Vin Tanner stared as the federal agent entered the small interrogation room: the man held a manila folder in his hand, which he opened as he began to pace the length of the wall, not speaking or even looking at Vin.He watched the tall, lithe man striding casually to and fro, admiring the clean lines of his dark gray suit — not quite as flattering to his tight ass as the Levi's he'd been wearing hours ago when they'd first met, but not bad. Vin twisted his hands, trying to ease the pressure on his wrists and keep the blood flowing in his arms that were handcuffed to a metal loop imbedded in the center of the table.
"You've got quite a file here, Tanner. Bounty hunter; U.S. Marshall; bachelor's degree; Army Ranger; Purple Heart; commendations from your superiors; awards for marksmanship ... you were even selected as an alternate for the 1990 U.S. Olympic biathlon team. There anything you can't do?"
Find someone to love me, was Vin's immediate thought, though he kept it to himself.
"At the moment, feel my fingers," he replied with only a small measure of sarcasm tainting his voice as he stared straight into those intense green eyes for the second time that day. When the ATF agent didn't respond, Vin rattled the metal handcuffs. "These really necessary?" If he was going to be handcuffed with this man in the room, he'd prefer it be a bedroom, with low lights, less clothes, and fuzzy pads on the cuffs.
Chris Larabee shook his head, and then moved to the table, setting down the folder before unlocking the restraints. Vin snatched up the paperwork as soon as his hands were free, sooner than Chris could react to stop him. He leafed through all the information as quickly as he could, knowing the folder'd be taken away from him any moment.
But, to his surprise, Agent Larabee merely leaned against the far wall and allowed him to look. It appeared that the folder contained copies of everything that had ever been put on paper or into a computer about Vincent Michael Tanner, from his birth and foster care records to x-rays from his last visit to the dentist. These guys were thorough, which left only one question: why?
"What's so important 'bout me that you've got all this information?"
Agent Larabee didn't answer. What he did do was look over his shoulder into the mirror — the standard two-way mirror, usually with video cameras, tape recorders, and police personnel on the opposite side. "How about I buy you a beer?"
Vin shrugged. "Sure, if ya think they'll let me outta this pop-stand." As he stood, Larabee gave him a sidelong smile that Vin took to mean that the agent had more sway with the cops than Vin had reason to suspect.
Moments later, they were at the front desk and Vin was retrieving his personal affects. He checked the two envelopes they handed him: one contained his wallet, keys, and weapons; the other contained his ammunition. He signed the itemized release form, then he turned to Agent Larabee, nodding that he was ready to go.
Vin knew some bars in the area — some nice ones and some not-so-nice ones — but he wasn't about to suggest any of them to this man. He hadn't failed to notice the agent's hands, rough from doing more than typing at a computer and taking target practice, and tan, meaning he spent a good deal of time outdoors, during daylight hours; the small circle of pale skin on one of his fingers also hadn't escaped Vin's quick eye. This man had worn a ring, most likely a wedding band, until very recently. Divorced? Given the national statistics, and the ones for this man's chosen profession, it was the most likely guess.
As they reached the parking lot, Agent Larabee gestured toward a black Dodge Ram — not new, but not in bad condition either, and, judging by the thickness of the mud splatters fanning across the driver-side door, Vin knew this truck saw more dirt roads than his Jeep. As he rounded the tailgate, he noticed loose bits of hay and alfalfa in the back.
"Ya keep horses," he said when Larabee pushed opened the passenger-side door from the inside.
"Yeah, a few. You ride?"
"Been known to."
"That wasn't in your file."
"Reckon the government don't know everything 'bout me after all," and for that he was glad. There was plenty of stuff that was none of their damn business!
"Ya mind?" Vin asked, as he set the two envelopes on the bench seat, not yet getting into the cab. Larabee shook his head, so Vin carefully dumped out the contents; he checked the guns over, and then matched up the firearms with their corresponding clips before tucking the guns away into their assigned holsters. Finally, his keys went into his front right pocket, the wallet went into his back left pocket, the small knife went into a sheath at his ankle, the Leatherman went into its rectangular case attached to his belt, and the large blade slid into the sheath at his left hip.
"That's quite an arsenal you have there," Chris commented when Vin finally hopped into the truck and slammed the door shut.
"Don't have the luxury of callin' fer back-up like you civil servants do. And bounty hunting is a rather unpredictable job; ya never know who yer gonna run into, or when."
"Like today."
Vin nodded. He hadn't been working a bounty, but he'd inadvertently been in the right place at the right time, in time to save a man from certain death. Had he been just an ordinary citizen, some stock boy with a broom in his hands, that man would probably be dead now. And this ATF agent knew it; Vin had seen it in his eyes. That's all it had taken, he realized, now that he had time to really think about it, as Agent Larabee steered the truck out into the late afternoon traffic.
He'd spotted the man in trouble — Nathan Jackson was his name, he'd learned later — before the man on the opposite side of the street had come into view — this man sitting beside him now, Chris Larabee. Their eyes had met for the briefest of moments, but it had been enough; so much had passed between them — hell, Vin could have kissed him, sucked him, and fucked him within the eternity of those few seconds — enough for them both to know that they'd be working together to save Nathan's life.
Vin hadn't known at the time who Chris and Nathan were; they'd been wearing ordinary street clothes: jeans, t-shirts, running shoes. It wasn't until later, when the cops showed up and he found his ass being shoved into the back of a black-and-white, that Vin had found out the two men were ATF. The police had questioned him for hours; when he'd requested a lawyer, the charges of aiding and abetting known felons, as well as obstruction of justice, were dropped, leaving him as a material witness with no right to council. He didn't know what Agent Larabee had said or done, but whatever it was, it had allowed him to walk out of that police station better off than he'd walked in.
It wasn't long before Agent Larabee pulled his truck off the street and into a small parking lot. The building in front of them was not large — one story, but with an old-west-style false-facade giving it the illusion of two. Back in the day, this place would have had a second story, with rooms for rent, by the night or by the hour, with lots of working girls to occupy them. Not really Vin's kind of place. But, as long as they had beer....
"This is J. Watson's," the man said as he cut the engine. "We call it The Saloon."
Very imaginative, Vin thought sarcastically, but asked, "We?"
Agent Larabee just nodded, but didn't elaborate. He slid out of the truck and Vin followed, falling in step beside him as they headed into the bar. Vin wasn't surprised by the interior; it fit the exterior to a tee. Old West, anywhere from post-Civil War to pre-Turn-Of-The-Century — he couldn't guess any more precisely than that from the furnishings and bric-a-brac cluttering the walls. The only things missing were dirt and sawdust on the floor; he supposed the government was at least good for that, its health codes.
The lean blond man headed toward the bar and, for a moment, Vin pictured him in a cowboy hat — black, he imagined — a duster, maybe, or a Clint Eastwood-style serape, silver six-shooter at his hip, and spurs jangling on his boots. He knew little about this man, yet he had the feeling that image was more true to his spirit than the dark gray suit he currently wore.
The bartender came over — a ginger-haired man with a handlebar mustache and a striped shirt that made him look like a Las Vegas poker dealer. The ATF agent looked at Vin.
"Guinness." A meal in a bottle — Vin hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast.
Agent Larabee ordered a Heineken. Once they were served, the man took his beer mug in hand and turned, leaning his back against the bar, seemingly scanning the room. Vin took the cue and did the same. He immediately saw the man he'd help save earlier that day: Nathan Jackson. The handsome black man came over, with a bear of an older white man just behind.
"Mr. Tanner," Nathan began, but was immediately corrected.
"It's just Vin."
Nathan nodded. "Vin. I'd like you to meet Josiah Sanchez."
Vin shifted his drink to his left hand, wiped his right palm against his pants to dry it, and then stuck his arm out. His fingers were immediately swallowed by Josiah's much larger hand, and Vin was surprised that the handshake was warm and firm but not crushing. The man's quiet self-confidence immediately impressed him.
"Josiah, this man helped me out of quite a scrape today. I'm mighty grateful, Vin. The next one's on me," he said, motioning toward Vin's beer.
Vin smiled and nodded.
"Good to meet you, Vin," Josiah said. "Think I'd like to buy you a beer after Nathan does, if you stick around that long." The large man shot a glance at Agent Larabee, which Vin thought maybe he wasn't supposed to notice. He didn't know what that look meant, but he had a feeling it had something to do with why Agent Larabee had brought him here.
Nathan and Josiah headed back to their table then, and Vin followed them with his eyes, until a hearty laugh across the room caught his attention. A very good-looking man with dark hair and a mustache had a waitress on his lap and they were both laughing their asses off about something.
"That's Buck," Agent Larabee said, gesturing toward the demonstrative pair with his mug. "Buck Wilmington. We go way back." He didn't say how far back, or what had sparked the acquaintance, and Vin got the feeling Agent Larabee was a man who told what he wanted you to know and nothing more. His past was his own, and Vin didn't have a problem with that philosophy.
Suddenly, the room fell silent. In the middle, a man stood. He threw a hand of cards down onto the table. "You son of a bitch—"
"Please. I do believe there are ladies present," the man opposite said with a calm drawl. Vin didn't see any ladies, other than the one barmaid still sitting in Buck Wilmington's lap, but he supposed that wasn't exactly the point of the Southerner's comment.
"Why you—"
The Southerner held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Sir, perhaps you do not realize there are more law enforcement officers in this room right now than are currently occupying desks at the nearest precinct, and, as you may know, they make excellent and most reliable witnesses in court. If you are aggrieved because I have caught you at cheating, then I would suggest you leave quietly and with all due haste. I would hate to disturb any of these fine officers during their off hours."
The man fumed, clenching his fists and puffing air for a few moments, before turning and heading straight out of the saloon. Vin thought for certain there was going to be a good old-fashioned bar fight, but no such luck.
"Ezra Standish," Agent Larabee supplied once the room began to fill with normal conversation again.
The southerner didn't strike any particular cords with Vin, though he wasn't difficult to look at. He supposed if the timing were right, if the man was of the persuasion, which Vin doubted, despite his choice of clothing.... "Sure dresses purty."
This observation made Larabee laugh. "So, Vin, I suppose you're wondering why I brought you here."
"Not really, Agent L—"
"Name's Chris."
"Chris. Just glad ta get outta that police station. And happy ta let ya wet my whistle."
Chris raised an eyebrow at the comment, but then just took a quick sip of his beer. "Well, I do have a reason. There's something I want to ask you, and I thought a little privacy was in order."
Vin nearly choked. The bar they were standing in was hardly private, and it was obviously filled with very straight cops of one sort or another, so the man couldn't mean what Vin could only hope he meant: I want to fuck you, but didn't want to say so in the police station where our conversation most likely would have been recorded.
"These men — Nathan, Josiah, Buck, and Ezra — they're all members of my ATF team."
Vin nodded. He knew the man wasn't suggesting an orgy, but he was suggesting something. Vin just hadn't figured out what yet.
"That's why I had your file. After seeing you in action today, I wanted to know if your skills, your talents—"
Vin knew this man didn't have the slightest clue what the depth and breadth of his talents really were.
"—would compliment my team."
Compliment? How in the hell could a bounty hunter, a gay one at that, compliment an ATF team? And, why would this man care?
"Vin, I'm recruiting you. I want you to join the team."
Vin just stared at Chris and, for a moment, he was caught again by the intensity of those green eyes. If this man were gay, Vin would pull him into the bathroom so quick his head would spin. Vin had little restraint when it came to sexual encounters; the truth was, lately, he had little need for restraint, merely discretion, and that only occasionally. But, as an ATF agent ... no, he couldn't handle that. They wouldn't want him if they knew what he was. They wouldn't accept him, not those four teammates, not the agency itself. He'd had a hard enough time hiding it when he was with the U.S. Marshalls, and when his superiors had found out, he'd been railroaded out of a job; though, after seeing his file today, he finally knew there was nothing specific in his records about it.
But, for some reason Vin couldn't put into words, knowing that this man standing beside him would never accept him seemed to matter more than anything right at that moment.
He'd known Chris Larabee less than a day, been in his presence less than sixty minutes of that day, so why in the hell was he feeling like he'd known this man all his life, like it was important what this virtual stranger thought of him?
God, he just wanted to kiss him, right then and there. The urge was so strong that he nearly gave into it. And why the hell not? What's the worst that would happen: a thrown punch, a minor beating — Vin glanced about the room and changed his guess to a major beating — and then a cab ride back to where he'd left his Jeep? He'd never see this man again anyway. The ATF, yeah, right — he was so not federal agent material.
Vin sipped at his beer, waiting to see what Chris would do next, what he would say, but the man remained silent, lazily sipping his beer like he could wait an eternity for Vin's answer. But then it suddenly occurred to Vin that this man would not wait, because he simply wouldn't take no for an answer.
He then began to think through things again. He'd made it through eight years of the army — and things didn't get much more bureaucratic than that. And he'd been a damn fine Deputy U.S. Marshall, for as long as they had allowed him to be. And Colorado was a lot more tolerant of gays than most other states, so his off-hour habits probably wouldn't stand out quite as much, making it easier to slip them under the government's radar. Maybe he could handle being a federal agent....
"What makes ya think I'm ATF material?" he finally asked, really wanting to know what this man thought, what he'd gleaned from their brief encounter that morning, as well as from his rather thick personal file.
"I don't. And that's not why any of these men were chosen. They all have their talents, they work well as individuals, and they work well with each other. What the team is missing, though, is a weapons expert. With your talent as a marksman, as well as your degree and your background in the army.... More importantly, though, I've seen you in action. You could have just walked away this morning—"
"No. I couldn't have."
Chris just smiled and Vin supposed he'd inadvertently given the man the answer he was fishing for.
"The odds aren't always in our favor, and this team tends to land the hard assignments, but our success rate is high. They're good men, Vin. I think you'll fit right in."
That wasn't something Vin had ever done very easily: fit in. He was always different from everyone else, in one way or another. First it was not having a family, a mom and a dad, like all the other kids, and later it was being gay. After the army and the marshalls, bounty hunting seemed like a good career choice — set your own hours, work when you want, rely on yourself.
And it had been good work, paying enough money to keep him comfortable, and it kept some scum off the streets. But there was one thing he'd never gotten from it, the only thing he'd really gotten from his time in the army: a sense of being part of something bigger than himself, of being counted on and valued, of being part of a team.
Then he smiled a wide, lopsided grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes — somehow, he just couldn't bring himself to say no to this man.
"Reckon there're worse ways ta make a livin'."
~ fade ~
April 2002Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.
Characters from "The Magnificent Seven" were used without permission and this story in no way signifies support of, or affiliation with, The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, or CBS Worldwide, Inc. The M7-ATF universe was created by Mog, and extra thanks go to her for allowing other people to play within it. The story itself and any non-Magnificent Seven characters belong to the author. This story will not be sold for any reason.