud."

"A screw? One screw? In the wall above the bed?"

"One large, heavy duty screw, something strong - to bind a man...."

"Shit."

"Brackett used a heavy tool to remove it, there's damage, a lot of damage. And - stress. There was strength...."

"Blair."

"Trying to get - loose."

"Do I want to know anything else?"

Jim straightened and something just out of reach teased his nostrils... and then he had it.

"The same odor, Simon. Brackett drugged him. And... something else, but the ammonia, I can't...." his eyes started to water, as he began to cough and sputter.

"Come on, Jim, let's get you out of here."

In the living room, Simon guided Jim to the couch and told Brown to get the man some water.

"What's wrong, Simon?" Taggert asked, his concern evident.

"He, there's ammonia in the air, he breathed it in...."

Taggert looked over at Conner, who in turn shrugged and smiled knowingly. Taggert just shook his head.

Brown brought back the water and Jim swallowed it all quickly. As he reached over to put the glass on the table, something caught his eye.

The table, no, the items on the table... had been moved. He could see where the bowl, the two art books, the phone and the glass swan had been shoved to one end, then put back. As if Brackett had spread something out over the surface?

Jim leaned forward and once again tried to narrow his vision....

He could see the indentations of - writing? As if a piece of paper had been on the table and Brackett had scribbled something... Jim reached out his hand and with one finger, traced over the indentation.

"Simon, write this down."

Frowning, but knowing better than to argue, he pulled out his notebook and pen and waited.

"S-l-i-p... 2...1." He glanced up and repeated, but this time, he put the letters together into a word. "Slip 21?"

"As in boat slip?" Simon asked incredulously.

Jim's eyebrows knitted together as he thought back to the folder Jack had given him... he snapped his fingers and stood quickly.

"The family, Brackett's father, had a boat, the Windsong. It was in the file Jack gave me."

"I don't suppose that file told you where the boat was moored, by any chance?" Simon asked.

"The Village Marina."

The Village Marina was a re-creation of a British sailing port, full of tourist shops and restaurants. But it was also a popular spot for the rich to house their boats. Slip 21 was right in the middle of everything - and empty.

The five detectives stood at the end of the slip, staring at the water and the space where the boat should have been.

"We're too late, he's gone," Simon said quietly.

"But today, this morning. No earlier. We get a description of the boat...."

"He had to file a, what do they call it? A route? Like a pilot, right?" Brown offered.

"I'm sure he did," Simon said, his eyes locked on Jim, who was staring sightlessly out over the water. "But it won't be real."

"I'm betting that it will. That's exactly what I'd do, turn in the real thing."

Everyone looked at Jim, then at each other.

Finally Conner said, "So, what are we waiting for?"

Blair came back to reality desperately needing to throw up. His head hurt, he had that cotton in the mouth feeling and knew that he'd been drugged - yet again. He wasn't surprised to find that his hands were tied above his head, but at least he was wearing clothes. He glanced down, groaned and immediately wished that he hadn't. The room spun and he quickly closed his eyes. After a few minutes, he tried again.

He was wearing jeans, his white Henley and he even had on socks. No shoes, but hey, socks were better than nothing.

The desire to toss his cookies wasn't abating but he didn't want to call out because as far as he could tell - he was alone. And he'd prefer to stay that way. He shifted and felt the - pain, the discomfort and he winced, then gasped as the need to vomit overruled everything else. He twisted to his left, tried to move as far as he could to his left, his head just hanging over the edge of the bed. He gagged, then retched, then finally, vomited. There wasn't much to bring up, but when he was finally done and had collapsed back, exhausted, he did feel better.

Until he realized that his bed was moving....

Blair opened his eyes and looked around frantically... he was in a - cabin. On a boat?

Footsteps above him, then tennis shoes appeared followed by Brackett.

"I see you're awake, Mr. Sandburg."

He stopped suddenly and swayed as the smell of Blair's vomit hit him. Blair bit back the almost automatic response of dial it down, then as Brackett paled, he smiled almost perversely.

Struggling to overcome the odor, Brackett narrowed his eyes, then hit the wall with his right hand. The pain did it. His other senses seemed to whirl out and away as he concentrated on the pain. Senses temporarily at normal, he moved to the bunk and without looking at Blair, started the clean up process. When he was done, he looked down at the man.

"I'll assume that your illness was due to the drug I gave you and not the fact that you suffer from seasickness."

Not waiting for an answer, he turned and picked up a long piece of rope, then moved back to Blair's side.

"I hate to do this, but there's rough weather ahead and this will actually protect you, Mr. Sandburg."

Mr. Sandburg. Not Blair. That was supposed to frighten him? Nice try, Brackett. No sale.

Blair watched as Brackett wound the rope across his waist, then under and up again. In a moment, Blair was tied securely to the bunk.

Brackett walked to the sink, poured a glass of water, grabbed a deep bowl and returned. He lifted Blair's head and let him drink, then said," Swish and spit, Mr. Sandburg."

Blair did it, grateful to lessen the rancid taste in his mouth. They went through the process a few times, then Brackett brought over a small green bottle, poured some of the liquid into the glass and repeated his request.

Mouthwash. Scope to be exact. He swished and spit. Twice.

"I'd brush your teeth for you too, but like I said, we've bad weather ahead. I need to be up top. And if you're hungry," he eyed the floor and the remaining wet spot, then finished with, "you'll have to do without until we get through the storm."

Before leaving, his eyes glittered in the muted light of the cabin and he ran a finger down Blair's cheek, then over the cut on his throat. A moment later, Brackett turned on his heel and headed for the stairs. On his way up, he tossed over his shoulder, "By the way, Mr. Sandburg, how do you feel about - Russia?" Then he was gone and Blair was alone.

"Jim, this makes no sense. Why Canada?"

Jim sat at the large table in the Harbor Master's office and stared at the chart that had been spread out before him. Simon was opposite and staring down at the lines that meant nothing to him.

Jim shook his head and said, "No, not Canada, Simon. Alaska, then - Russia. He's heading for Russia."

"Russia?" The light dawned. "Shit, of course. But Jim, you don't just sail into...."

"I suspect if you're Lee Brackett - you can. But he isn't going to make it." The last part was an oath, not just a prediction.

"I suppose you've got an idea how to stop him, Jim?"

"He's only got a few hours on us. We need a chopper."

Simon rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure, we just need a chopper. So simple. Let me guess, I'm supposed to requisition one, right?"

"No, no, you're not supposed to requisition one. We can't tip our hand, Simon."

"So, what, you've got one hiding up those sleeves of yours?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Simon. And you really need to keep better tabs on your people." At Simon's puzzled look, Jim said, "Conner's new boyfriend."

The blank stare solicited more information.

"He's a chopper pilot, owns his own Bell."

"And you have a plan?" Simon asked, not really needing an answer.

Thanks to Conner, arrangements had been quickly made to meet Darren Miller, Conner's new friend, at the Smithson airfield just outside of Cascade where he housed his Bell.

Now as the detectives stood just outside the Harbor Master's office, Conner's anger and disgust were vented in words.

"We should be going with you. You need us, Captain."

"Cascade needs you too. Now look, as of this moment, this investigation is out of our hands. Brackett is no longer in our jurisdiction so anything we do now - has to be unofficial. So this is how it goes down. To anyone that asks, I'm taking a few days off to take care of some personal business and Jim has been relieved of duty."

Simon put a hand on Joel's shoulder as he said, "You're acting Captain in my absence." Then he gave each of his people a challenging look.

"It's up to you three to ensure that everything seems normal, understand?"

Knowing that Simon was right, but hating it anyway, Conner nodded as did Brown. Joel just stared back at his friend, understanding just what a difficult task lay ahead of Simon and Jim. And understanding the risks if things went bad.

"We'll take care of everything, Simon," Joel promised.

"Good man. Now head out, all of you. And Brown, thanks for taking my car."

As the Conner and Brown turned away and started for the cars, Joel shook Simon's hand and said quietly, " Just bring our boy back, Simon."

"I fully intend to, Joel."

Simon watched his people until their vehicles faded from sight, then re-joined Jim inside.

The drive to the airfield was made in complete silence, both men deep in their own thoughts.

For Jim, the thirty minute drive was an opportunity to prepare himself, much as he'd always done prior to a mission. He knew this was a war, and he fully intended to win. His mind refused to accept any other outcome. And when he had Blair back....

For Simon, the thirty minutes allowed for some much needed introspection. The weeks since the capture of Alex had gone badly and nothing that he'd planned that early morning in front of a fountain at Rainier had occurred.

He'd made some promises to himself as he'd stood back and watched the paramedics work over Blair's body. He'd promised to tell the man a few things, he'd bargained with God, and yet, once Blair had started breathing....

Simon swiped a hand over his eyes and prayed this wasn't his punishment, that somehow God wasn't saying, 'Hey, I gave him back and what did you do with him? You blew it, so guess what? Yeah, I'm reneging.'

God wasn't that cruel. Was he?

As they drove, the sky clouded over and by the time they'd hit the Stanton off-ramp, it had started to drizzle. Jim pulled into the small airstrip and following the directions provided by Darren, negotiated his way down aisles of small planes and choppers, past two large hangers, then past the small building that housed the Smithson offices. At that point, Jim spotted the red Range Rover that belonged to Darren, parked next to a much smaller hanger. Jim swung the truck in beside the Jeep, shut down and spoke his first words since leaving the Village.

"Simon, are you sure...."

"I'm sure, Jim. You need back-up and while I'm no Sandburg... well, let's just get this show on the road."

They climbed out and headed into the small hanger.

"I'm sorry, Jim, but we can't take off yet. There's a storm moving in and right now, I'm betting your boat is caught smack dab in the middle of it."

Jim closed his eyes in frustration and counted to ten. Then he opened them and in what he hoped was a calm voice, said, "Hey, this is a Bell 430, surely it can handle a little weather?"

"We're not talking a little weather, Jim. We're talking a major storm. It would be suicide to go up now. And believe me, your boat isn't making any headway either. When the storm clears, we'll go up and be no worse off than if there'd been no storm at all."

Simon frowned as the import of Darren's words really made it into his brain.

"Wait, if this storm is so bad - can Brackett weather it?"

Darren Miller, a tall, rangy black Irishman of about Jim's age, scratched at his jaw thoughtfully, then said, "From what you've told me of the Windsong, well, he's got a good one. If he's a good sailor, yeah, he should be able to ride it out. Especially if he's away from the coast."

Jim walked to the open hanger door and stared out over the airstrip, watching as the rain, which only a few minutes before had been drizzle, came down in sheets. He stared out, seeing nothing, his body tense and frustrated by their inability to move. And by the fact that Blair was out there with Brackett, in a boat, in a storm.

Surrounded by water. Rough water.

The motion of the boat had become increasingly erratic and as his body slid against the bindings, the room darkened with the storm. The sound of waves slamming against the hull, of the wind screaming its anger and the boat moaning with the pain of battle, even the occasional frantic pounding of feet overhead, all seemed to coalesce within Blair, signaling a means to the end. The jerking and tossing, the constant bucking motion, the scraping of the ropes against his skin and now his torso, all spelled the end and he found that he didn't mind. Blair could discover no reason to feel otherwise.

He listened intently, his fingers gripping the ropes that bound his arms overhead and he also found himself praying that Brackett would be washed overboard. His own death seemed a small price to pay for such a wish.

The door to the cabin blew open and began to bang shut, then sweep open again and each time it did, the icy cold air, rain and ocean rushed in. The cabin was now in complete darkness.

On deck, Lee Brackett fought against the storm, his sailing capabilities tested to the nth degree. But he'd made a mistake and he knew it. He'd stayed in too close, hugging the shoreline instead of heading out to the open sea and now his boat was paying the price. He knew that the rocky Washington coastline on his right presented more of a danger than the current weather, and he was trying to head into the storm, to distance himself from the shoreline, but every bone in his body was screaming that he was failing.

As he scrambled aft, a huge wave crested the boat and shoved it hard to the right. At the same moment, a huge clap of thunder sounded. The pain hit Brackett hard and he dropped to his knees, his arm hooked over the railing to keep him anchored. The 41 foot Amazon shuddered, but Brackett heard and felt nothing....

The sudden deep lurch caught Blair unaware, his body straining against the ropes as the harsh. strong motion tried to separate him from the bindings. At the same time, Blair heard the thunder and something - more, then he felt it. The boat had struck something. He could feel the hull ripping apart somewhere behind and below him.

The movement of the boat changed as it listed sickeningly, almost as though it were impaled and trying to dislodge itself. Then a new sound assaulted him - that of rushing water. In the cabin. The cabin was filling with water.

For all his thoughts on ending his life, when faced with the fact of dying by - drowning, Blair Sandburg found himself fighting. This could not be happening again. That he should find death twice in just a few weeks and that both deaths should be from drowning?

NO! His mind screamed. Not this time, not again!

Blair began to twist and buck, to fight his bindings even as the water level climbed. Shaking his head back and forth, he yanked, tore, squirmed and did everything in his power to gain release. And he yelled.

"BRACKETT! GOD DAMN YOU TO HELL, GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE!!!"

He continued to yell at the top of his lungs, hurling dire threats, cussing a blue streak but as the water began to lap against the bunk, to spill over his body, his yells turned to small moans....

"nonono, not again, nonono...."

The water crept up, unheeding of Blair's now almost soundless pleas....

"....YOU ASSHOLE! GET ME OUT OF HERE!!"

Brackett shook his head and wiped water from his eyes. He was still on his knees... and what had happened? Then he remembered; the thunder, the pain....

He gazed about him and the words, the yelling, Blair's yelling, brought him to his feet, swaying in the wind and wondering what was wrong. Then he saw them - the rocks.

He bolted to the other side of the boat, slipping several times, but always regaining his balance and once he'd made it to the opposite rail, he focused his sight....

Land. And his boat had struck rocks. He closed his eyes and tried to feel....

She was going down. Sinking.

He opened his eyes and tried to gauge the distance to shore. Not far, God, not far at all. The storm had driven them into shallow waters. Brackett turned to head below.

The cold, heartless ocean was teasing him, sloshing over his body, then swaying back and away, only to return stronger. If he lowered his head, his chin would be under water. Blair had minutes. He was quiet now, his mind focused on Hargrove Hall, the fountain, Alex, and -- Jim. He had fought Alex, fought the drowning, struggled hard, fingers digging into her flesh as she'd forced him down after striking him on the side of the head with the butt of the gun she'd held.

He remembered the jagged shape of colors that had burst behind his eyes at the blow, how he must have started to fall to his knees, but she'd pushed him forward instead and he'd fallen across the stone he'd so often sat on while talking with students....

He could remember trying to brace himself, to push up and away, but she'd leaned into him, grabbed his jacket and shoved him until his head was in the water. And then, then... she'd used her body to hold him down....

And now, cold ocean struck his chin, then his lower lip and in that crystal clear moment of calm before death, Blair Sandburg wondered what the fuck it was about Sentinels and water? Why was it that every sentinel wanna-be ended up killing him, the idiot, with water? It didn't skip his notice that his sentinel was afraid of deep water. Talk about irony.

For only the second time since being taken by Brackett, Blair allowed himself to think of Jim. A hopelessness having nothing to do with his imminent death washed over him. And that was followed by a deadly calm. He had lost it all anyway, so perhaps this final drowning was as it should be....

As another wave washed over him, Blair closed his eyes and surrendered, except... hands, and something glittered in the murky wetness, and he was floating up....

Grey. Jim looked out over the airfield and could see only grey. A hand dropped on his shoulder and he turned to gaze up into worried brown eyes.

"Jim, Darren is getting everything ready. He says we can head out now."

Thirty minutes later, the Bell 430 rose into dead skies and headed out on its search.

Brackett fought the rushing water, the heaving boat, the floor underneath his feet that seemed to have a mind of its own, he fought his senses, and he fought his own screaming brain, a brain that yelled, "GET THE FUCK OFF THIS BOAT AND FORGET THE KID!"

Fingers grasped wet, slippery material, the shining silver of his knife flashed through the darkness, wide blue eyes stared up at him from under water, hair billowed out alive and then he was sawing wet rope. He felt clenched fists drop, finally free and he moved to the ropes holding the shivering body down, sliced again, and the man was in his arms and he was half carrying, half pushing a gasping Sandburg as together they fought through the water, up the steps to the main cabin, then up again, every movement of the boat in direct opposition to their needs.

Somehow they made it to the deck and Brackett threw Sandburg against the railing, then fought his way back down, used his enhanced sight to find the items that would be needed on land, stuffed them into a bag and with heaving chest and tired limbs, returned topside to slam his body up against Sandburg's. Blair was coughing and sputtering, his compact frame wracked with tremors and as Brackett grabbed the man's shirt from the back and tossed him overboard, he could hear words....

"...god damn sentinels, water everywhere... WHAT THE HELL!?"

Buckling the backpack around his waist, Brackett gave one last look back at his listing boat, then vaulted over the railing and into the cold sea below.

Blair hit the water and went down. He'd been freed from captivity by Brackett moments before death and now, he was under water, his wrists still - bound.

Blair fought the downward pull, strained upward, kicked ferociously, held his breath but it was a losing battle... until a hand grabbed his free-floating hair and tugged up.

He broke through the surface of the churning ocean, his mouth open wide, desperate to take in a chunk of air. Gasping like a flounder flopping around on a deck, he barely caught his breath before he was being pulled back as Brackett made for shore. Waves crashed into them, rain sliced through vulnerable skin and still Brackett moved relentlessly forward, Blair struggling behind him as the older man, still holding tight to hunks of hair, kept him afloat. Then Brackett's feet hit solid ground and surprised, he stood, hauling Sandburg up with him.

As they struggled to shore, Brackett's fingers still embedded in Blair's hair, Sandburg's anger increased tenfold. When they actually found themselves standing on the rocky shore of the Washington coast, chests heaving, bodies freezing, an anger that had been building for weeks, coursed through him, leaving a burning warmth in its wake. With a strength he would have doubted he possessed, he yanked himself from Brackett's grasp and brought his bound hands up to swing them like a bat, catching Brackett on the side of the face.

The older man reeled back and Blair turned himself into a flying missile, bending at the waist to charge the off-balance man. His head connected solidly with Brackett's solar plexus. He was very satisfied when he heard the painful grunt that greeted his efforts.

Brackett, the air knocked out of him, went down but before he could catch his breath or wonder what the hell had happened, Blair was on top of him, yelling and swinging.

"WHAT'S WITH YOU FUCKING SENTINELS AND WATER ANYWAY? HOW MANY FUCKING TIMES DO I HAVE TO DROWN TO MAKE YOU ALL HAPPY?"

The thing above him couldn't be real. Hair swinging madly in the wind, eyes dark and dangerous, body thudding into his, fists striking him again and again... his vision faded....

Blair realized that Brackett was no longer fighting. It had also stopped raining. Slowly, shakily, Blair got to his feet. He glanced around him and had no idea where they were. He looked back out to sea and in the haze, he could just make out the boat, white against the dark rocks that held it captive.

He had to get away - NOW. His brain incapable of further thought, Blair Sandburg began to run.

Brackett recovered quickly. He'd been more surprised by the anger and blows than actually injured. He rose quickly and in seconds, had Sandburg pegged. He took off after the younger man.

Jim sat in the front of the chopper with Darren, his eyes searching, seeing what no one else could. He knew it was ridiculous to search for the boat now, they'd only been in the air for fifteen minutes. Darren figured that it would take a good hour to get anywhere near where the Windsong would have been caught by the storm. A storm that had raged for over three hours.

Three hours... too many hours behind.

Simon watched his friend from behind. Jim was too - quiet, too - composed. He'd never seen him like this before. He'd seen him focused, yes, he'd seen him move like a well-oiled machine, but underneath, there'd always been a raging animal. But this was - scary. And if anything had happened to Sandburg? If they somehow failed to bring him back? Alive. What then?

Simon felt cold fingers of dread grip his heart because he knew what would happen. Two men were at risk here, not just one.

"It looks like it might rain again, Darren," Jim said through his microphone.

"It might, but we can handle that. The bulk of the storm has moved south. Anything we experience now will be left-overs."

Satisfied, Jim went back to searching uselessly.

He was close. He could hear the kid trying to breathe, could hear his frantic footfalls, could even hear his fingers as they grasped for a hold over the slippery rocks....

Brackett had to admire the man scrambling for freedom up ahead. He smiled almost proudly. Because the man was his. Belonged to him. Brackett ran faster, scaled the rocks easily, slid down and hit the sand, then into the forest, his thudding footsteps over heavy groundcover sounding like a herd of wild mustangs. Up ahead, he could see flashes of color, of fading blue and dirty white, and he was closing fast.

He also knew that Sandburg didn't have a clue that he was about to go down because he was running mindlessly now, his tortured lungs getting ready to shut down....

Pain. All encompassing pain. Burning lungs, each breath like blazing flames and he was poisoning his own body and Blair knew that it would shut down soon....

Something heavy behind him, but he didn't dare look back, tried to run faster, but couldn't, just couldn't. He tried to find the anger again, hoping it would spur him on, but it was gone, replaced by this unreasoning need to keep running....

Brackett reached out, fingers close, leaned forward in his run, felt the whiplash hair, caught hold and - pulled.

Blair was yanked back and off his feet. He landed hard, his head thudding down then up, then down again. When he looked up, it was into Brackett's smiling face.

Brackett dropped down instantly and straddled the stunned man. Grasping his hair with both hands, easily pinning the bound wrists with his own body, he smiled. Lowering his head until he was less than an inch from Blair's face, he whispered, "nice try, mr. sandburg. nice try. but you're mine and don't forget it."

Exhausted blue eyes blinked, then focused.

Blair fought to control his breathing as he stared at his captor. When he'd caught enough breath to speak, he hissed back, "i'm looking at a dead man."

A momentary chill crept along Brackett's skin, but he shook it off and laughed broadly. When he'd calmed, he said, "Blair, we're all dead men."

He dragged Sandburg to his feet, pulled him close until their noses were almost touching, and said purposefully, "Now listen and listen good. I have a fair idea as to where we are and while this changes my plans a bit, it doesn't destroy them. I managed to bring a few things with me, but it's going to be rough going for awhile. You will keep up and this," he reached back, pulled at the zipper of the backpack and took out more rope, "will keep you in line. I won't put up with any guff, you hear me? You do what I say, when I say it."

Blair stared at the rope, then at the man holding him. He spit in his face.

The spittle ran down his cheek as Brackett's eyes narrowed dangerously, then anger sparked in the blue depths and he lashed out.

Blair felt the painful blow to the side of his face and would have fallen if not for the fact that Brackett still held him. A moment later, he was shoved down, Brackett bending over him.

Through the haze of pain, he watched the man loop the rope around his bound wrists, then he straightened and tied the other end around his own waist.

"I hope you're ready, Mr. Sandburg, because we're on the move."

He turned and started walking. When the weight of Blair's unyielding body stopped him, he simply gave a strong yank, pulling Blair onto his stomach, then continued to walk and pull.

For several feet, he dragged the stubborn man, then finally stopped. He didn't say anything, just gave Blair time to get to his feet. When, grudgingly, he did, Brackett moved on.

The rope around his wrists was now stained red and Blair could no longer feel his hands. His socked feet pounded the ground as he struggled to keep up with Brackett and he wondered how long he'd last... then his anger returned. He had no idea where they were but he doubted that they were still in Washington. Which meant Canada and what could Brackett have planned now that he'd lost his boat? And if Russia was indeed his ultimate goal - how could he now make it?

And why should Blair help by following meekly behind? He shouldn't.

Blair had no idea how long they'd been walking, but it was over. He grasped the rope and pulled - hard. Brackett stumbled and jerked back, then spun around to face a suddenly stubborn Sandburg.

"What game are you playing at now, Sandburg?"

"No game. Maybe you've forgotten - I'm without - shoes. And you claim to need me. How long do you think I'm going to last this way?"

With a sharp tug, Brackett yanked him into his body and captured his jaw between strong fingers. He pressed in and watched Sandburg's eyes widen with pain, but the fighting glare didn't diminish. With his left hand, he grabbed more hair and jerked Sandburg's head back, eyes glued to the pale neck.

"You want to play rough, Sandburg, then fine. You will last as long as I need you to last. Shoes or no shoes."

Sandburg shook his head, fighting the fingers buried in his hair. Brackett simply smiled. He let go, turned and started walking again. Blair waited, forcing the man to pull. When he did, Sandburg said quietly, "you don't have a chance, brackett."

They continued on.

"THERE!" Jim yelled as he pointed ahead and slightly right of their position.

"What, Jim, what?"

"A boat, against the rocks, close to shore."

Darren peered through the windshield but could see nothing, let alone anything that resembled the Windsong.

"Darren, just follow Jim and trust me when I tell you that he does see it," Simon instructed from the back.

Shrugging, Darren nodded and headed closer to shore. Several minutes later, the boat was visible to both Darren and Simon.

"Well, I'll be damned. How did you do that, Ellison?"

Tossing a look back at Simon, Jim said, "Would you believe - carrots? Loads of carrots?"

Simon allowed himself a chuckle as the chopper drew closer to the Windsong.

"I can't believe this," Darren said, his voice full of shocked surprise.

"Why?"

"Any good sailor would have headed out to sea in that storm. But this says he was hugging the shore and there," he indicated with a nod, "are the results of such a foolish error."

Simon leaned forward, worry creasing his forehead.

"Jim, is anyone, I mean, do you hear...."

"Nothing. They're not on board." Jim turned to Darren and asked, "Is there enough beach to land?"

"Not here, no. But back a bit, yeah, I remember seeing a spot. By foot, you should be able to get back here in twenty, maybe less."

"Let's do it then."

Darren navigated the chopper around and back, finding the spot he'd seen earlier. He took her down.

The backpacks were secure and the two men were ready. Darren watched them both and tried again.

"Look, let me com...."

"No, Darren," Simon answered, "We'll need you here, ready to take off if, well, we just need you here. And we're cops, this is what we do."

Jim was standing a few feet away, his body literally thrumming with the need to move and at Simon's words, he said quietly, "Simon, I think you should stay here too. I'm going to be moving fast and ...."

"Shut the fuck up, Ellison. Number one, you're gonna need me. And number two, the day I can't keep up with you is the day I turn in my badge. Are we clear on that, Detective Ellison?"

Stony glare fought with commanding glare. Stony slowly melted.

"Aye, aye, sir," Jim said, the beginnings of a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.

"Damn straight, it's aye, aye, sir. Now let's get going."

Darren watched the two men as they headed north along the rocky shoreline, back to the area where the Windsong had been driven onto the rocks. He hadn't known either man long, having only met them at the station a couple of times when picking up Megan for lunch, and of course, the poker night he'd been invited to attend, but what he did know - he admired. And liked. And the young man they were going after - Blair - well, that was a whole different kettle of fish.

Darren watched the retreating backs until they were nothing but a speck of darkness, and he considered the angry young man he'd first met two weeks ago.

He could remember seeing him at the desk with Ellison, head bent over some paperwork, pen scratching furiously across the expanse of white, shoulders hunched, jaw clenching. Megan had taken Darren's arm and guided him over to stand in front of the two men.

"Jim, you remember Darren?"

Ellison had looked up and smiled, then stood and put out a hand in welcome.

"Hey, Darren, sure. I understand you're joining us tonight for our weekly poker battle?"

Darren had smiled in return and they'd shook as he'd answered, "Yes, so I understand. Damn nice of you guys to invite me. Should I bring anything, like, bandages or the like?" He'd teased.

"Oh, we're covered with first aid supplies. Just bring your money and kiss it good-bye."

They'd all laughed, but Darren had noticed that the young man next to Jim never even cracked a smile. He'd frowned a bit, then Megan had said, "And honey, this is Sandy. You haven't met him yet. Sandy, this is Darren."

The young man had looked up then and Darren watched with great interest as a mask of politeness was slipped on over the oddly bruised, but cold, handsome features as the man stood, smiled and held out his hand.

"Hey, man, Megan's mentioned you - a bit. Good to finally meet you."

They'd shook too, but Darren had felt the slight tremors move through the slender, pale hand. As Darren stepped back, and their hands had dropped, the man he would later be told was actually Blair Sandburg, I just call him Sandy and don't ask me why, grabbed up a backpack, tossed it over his shoulder and said to Ellison, "Sorry man, but my meeting with Chancellor Edwards is in a few, gotta go. Catch you later," then with a wave, he'd said, "Great meeting you, man."

And like a zephyr that you weren't sure had ever been there, he was gone.

Later, over lunch, he'd asked Megan about him, found out who and what he was and then he'd asked, "So why the anger?"

Megan's beautiful sapphire blue eyes had blinked back at him, surprised. "What do you mean, Dar?"

"The anger. Your Sandy is so angry, it's almost alive. What happened? And his face, what happened there? A case? Or is that why he's mad?"

Her eyes had clouded over then and she'd glanced down at her plate of pasta, one hand fiddling with a knife. He'd reached over and captured the hand and squeezed gently.

"Megs? Come on, spill."

"Look, it's just been a rough - month - for Sandy, okay? Let's just leave it at that for now."

He'd wanted to ask more, much more, because the young man had fascinated him. An anthropologist acting as an observer with Major Crime? And assigned to its number one detective? And yet, full of so much anger? And then a name had come to the front of his brain - Chancellor Edwards. Which meant Rainier. And at least one piece had fallen into place.

"God, he's the one, isn't he?"

Megan had looked up, frowning, as she'd asked, "What do you mean, Dar?"

"The man who drowned at Rainier. I remember reading about it."

Megan had paled immediately, eyes suddenly brimming with tears as she'd pulled her hand out from under his.

"Ah, Megs, please, I didn't mean for it to come out so cold. But I just made the connection, you know?"

"It's - that's - okay."

"I am right, though, yes?"

She'd nodded miserably but hadn't allowed him to retake her hand.

"God, that explains a bit. He's in therapy, right?" Megan's eyes shifted sideways as she'd shaken her head and he'd gasped in surprise.

"Not in therapy? But, from what I read, that young man died, literally. The paramedics even called it, right? That had to be - I mean, we're talking major trauma, Megs. And, dear God," he'd said, realizing for the first time that the articles told him that Megan had been there, "you were there. Oh, shit, Megs, I'm so sorry."

Her eyes had darkened then, the tears that had been pooling, finally spilling over. It had taken everything he'd possessed not to get up, run around to her side of the table and take her in his arms.

"I was there, Simon too. And Henri. You've met him, remember?" Darren had nodded, remembering the big, jovial man with the huge grin and joking manner.

"You have to understand - I mean, Sandy is, he's - well, he's special to us, you know? He's not a cop, but damn, Dar, he's good and he's smart and we all, well, we probably shouldn't, but we do, we protect him, you know?"

Somehow - he did. That had been his first instinct.

"You've talked with him, then? All of you?"

Megan had given her head an almost imperceptible shake. "we - none of us - have, we didn't want to remind him... and there was this case, you see, the woman who kill... who kill... killed him and we had to catch her and then, well, he seemed, we all just kind of, and...."

Megan had broken down then and he had taken her in his arms, restaurant or no.

Now as he stared down the beach, he thought of the boat, the storm and he wondered how it must have been for Sandy. And he prayed that Ellison and Captain Banks would find him.

Blair's exhaustion didn't stop him from his stubborn fight to throw as many obstacles in Brackett's path as he could. As they walked, he argued, pulled, stumbled, stopped, cussed him out and constantly berated the man for his stupidity in believing that he could keep him, use him, or become a sentinel. Every time Brackett was in need or in pain, Blair would simply stand still, bound arms held stiffly out in front of him as he fought to catch his breath, and to hide that fight.

And as a result of his stubboness, he had several new bruises.

The problem was, as he thought about it while Brackett surveyed the terrain and checked maps and his compass, each new bruise had been delivered with cold, calculating deliberation. Not anger. And Blair didn't know how much longer he was going to last.

It was drizzling again and his socks would soon be history. His lungs were on fire and every breath was a major accomplishment. It was cold and needless to say, he was soaked through, his Henley affording him no protection whatsoever.

Brackett folded the maps and stuffed them back into his backpack along with the compass. He knew where they were and while his plans had altered slightly, one phone call from Tenima, the small town maybe ten miles ahead of them, and he'd be back on schedule.

"I hope you took advantage of this little break, Blair, because we're on the move again."

"I hope you took advantage of the break, Brackett. You're gonna need it."

Brackett pulled the hood of his parka up and turned to face the man behind him. Blair stood before him, head held high, one eyebrow arched. Brackett found himself staring. There was nothing of the young man of two years ago, hell, there was nothing of the man of two days ago. Hair wet and matted, face dirty, battered and bruised, the thin Henley, dark with mud and plastered to Blair's heaving chest, torn and muddy jeans and on his feet, once white socks, now barely there. His arms were covered with cuts and scratches, and Brackett could see more cuts and bruising through the torn jeans.

The younger man's anger and fight had blinded Brackett to his true condition. Brackett was killing his guide.

Lee reached behind him and pulled a lightweight windbreaker from his backpack, then began to advance on Blair.

"I'm going to free you, Blair, so don't try anything or you'll be sorry."

Blair raised his bound wrists and spread his fingers wide as he said with a mock shiver, "Ooh, I'm scared, Brackett."

Brackett grabbed the bound hands and started to untie them, but the rope was wet and tight and he soon realized that he'd have to cut Blair free. He pulled the knife from its sheath at his belt and quickly sliced through the middle of the hemp. A moment later, with a hiss of pain, Blair's arms were free. Unfortunately, much of the rope remained imbedded in flesh and dangled in pieces as Blair brought his arms down to his side.

Brackett started to remove his parka and as his arms became entangled within the material, Blair made his move. Shoving the man aside with his shoulder and watching with satisfaction as Brackett tumbled to the ground, Blair took off on yet another dash for freedom.

But he was in no shape to outrun Brackett. A two year old baby could have beaten him and Brackett was no two year old. He got maybe thirty yards before being tackled by the man. Blair hit the mud face first, Brackett on top of him. They struggled a bit, but the older man soon had Blair's hands gripped together and over his head. There was nothing Blair could do. He lay still.

For several minutes, Brackett lay with his head on Blair's shoulder, feeling the tremors course through the body below. Finally he flipped him over and spread his arms out to either side as he continued to pin him down.

Slipping his knee between Blair's legs and spreading them wide, he brought the same knee up and nudged it against Blair's groin.

"Don't you get it yet? Don't you understand that I'm going to win every one of these stupid and unnecessary battles? That your life is now with me? That there's no going back?" He shoved his knee in hard and watched with no enjoyment as Blair's eyes shut and he held back a moan of pain.

"It's over, Blair, as of now, this war of yours is over."

He let go of Blair's hands and sat up, still straddling Blair's body. He ran his hands up and under the man's shirt, fingers threading through the chest hair, then stopping, thumbs resting on Blair's nipples. He rubbed against the nubs, then pressed in - hard, before taking each nipple between thumb and forefinger, just letting his nail graze the flesh as he began to squeeze.

And twist.

He twisted until Blair verbalized the pain with a low, guttural moan, eyes squeezed shut against the tears of pain.

"Is this really how you want to live? With constant pain?" He leaned in close, his lips hovering over Blair's. "It could be so much better, Blair, so very much better. Don't you understand that?" He raised the wet shirt, scooted down a bit and latched onto one of the tortured nipples. He suckled gently, letting his tongue bathe and soothe it. The nipple hardened under his ministrations and he quickly recaptured hands that had started to clench and travel. Lifting his head, he laughed low and said, "I don't think so, Blair." Then he went back to the nipple.

Rain came down on them and Brackett ignored it as he moved to the other nipple and repeated his actions. The tremors below him increased as Blair began to move and wiggle, trying to get away. Brackett left the nipples and moved down, his fingers digging into Blair's hands as his own body began to respond. Mud sloshed around them as his tongue lavished attention on Blair's navel, then traveled down, following the thin arrow of hair. Poised over Blair's jeans, he lifted the man and planted Blair's hands behind him, then lowered him, successfully pinning them.

Brackett hungrily lowered the zipper than pulled at the jeans until Blair's dick was revealed. If he was surprised that it was still limp, he gave no indication. He lowered his head, his tongue eager to taste....

A sound.

Voices.

Brackett's head rose, nostrils flaring, head cocked like some animal. His eyes shut, then opened as he shook his head like a bull in the ring. Within seconds, he was up, yanking at Sandburg, who blinked in confusion, even as his hands struggled to pull up his jeans and zipper.

Brackett grabbed the rope that had fallen to the ground when he'd cut it, lifted Blair's hands and quickly rebound the wrists together. The tether that connected them was now shorter, but still viable. Without a word, Brackett picked up his knife, slid it into the sheath and started walking - fast.

Too stunned to do much else, Blair followed.

Jim stopped and raised a hand to Simon who came to rest behind him. His nostrils flared and he cocked his head, eyes sliding shut. One minute passed....

"I've got them, Simon."

No other words were needed. They moved ahead, picking up the pace in spite of the rain.

They'd been traveling for over an hour, traveling fast, Brackett giving no quarter. Blair had no time to even think, let alone fight. But just as suddenly as they'd started moving - they stopped.

Brackett moaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. The sounds, smells, all too much - he was losing it.

Blair watched, puzzled. Then he understood.

Clarity. Lightbulbs.

They'd been found.

They were being followed.

Jim.

Blair shook his head as if the very idea was impossible. And to his mind, it was. But there was no other explanation because Brackett's senses were going haywire. And considering that he didn't have a great handle on them to begin with....

Feeling stronger than he had in hours, Blair did something foolish, dangerous, and very - brave. "Jim," he said boldly, "He's got all five heightened senses. He knows you're here. Your own senses might be be spiking, but you know what to do...."

With a roar, Brackett was on him, hands around his throat....

"....senses might be spiking, but you know what to do...."

Jim froze, then dropped to his knees.

Simon was beside him in an instant.

"Jim, you okay? What is it?"

"Blair," came the choked response. "He's - talking to me, he knows I'm here."

"Thank God. Then he's alive. He's all right."

"no - his words - cut off, he's in pain... can't breathe...."

"Jim, get up. NOW."

Somehow Jim managed to do just that. Then he was on the move and Simon had to struggle to keep up. But keep up he did.

With a cry of pain, Brackett let go and Blair slid to his knees, bound hands clutching his throat as he tried to bring air into his lungs.

Sanity returned and with it, cold deliberation.

Brackett tore a strip of his shirt off and squatted beside the barely conscious Sandburg. With no thought to further pain or difficulty breathing, he gagged him, then pulled him to his feet.

They started off again, Brackett pulling the winded man.

Climbing, hiking, moving fast, Brackett strove to put distance between himself and those following. His senses continued to spike, to send stabbing pain through his skull, but he kept moving. At one point, he took out his gun.

A few miles back, Jim and Simon did the same.

The beach was far behind and below them now and occasionally, through the trees, they could catch a glimpse of the cliffs they were paralleling and moving closer to in their efforts to catch Brackett.

Rain had become heavy, the ground underfoot slippery with mud. Several times both Brackett and Sandburg slipped and fell, Brackett always hauling the younger man back up with a harsh pull of the rope.

They'd been traveling for over thirty minutes when Brackett stopped, shoulders hunched over, body clearly in pain.

The tether between them was loose and watching carefully, Blair slowly brought his hands up and removed the gag....

"help me - the pain...."

Startled, Blair moved forward a few feet. Brackett, asking him for help?

A part of him naturally wanted to give aid to the hurting man, to help him deal... but to do so would endanger Jim and anyone that traveled with him and Blair wasn't - couldn't - make that mistake again.

"No."

Brackett straightened. Took several deep breaths. Tried to conquer the pain.

"It's no use, Brackett. The headaches, the burning skin, the faulty vision, it will just get worse. And soon, you'll be incapacitated. A vegetable."

In a surge of red hot anger laced liberally with frustration, Brackett whirled on the man, jumped forward and grabbed his shirt, then lifted him off the ground.

His temper lost, anger taking over, Brackett yelled into Blair's face, "Give UP? ME? Why don't you ever GIVE up? You PUSH, and PUSH, JUST FUCKING GIVE UP! You can't win, you'll NEVER win!"

His anger was so intense, so complete, that he failed to hear the approaching men. Instead, he focused all of it on the man he held. Looking over his shoulder, at the cliff just behind them, he began to drag Blair, yelling his frustration.

"YOU WANT TO PLAY GAMES, THEN HOW 'BOUT THIS ONE, UH?"

Above them, the rain had loosened the earth and as Brackett strove for the cliff edge, pulling and dragging the fighting man, the mud began to move....

Below them, Jim looked up, heard Brackett's words, could see the man dragging Blair closer to the edge and he began to run, discarding his pack....

Jim saw the mud moving as if alive, as if its only goal was to swallow Brackett and Sandburg whole. He pushed harder, legs pumping, the beast within having taken over.

Several yards behind him, Simon followed, breathing harshly, but driven on by the belief that he'd be needed, desperately needed.

Blair fought and kicked as he was dragged closer to the cliff, Brackett's yells ringing in his ears. He twisted in Brackett's grasp, fingers scraping down Brackett's arms. Brackett never slowed, but with one hand, he twisted the rope around his own wrist as he continued to drag him.

And then the slide hit them.

It slammed into Brackett's back, tumbling both men over, rolling them down....

Jim could see it all; rain, mud, bodies churning like clothes in a dryer and Jim put on a final burst of speed as the bodies rolled toward the cliff....

Blair felt a sharp tug and realized that one hand had been torn free... but he was powerless to do anything, his other hand still tethered to Brackett. There was a sickening lurch, a tug on his arm and Brackett went over.

Blair was only as far back as the length of the tether but he was rolling fast. He tried to grasp onto anything, his fingers scraping at the mud, at twigs, branches, anything he could, but there was nothing - he was going over with Brackett....

Jim broke through the brush, saw his partner's body sliding toward the edge and without a thought, he launched himself at the man. Arms reached out, hands connected, and Jim had a leg. Then as if swimming upstream, he latched onto Blair's waistband and pulled himself up and onto the body, holding fast.

Brackett's plummeting body - stopped.

Blair's movement - stopped.

Excruciating pain exploded up Blair's arm and into his shoulder as his body hung half over the cliff, his right arm the only thing keeping Brackett from death.

Something solid and warm seemed to be on top of him, keeping his body from following Brackett. His head hung down, hair spilling over and blinding him from all but Brackett's face, which stare up at him in surprise.

Blair drifted off....

The only thing keeping Blair from going over was Jim's body and if the older man moved, or tried to pull, or shift in any way, he'd lose him. Brackett began to struggle and Blair's body slid further over in spite of Jim's weight.

Ellison looked frantically about for anything that could be used to sever the tie to Brackett and he finally spotted something shiny. A knife.

Slowly Jim stretched out one hand, letting his fingers crawl over the mud, inching their way to the gleaming knife... one finger touched it, dug in, and the body below his slid further away....

A few more seconds... and he had it. But no way to reach the rope.

"I've got him, Jim. I've got him."

Simon.

"It's too slippery to pull them both up, Jim."

Jim nodded and inched his way up until he could see over the edge and as long as he lived, Jim Ellison would never forget the sight. Brackett dangled at the end of what was, maybe, three feet of rope, part of which was tied to his waist, part twisted around his wrist. The tether led to Blair's mangled wrist and Jim could see wet, muddy hair flying in the wind of the cliff and Blair's blood, stark red... and finally - Brackett's eyes - gazing up at him as Jim brought the blade down....

In spite of the pain, Brackett could see Blair's face through the mass of hair. The younger man's eyes were closed, his mouth open as he tried to breathe. And finally, he could see Ellison.

If he struggled, pulled, and ignored the pain, he could take Blair over with him... if.

Brackett willed himself into stillness as he stared up at his nemesis. Icy blue eyes connected with pain-darkened blues and as Jim rested the knife against the cord, Brackett nodded his head ever so slightly.

Jim sliced through the rope.

Without a sound, Brackett dropped to his death.

Blair felt the sudden release and the accompanying pain. Then he was being pulled back and away from the edge. Arms moved around his chest as his body hit solid ground and he was turned over and felt a yielding hardness beneath him. He didn't stop to wonder, just closed his eyes again.

Simon felt the give as Brackett was cut loose and at the same time he pulled with all his strength, along with Jim. Together, they got Blair away from the edge. Simon collapsed onto his back and shut his eyes.

Jim wrapped his arms around Blair and rolled them both over so that Blair's body rested across his chest. He didn't let go.

The rain, as if understanding that the battle was over and won, slowed to a soft drizzle. The wind dropped to a gentle breeze.

"Jesus, he's cold, Jim."

Ellison nodded, already stripping off his own heavy jacket and laying it over the still man. Once that was done, they both began to take stock of Blair's injuries. Gentle sentinel fingers began to probe as Simon did the same.

"His wrists, God, his wrists."

"Broken, Simon. His right wrist is broken and his shoulder is dislocated. Not surprising, considering."

Simon blinked at the tone of Jim's voice. There was no emotion in it at all. This from the man who'd threatened to leave Simon behind if he couldn't keep up? Who'd been this, this, creature, whose only goal was retrieving that which had been taken from him?

"It's his body temperature that I'm worried about. We could be dealing with hypothermia. We have to warm him up, fast. And I've got to fix his arm."

"A fire's impossible, Jim."

"No kidding. Call Darren, let him know where we are. If we can get Sandburg down to that clearing we passed, Darren can land and pick us up. He can take us directly to the nearest hospital."

Simon ignored the fact that Jim was giving him orders as he pulled the radio Darren had gvien them from his pocket.

"Darren, can you read?"

The radio clicked with static, then Darren's voice answered, "Loud and clear, Simon. Any luck?"

"We've got him. But we need a pick-up. There was a clearing, Jim thinks you can land there...."

Once he'd done what he could for Blair's arm, Jim, using the first aid kit they'd brought with them, took care of the damaged wrists, the hardest part being the removal of the pieces of rope that had become imbedded in the raw flesh. Sentinel vision aided in getting it all and he was grateful that Blair remained unconscious. When the wrists were clean, Jim carefully bandaged them, then turned his attention to the other injuries.

Several of the cuts and scrapes that covered Blair's arms, face, neck and other parts of exposed skin, demanded cleaning and bandaging, but most only required an antibiotic ointment. There was nothing either of the two men could do about the myriad of bruises that covered Blair's face and arms.

And then there were Blair's feet.

Simon managed to keep his temper through all the first aid ministrations applied by both of them, but one look at Blair's feet and Simon lost it. His anger brought him up, eyes searching for something, anything, with which to vent the boiling rage. He spotted a large broken branch and pounced on it. As he straightened, he swung the heavy branch back and slammed it into a nearby tree. Three times. Until there was nothing of the branch left.

"If he weren't already dead, Jim...."

"I know," the sentinel said quietly, as busy hands bandaged the damaged feet.

Those simple two words gave Simon new avenues for his anger.

"Christ Almighty, Jim, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you suddenly blind? Can't you see what he's been through? How can you be so God damned...."

Jim rested a hand on Blair's forehead and interrupted quietly, "I have him back, Simon. I have him back."

Simon scraped a hand over his jaw, his anger leaching away.

"Right. Right."

Of all of Blair's injuries, the one that worried Jim the most was Blair's breathing. It was labored and the sentinel could hear and feel the struggling, congested lungs.

With Blair's arm in a make-shift sling and his body wrapped up in both Jim's and Simon's jackets, it was time to head down to the clearing and hopefully - Darren and the chopper.

Jim slung the backpack over his shoulders and bent over, ready to pick Sandburg up in his arms. He was startled when blue eyes fluttered open.

"who...wha'...."

Jim and Simon both dropped to their knees beside Sandburg as Jim asked with a smile, "Hey, buddy, you back with us?"

Blair tried to focus but once his body understood that everything was over, it had finally let go, pain, cold, all of it - taking over.

"Blair, can you look at me?"

He heard the voice, but it seemed so far away....

" 'im?"

"Yeah, it's me. Simon too. We're going to get you out of here. I'm going to carry you, Blair and I'll be as gentle as possible, okay?"

"sure... sure," he managed. Then, "can - walk. will walk."

Smiling, Jim slid an arm under Blair's neck and the other arm under his waist and as he lifted, he lied, "Sure, sure. Walk."

"yeah, walk. been walking for... years. good at it. not good at much...else, but can do - that."

Straightening up, Blair's head cushioned against his chest, Jim said quietly, "No problem, buddy, no problem. One foot in front of the other and we'll walk outta here."

"good, good."

Jim met Simon's gaze and both men smiled. Blair had no idea that even now he was securely held in Jim's arms - not walking.

Careful of their footing, Jim and Simon started down, Simon clearing the way for Jim and his passenger.

Darren found the clearing and high-fived himself. It was definitely big enough. A few minutes later he was on the ground.

The moment he landed, he got on the radio and called in the emergency. He wasn't surprised when he received clearance to land the chopper on top of Mercy Hospital in - Cascade. Considering that they were half-way between Vancouver Island and Seattle, Mercy was as close as any other hospital.

Once his call was made, he did some shifting, dropping seat backs and creating a flat surface for Sandburg. Simon would still fit in the seat behind. He draped the seats with a warm blanket and waited.

The trip down was slow but Jim's load never felt anything but light to him. Simon tried several times to take Blair from him, to give him a rest, but damn, it seemed that Jim - growled - when Simon made each attempt. Eventually, Simon gave up and just kept the path clear.

Blair never stirred, just lay listless and shivering in Jim's arms.

After almost an hour, Simon asked, "Do you see it yet?"

"Yeah, he's waiting." Then to Blair, "We're almost there, buddy, hang on a bit longer."

Somehow they managed to pick up the pace as the promise of the chopper and safety for Blair tantalized them.

Darren spotted them and as he started forward, Simon waved him back. Darren understood and jumped into the Bell to start her up. Once the blades were whirling, he climbed into the back and as they came up, Simon joined him and together they took the injured man from Ellison and settled him in. Simon climbed back down, took Jim's pack and his own, threw them into the back and then took the front seat. With a thankful glance, Jim climbed into the seat behind Blair.

Darren lifted off.

The trip to Mercy was made in silence as Jim continued to monitor Sandburg, one hand never breaking their connection.

When they finally landed, several people rushed forward with a gurney and Blair was carefully extricated and wheeled inside, Jim and Simon following. Darren had to get the chopper off the pad and with a promise to call everyone and then return, he took off.

Simon and Jim ran behind the medical staff as Blair was wheeled into emergency, but they were both stopped as the gurney was pushed into the first available treatment room. Simon grabbed Jim's arm before the man could argue and led him to the waiting room. A room he thoroughly hated with all his being. A room he'd been in for Sandburg only a few weeks ago. Jim was still staring back at the cubicle as Simon pushed, saying, "He's okay, Jim, he's going to be okay. Let's sit down and wait."

"His lungs. You don't understand, his lungs."

Simon turned his friend around to face him. "Jim, there's nothing you can do. Nothing. You found him, you brought him back, now it's up to the doctors and Sandburg. Sit down."

For the first time since the fountain, Ellison seemed to break.

"What, what if he - you've seen him lately, Simon, what if he doesn't...."

"Stop that right now, Detective. Sandburg is a fighter, he doesn't give up - ever. Do you hear me?"

Tortured eyes focused on Simon's mouth as Jim whispered, "what if he's already - given up?"

"Blair Sandburg?"

The tall man in green scrubs stood at the entrance to the waiting room, searching for acknowledgment. Jim and Simon both stood and the doctor made his way to them.

"You're waiting to hear on Mr. Sandburg?"

"Yes," Simon stepped forward, "I'm Captain Simon Banks and this is Detective Jim Ellison. Blair is his partner. We brought him in."

The man nodded and said, "I'm Doctor Snyder, one of the ER doctors working on Mr. Sandburg. Why don't you both sit back down while I fill you in?"

Simon had to give Jim a slight push, but down he finally went. Doctor Snyder took up residence on the edge of the magazine table in front of the two.

"Basically," he started before either man could ask, " we've brought his temperature up, set his wrist, and taken X-rays, we have him scheduled for an MRI in the next thirty minutes or so, but our main concern would be his lungs. In pulling his file, I noted that we had him in here six weeks ago - a drowning. Well, his lungs are his weak spot right now and there is some congestion and labored breathing...."

"Pneumonia?" Jim asked, his voice strained.

"Not yet, Detective Ellison, not yet. But if we're all not careful, yes, we could be looking at that. We're obviously going to keep him overnight but that's a precaution more than anything else. I don't expect to find anything in the MRI that I'm not already aware of, but again, we're playing it safe," he held up his hand as Simon started to ask something, "And the reason we're sending him home is simple. A hospital, any hospital, when you're dealing with a possibility of pneumonia, is not the safest spot to be. He'll be more comfortable at home and we have a better opportunity to stave off staph or pneumonia."

The doctor stood and again before any questions could be asked, he went on. "He's going to need a lot of rest, he's isn't going to be really up for much more than hobbling around and he should try to stay off his feet for the first couple of days. When we take off the cast in six weeks, he's in for some serious therapy on his arm. He's going to be frustrated, in pain, and uncomfortable and as soon as we get him into a room, you can see him." Then with a twitch at the corner of his mouth, he asked, "Have I left anything out, gentlemen?"

"You've dealt with cops before, I take it?" Simon asked with his own twitching lips.

"ER in New York. Then Los Angeles. I thought things would be quieter here in Cascade."

Simon's answer was a snort.

Smiling, Doctor Snyder said, "Mr. Sandburg really is going to be fine - in time. He's young and strong."

"Thank you, Doctor Snyder. Thank you very much." Simon held out his hand and the two shook, then the man went back to work.

"So. He's going to be fine - in time."

Jim wasn't listening, he was focused on Blair.

They walked down the hall and turned into room 223. Blair was in bed B. One muted light was on in bed A, but other than that, Blair's side of the room was dark. A nur