PART ONE
"I thought I told you to finish that report ASAP." Chris Larabee glared at JD Dunne. "I'm getting questioned about it, and I have to hold my ass and say I don't know."
"I finished it, Chris, and put it on your desk."
Slowly, the leader of Denver's infamous ATF Team Seven advanced on the youngest, his expression a study in fury. Each word was spat out with precision in a clipped, hard tone. "I don't have it."
JD squeezed into the leader's office and around the form blocking his way. Rifling through a stack of files buried beneath two inches of correspondence, he came up with the report. "Here."
"Why did you bury it? I never would have found it." Sparks flew from the leader's gaze.
"The desk was clear when I put it there."
"You didn't tell me it was there!" Chris yelled.
Five men served as silent spectators to the confrontation, all fully aware that it would only end badly. Interference was never welcome; it only made things worse.
Obviously having enough of this rough treatment, JD got right in his superior's face just outside Larabee's door. "I told you, and then I sent you an e-mail, like you asked, because you said you would forget. Do you want to see the acknowledgement that you opened and read the e-mail?"
"Get out of my sight, weasel!" Chris brushed hard past him and slammed the door, nearly hitting JD in the face.
"He's getting worse," JD said softly. "That's the fourth weasel in two days." Taking a deep breath, he returned to his desk and collapsed in his chair. A touch of hurt showed on his face.
"Don't let him get you down." Buck reached over and squeezed a shoulder.
"I know he's tired and stressed, Buck, but he doesn't have to take it out on us. Shoot, I expect it because I maintain the statistics, but still, we're not his punching bags."
"We know. Not much of an explanation, but it's budget time. He's always mean when he's fighting to get us money," Nathan said. "I'd get testy too if I had to fight everyone that sticks their nose in our business about every penny."
"Mr. Larabee passed testy last week. I believe he's now reached tyrant," Ezra commented.
The office door flew open. "Don't you people have work to do?" A lethal glare encompassed the room, stayed for a moment, and then disappeared with yet another slamming of the door.
"He's gonna break it 'fore it's done." Vin Tanner sighed. "Hate seein' him this way."
"We all do," Josiah said. "Only thing we can do is ride it out. Then he'll calm down."
"I don't know about the rest of you gentlemen, but I sincerely intend to stay out of his way." Ezra mock-shuddered. "Especially considering the next few days will require all his attention and forbearance."
"That's right." Nathan snapped his fingers. "The final selections and arguments."
"You mean Mortal Kombat ™," Buck muttered. "To the death."
"I swear I can't even hear myself think over your chatter! Will you, for once in your lives, shut your mouths and work in silence?" Chris stood in the doorway of his office, giving each of his men a look that would send lesser beings scurrying for cover or giving up lifelong secrets.
"How about we adjourn for lunch?" Buck asked. "We'll bring you something. That's an hour's break."
"Fine, go, do whatever. Just give me silence." Rubbing his temples, Chris Larabee went back into his office.
Quietly, the men left, and when they returned, they used care in not making too much noise. This pattern continued for several more days, until the hearings were over, and the budget announced.
When the final announcements came out, Chris managed a weak smile in private – he'd gotten a five percent increase in his budget across the board. It was rougher this year; the success barely justified what he’d put himself and his team through. Now he was exhausted, and too drained to start making amends to his team. He knew he needed to; they didn’t deserve what he’d put them through, but he was just too tired to even think of how to begin. He stayed in a funk for a day or so.
+ + + + + + +
Assistant Director Orin Travis watched the previous few weeks take their toll on his team leaders, and knew he couldn't show any favoritism. Every team had to win the budget battles on their own. Team Seven, his most unusual, wasn't the only team the Assistant Director was responsible for, and all of them were fighting for the limited funds. He felt very strongly for his teams, and he wanted the best for them.
As the boss, and a cunning one at that, he'd been keeping an eye on his team leaders, knowing what they were all going through and how hard it was. Some of them bore up well under the stress of budget time, declining his offer of time off, but others were more than happy to take leave. Having sat across from Chris in many of the meetings, he could easily see the strain, since Team Seven – as usual – came under the heaviest scrutiny.
There wasn't any doubt that Chris could handle it, and he would overcome it, but he knew this year was harder with the budget meetings coming on the heels of several tough cases for Team Seven. Travis also heard the rumors that Larabee's temper was coming out in snaps and snarls at his own teammates. He often didn't listen to the rumors, but his infrequent visits during the budget crisis showed how much Team Seven was avoiding their leader, while trying to act natural for the AD's sake.
Since he was the boss, he could do something about it. A thorough check and comparison of Team Seven's – specifically Larabee's - leave usage showed the man had not taken a vacation by himself for months. Almost every one of the leaves had been with the entire team, and one was with Vin Tanner. Orin Travis thought it was high time for Chris to have a break - not only from the job - but from his teammates and friends as well. Maybe the distance would make him feel a little more disposed toward their antics and in a better frame of mind when he came back.
Larabee's file spoke of a man who enjoyed his solitude, usually going out of his way during his weekends off by himself. Sometimes Buck or Vin were invited, sometimes not; either way, though, Chris was almost always on call. He might be off-duty, but when one of the boys got into the middle of something – a frequent occurrence – then Chris got a phone call. Being the good friend and team leader he was, Larabee got involved at that point. Many a weekend was interrupted, and Travis privately wondered why Chris hadn't gone insane, lost his temper to the point of serious violence, or gotten an ulcer from the constant pressure.
The man needed to recharge. Constantly defending his friends during the hearings, always on the deferential defensive to higher-ups than Travis, and still dealing with the day-to-day operation pulled him in too many directions. None of it was helped by the team's latest stunt of losing yet another Administrative Assistant because the woman found the working conditions 'too fast changing' and the 'highly charged atmosphere daunting and overwhelming'.
Losing the AA only put Team Seven further behind in their routine paperwork, a situation mildly alleviated with Buck and Vin charming other AA's to help them. Doing that only brought more idiotic complaints by petulant team leaders against Seven, putting Chris further on the defensive. It had to stop, and it would stop now.
With Chris Larabee's mental health and welfare on his mind, along with the refusal to take 'no' for an answer, Assistant Director Orin Travis chose to face the lion in his den. When he entered the offices of Team Seven, they quieted, greeted him, but they were not their ebullient, zany selves. They were subdued, as if they knew the budget victory was hollow for all the pain they endured. He was right this was something they all needed. Giving them an encouraging nod, he knocked on the team leader's closed door.
"What?" Chris's voice was a cross between a snarl and a yell, with a touch of annoyance mixed in.
Travis opened the door, walked in, and closed it. "Good afternoon, Chris." He took a seat across from the man, waving him back into his own chair.
"What can I do for you?"
The lack of a 'sir' on the end of that told Travis more about his Agent's state of mind; Chris was ready to fight at the least provocation. "It's more what I am going to do for you."
"Meaning?" Chris seemed more than wary after the weeks of fending off backstabbing attempts from other administrators trying to do the best for their teams.
The Assistant Director read the suspicion in the tone. "Meaning you are going to go on vacation for two weeks, by yourself, to a location of your choosing, and the only one you will give your location and phone number to is me."
"What?"
"Effective at the end of today, you are officially on annual leave for the next two weeks. Go away, get lost, hug a tree, fight a bear, dance the cha-cha, whatever, but just take a break. You've pushed yourself and your people hard with your cases and the budget, and the strain's showing. You need a vacation."
"I didn't ask for a vacation."
"No, you didn't. But you need one, Chris."
"I'm perfectly fine."
"So fine that your team's reluctant to come to you, screening your calls, your mail, and taking abuse from everyone else in this building with a problem to spare you. In return, you've called them names, bullied them, and pushed them around. Not exactly leadership behavior . . . not to mention that of a friend."
Chris scowled, feeling the truth of the words, but still didn’t like facing how bad he had been . . . especially toward his friends. "We're fine."
"They're fine, you're not."
Chris pushed himself to his feet. "Are you saying I'm unfit for duty?"
"No. Sit down. I'm not straining my neck to stare up at you." Travis waited until the other man complied. A part of him wasn't sure that Chris would, but after a few seconds, he did retake his seat. "Chris, I've checked your file. You have not had an uninterrupted, solo vacation since the formation of this team, and you used to take them often. You have had one – just one – with only one other team member. The rest were with the group. Now, I know that's by choice, and I have no problems with what you do during your down time."
"Damn right."
Travis raised a hand. "Hear me out. The man I hired was a loner, and I worried about making a coherent team. Against the odds, you've got a great group of people. Now, if I said that one of them was cranky, mean, derogatory towards the others, and generally an all around pain in the ass, wouldn't you think something was wrong? I don't mean Ezra and his expense account, either. If you knew that man had been under a lot of stress lately, that maybe just maybe, you might think he needed some time off? That it might help him regroup and straighten himself out?"
Chris considered for long minutes.
The AD waited him out.
Larabee finally sighed, "If you order me to take time off, I will."
"I order it." Travis knew he won, and he gave Chris the out the proud man was looking for gladly. "Let me know where you're going. Don't think you're staying home; you'll only get bothered there. If you want, you can use my cabin."
"No. I know where I'm going." He gave Travis a half-smile. "There's a campground in the mountains I used to go to all the time. Clean air, tall trees, great fishing."
"Sounds good."
"I doubt my cell will work up there, but I'll give you the number to the dry goods store that serves as a base station. They can find me if you need me."
Travis stood, extending his hand. "Enjoy your vacation."
"I'm only going because you're ordering me."
Both men knew that statement did not deserve a comment. On those words, Travis left.
+ + + + + + +
Chris sat in his office and considered. He knew not going wasn't an option, and part of him looked forward to the break. That told him he'd been working too hard. His eyes caught sight of the mostly empty antacid bottle, trying to remember when he bought it. With a start, he realized it was brand new a couple days ago; definitely not long enough to have eaten that many. Obviously, he did, especially with the fits his stomach was giving him even now. The steady diet of coffee, candy, and antacids was ripping a hole in his gut, even some time after his victory and change in eating habits.
The quiet finally reached him. Outside his office door, six men who only knew silence in life or death situations were not speaking. He could actually hear keystrokes, and the squeaky file drawers sliding open and closed. The phones were muted so far he barely heard a ring.
It was unnerving.
Had he been that bad?
Rubbing his temples, he thought back on the past few weeks. He felt like he was waking from a nightmare, yet realized the horrible person starring in it was him. Did he say all those things? Taking a deep breath, Chris felt guilt pour through him for his actions and words.
Maybe he'd shattered their trust in him with his words and deeds. If so, he didn't deserve to be around them. If not, he still knew he wasn't back to normal, whatever that was, and a little space could help ease them back into a good working relationship, more give and take then him yelling and taking. Grabbing his courage in both hands, for better or worse, he exited his office.
Immediately, what little noise there was stopped. Their eyes focused on him, and he saw the wariness in them. They were trying to hide it - bless them - but it was there. The silence unnerved him again.
"I'm sorry."
He could tell that wasn't what they expected, all except Tanner. The Texan's slight smile encouraged him that he was on the right path.
"I've been a jackass, and taking out my anger on you. I can't promise I won't do it again, but I'm going to try."
Buck crossed the room to circle around him, staring him down with an unreadable expression. "Look who finally pulled his head of his ass."
The rogue stopped in front of him, holding out his hand.
Chris took it, and then did something that felt right. He pulled Buck into a back-slapping hug.
Once released, Wilmington said, "You're lucky, Stud. Another couple of days, and I was going to do it for you."
Relief filled him that they were okay, until Buck used his eyes to indicate the rest of the team, JD especially.
"JD."
"Yeah?"
"I've treated you worst of all. You're not a weasel."
"I'm not, but you mastered jackass." JD grinned.
Chris smiled, realizing it was the first one in weeks.
"Ya break inta song and dance, cowboy, and I'll knock ya flat." Vin strode over, hand extended. They clasped forearms.
"Mr. Larabee." Ezra gave him a half-bow.
"Mr. Standish." Chris returned the gesture.
"I understand our esteemed Assistant Director has ordered your leave."
Chris looked at his undercover agent in shock, wondering now if he was a victim of conspiracy. “How did you find out so fast?”
Ezra managed to look a little chagrined. “I merely ascertained that may be the direction the wind was blowing.” He grinned broadly. “You just confirmed my deductions were indeed correct.”
Larabee nodded, saluting the intelligent conman. "He figured I needed a break."
"Ya do," Vin said simply. "We'll mind the store."
Larabee looked horrified, “Maybe I should stay . . .”
Buck clamped his hand around his friend’s neck. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Gotcha,” Chris grinned. "After I buy a round tonight. I'll leave tomorrow."
PART TWO
Chris kept his window down on this last leg of his drive, enjoying the clean mountain air. He had checked in at the dry goods store, and now was coming to a stop beside his favorite campsite. Parking the truck, he climbed out and stretched his back. Each movement brought a particular sense of satisfaction to him, and a sense of peace started to envelope him.
He didn't mind setting up his camp, and it wasn't long before he pitched a tent, settled in, and was comfortably stretched out in the low folding chair he brought. A beer was in one hand, and a cigar in the other. It didn't take him long before he finished his cigar and the beer, taking care to make sure the bottle went into the recycle bag, and the cigar was properly extinguished.
The drive up here had taken a few hours, and he hadn't slept well the night before. Of course, carousing with the boys was always a recipe for sleep deprivation. Especially this time, since they all got sloppy and had to be poured into their beds by friends making sure they reached their homes safely. But the evening had been a small start to repairing the damaging rift he’d managed to create over the last few weeks.
Feeling tired, and deciding to treat himself, he went to bed early. Nothing disturbed him through the night, and he woke up refreshed. His second day found him down by the stream casting his line. While he waited for bites, he had time to reflect. He decided his life was pretty good; enjoyable, in fact.
His job, while stressful, was one of the most rewarding of his life. Not only did he take violent criminals and their weapons off the street, but he had the best team. He'd heard most of the complaints about his men, and he knew their character flaws. But it was those very flaws that made them a formidable force.
Buck had his weakness for women, something that would never change. Maybe it would when he finally found the right Mrs. Wilmington, but until that day, he'd always believe the best of women. Female criminals still gave Buck a crisis of conscience, but he did his job. Often, he did more than his job. Buck had been his salvation. Those dark days after Sarah and Adam died sent him into a spiral that was nearly irrecoverable. He couldn't count how many times the alcohol got him thinking thoughts that he shouldn't, and how many times his weapon ended up missing, or his vehicle keys disappeared. Or how many times he'd wake up with a bruised, aching jaw, a hangover, and a false hatred of Buck for making him survive. False because deep down he knew Buck was acting in his best interests, even when it went against everything that he wanted at that time. Now, Buck was his left arm, and Vin was his right.
Vin Tanner was someone else that had flaws. The reports and evaluations by the Army described a loner, someone who played for the team, but wasn't fully integrated into the team. He also didn't have the college education required, and was slowly earning his degree, but his skills outweighed the lack of a piece of paper. But it only took one meeting for Chris to know he needed the man on his team; he saw someone that knew what he wanted, wasn't going to take too much crap from anyone, and would always do the best of his ability. His friendship was the same way - Vin Tanner knew what he wanted out of his friends, he wouldn't take their crap for too long without retaliating with words or jokes, but would always do the best by his friends. The bonus was the Texan understood Chris almost better than Chris knew himself.
As for understanding himself and others, Josiah was the one person that understood his demons, along with those that resided in the man's soul. The profiler could easily heal or wound Chris with a few simple words, raising or quelling demons. Yet, without Josiah, Chris figured he'd probably have gone mad. Sometimes, his friend could see right to the heart of a problem and fix it before it ever came to his attention; without those shoulders and willing ears to listen to everyone else, they'd probably have torn each other apart. That's one of the reasons Chris understood and appreciated Josiah's demons; no man was a saint, and Josiah was no exception. Given the rarity of Josiah losing his temper, or getting so drunk he got mean and stupid, having the profiler at his back was greatly appreciated.
Another person he greatly appreciated for the morale of the team was Nathan. The forensics specialist has strong beliefs and convictions, plus the willingness to fight for those convictions, but that was one of Nathan's strengths. He often challenged them, Chris especially, to see things from a different point of view. Methodical arguments were his stock in trade, forcing them to think things through before firing off a response. Sometimes, though, his views were not those of the others, and that caused a little friction. Nathan's hot buttons were ones that usually involved prejudice, and something that they ran into when dealing with the 'good ole boy' network in some of the smaller municipalities. But Chris knew that Nathan could keep the others from running pell-mell into trouble, and that was one of the biggest helps to the team leader, not having to continually hold and yank on the reins of his team of mavericks.
The biggest maverick he had was Ezra, both a comfort and a pain to him. Ezra was the best at what he did; no one that Chris knew of came close, but Ezra also knew it. Only the man's insecurities about belonging and acceptance kept him from being the megalomaniac that he could be from all the accolades. Somehow, Ezra always knew when Chris needed to blow off some tension, and that was when the Southerner would start a debate with him. Those debates often helped Chris feel better, and no feelings got hurt. If he could only make the man understand that the ATF would not pay for every dry cleaning of his Prada suits. Of course he knew that was one of ways the undercover agent pushed his buttons to distract him, at least he thought it was; he hoped that was the case. But that was an ongoing discussion with a man that Chris honestly believed to be one of his own, and he hoped he'd finally convinced Ezra of that.
Then there was JD. JD was so young, so impressionable, but he was toughening up quick without losing too much of his innocence. The badge still had a shine to it, and he hadn't gotten too jaded yet. His enthusiasm returned a measure of Chris's nostalgia for his own days when things were so black and white, and Larabee swore he'd make sure that the kid – young man – would go as far as he could without losing that optimism. Sometimes, though, the kid's energy would drive Chris to distraction, along with exhausting the rest of the team. But as another bonus, JD brought back a spark of life to Buck, who had lingered too long in Chris's own dark shadow, giving Chris back his old friend even more than before. Buck now had someone new to tell his stories too; heck, they all did, and they had someone to protect.
Then there was him. Figuring that he'd done enough introspection for one day, plus he'd already caught his dinner, Chris headed back to his campsite. The simple dinner of pan-fried fish tasted great to him, and his stomach appreciated it. It also made him sleepy, and deciding he was still trying to recover from a host of sleepless nights, he turned in early.
Day three saw him hiking. When he returned to his campsite, his legs ached, his lungs burned, his feet hurt, but he felt better than he had in days. He'd seen and appreciated nature, giving him a sense of peace. Maybe Travis was right – he did need this time alone. What was even better was that his cell phone, which unfortunately did have service up here, had not rung once. Not one law enforcement agency calling him, nor any of his boys. He wouldn't have minded hearing from them, at least talking to them, but it was probably better that they didn't. Then he'd worry about what they were up to and what they were doing more than he already did, which would only defeat the purpose of him being here. By the end of his third night, he'd finished the last of the six pack – his self imposed two a day limit, and decided to go to the dry goods store the following day for more.
After a morning run through the woods, he felt great. His stomach had finally stopped having fits, his muscles were loosening up, and his mind was starting to sharpen back up again, the fog of the sleep deprivation and budget arguments receding. He hadn't shaved since his last day of work, giving him the start of a good beard. Lunch was some of the trail mix he brought with him, and dinner was soup. He opted to sleep instead of trekking down to the dry goods store, and went to bed early.
Day five was just as peaceful as the others – he was getting the hang of this mountain air and his morning jogs were revitalizing him. Chris pushed himself on the hike, and when he returned to his campsite, it was late afternoon. Checking his watch, he realized there was time to get down to the store. Grabbing up supplies to shower, the relaxed team leader headed that way.
The only problem was when he climbed into the truck. He wasn't paying attention, catching sight of an eagle flying high above him, and banged the top back of his head against the doorframe when he twisted his neck.
"Ouch!" One hand reached up and rubbed the spot, and then he tried to ignore the sting. Settling in the driver's seat, he didn't realize that the abrasion was deeper than he thought, and it started to bleed. With his head resting against the back of the seat, the crimson soaked in. Once he arrived at the dry goods store, he'd resolved to buy additional aspirin for his new headache.
Climbing out of his truck, he unconsciously rubbed the back of his head. There was moisture, and his fingers came away red. Disgusted with himself, he grabbed his shower kit and went directly to the public bathrooms. After cleaning himself thoroughly, he bandaged the back of his head, got dressed, and went inside to purchase supplies. After a few minutes of shopping, and some joking about the new injury, Chris headed out with his purchases.
The only thing he didn't have was beer; he didn't like the limited selections at the dry goods store. Damn Ezra for that – he couldn't stomach cheap, off-brand beer anymore. He decided to go down the mountain to the liquor store in the nearby town.
+ + + + + + +
"It's not stopping," the officer reported into his radio. Siren wailing, lights flashing, he tried pulling over the Dodge Ram truck speeding on the highway. It caught his attention a few scant minutes ago doing eighty miles per hour down the mountain, well over the thirty mile an hour limit.
He'd initiated the stop right after the runaway ramp a few minutes before, but the truck was refusing to stop. They were now entering the base of the mountain, so the drops weren't that steep on either side of the road, but still, these speeds were not safe, especially at night.
Officer John "JJ" Jefferson flipped the a-frame spotlight at a certain angle onto the driver's side mirror, giving him a good look at the driver. "He's a white male, approximately 30-40, blond hair, black shirt. Acting real nervous."
"Call it off," his sergeant replied. "You're still too high on the mountain."
"10-4," JJ replied. "Pursuit terminated." He deactivated his lights and slowed down. It was a pretty good idea to not chase someone down the mountain roads, even into the foothills. He'd already gotten the tag information, and that gave him the address and name of the registered owner. When he returned to the station, he would contact the registered owner to find out who was driving.
Rounding one of the curves, he saw the break in the guardrail. Damn, he thought, coming to stop on the shoulder near it. Then he saw the smoke plume.
"Shit!" He yelled. He practically choked himself by trying to get out without removing the seatbelt, and then went running to the opening in the metal. Down below, twisted into a heap, and now on fire, was the Dodge Ram pickup.
He called it in, not realizing he was screaming in the radio, got his fire extinguisher, and scrambled down to the truck. More like fell and slid; he wasn't being too careful how he went down. When JJ reached the truck, he saw that it had rolled several times. Glass littered the trip down, catching on his uniform, but he ignored that.
Smoke started to seep into his pores and lungs, causing him to cough. Lifting his handkerchief to his face, he covered his mouth and nose. The flames and heat were intense coming from the engine compartment, nearly driving him back. He couldn't see through the smoke where the driver was; he just used the extinguisher.
The smoke and extinguisher fumes cleared, allowing him to see after a few moments. What he saw made him nauseous. Obviously, the driver had not been wearing a seatbelt; he was ejected partway through the windshield, lying on the hood of the burning truck. The body was completely mangled, blood everywhere, and burning.
JJ aimed the rest of the fire extinguisher at the body more than the engine, hoping that the man was alive. He wasn't moving at all. The extinguisher emptied, so now he could only wait for help to arrive. The flames created an impenetrable wall between him and the driver. Two attempts to reach the person failed, the last catching his coat on fire. He had to roll around on the ground to extinguish it, and then wait.
It took so long it seemed, for the fire department to arrive. JJ felt so helpless watching the truck become fully involved from front to back, keeping him out. Even after the firefighters got there and worked their way down to the truck, it was entirely too late. Moving out of their way, JJ started climbing up the mountain. He was picking through the debris, looking for anything that might give him information on the occupant.
An object caught his attention near where he was about to put his foot, gleaming dully in the beam of his flashlight. He'd found a gun. A chill ran down his spine. Maybe now he had his reason why the man was tearing down the mountain and not stopping. The campgrounds were up there.
JJ reached up to his radio. "Communications call the dry goods store, make sure they're okay."
"10-4."
He left the gun untouched, knowing an investigator was going to want to see it where it was found, and then the investigator would take pictures of the location. Assuming the worst, JJ didn't want to ruin any possible future court cases. His backup arrived, and JJ used his radio again. "Mike, check the slope for any personal property. I've recovered a gun down here."
"10-4."
"All units, subjects at the dry goods store are okay," Communications radioed back. "Direct on the gun recovery."
"JJ," Mike called on the talk around channel. "I've got an identification wallet lying open up here, and it's got a badge in it."
"Can you read where?"
"ATF."
JJ's stomach suddenly soured. "Why would he not stop?" he asked aloud.
His question would not be answered immediately. In fact, it wouldn't be answered for hours. By the time that the fire was out, the scene photographed and processed, the body removed, the truck towed, and the ATF called, JJ was already into his third hour of the call, and knew he would be in for several more.
He drove to the station, answering questions from the on-call ATF representative that responded to the scene, and waited. The Agent informed him that no one was home at the residence, and they were checking the truck tag owner's listed campsite from the dry goods store for information. JJ was also told that an Assistant Director named Orin Travis was coming out. Investigators were conducting interviews at the dry goods store to find out if the man they suspected might have been the driver had been in earlier.
JJ didn't know the victim; he only had a name: Christopher Larabee, Special Agent In Charge, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Enforcement. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. There was only one hope – that the body that was mangled and burned beyond recognition was not that of this Agent, which the other ATF Agents on site spoke so highly of in hushed whispers.
+ + + + + + +
Orin Travis was worried. Not only did the local police have Chris's truck in an accident where Chris said he was going, they told him there was a fatality. When he talked to the on-call Agent, he got more information – the driver had fled from the officer and refused to stop. The driver lost control of the truck after the pursuit was called off and subsequently went through a guardrail; the description of the damaged body was too gruesome for Travis to contemplate. The clerk at the dry goods store remembered him coming in and wanting to go down the mountain for some beer. Adding that the description of what the officer saw using his spotlight on the mirror; it could be Chris.
He dearly hoped they were wrong; he didn't know what he would do if it was truly Chris. A large part of him didn't believe it, though; Chris wouldn't run from the police. But with the man's recent stress and attitude, anything was possible. Chris was a good actor, carrying off his undercover roles with a believability that almost rivaled Ezra's talent.
The flight seemed so long, each minute stretched out. Although he was getting closer, he did not look forward to what he had to do. They'd already told him he needed to attempt an identification of the body.
Orin Travis was scared.
PART THREE
He couldn't tell.
Orin Travis had gathered his courage, walked into the morgue, and stared at the burned corpse lying on the table. He searched for some sign, some indication, but there was no evidence to be found. The face had been destroyed, most of the teeth damaged, and the fire had eliminated all identifying marks on the skin. Height and weight were about right; the clothes - what were left of them - were Chris's; he recognized the tattered, burned remains of the shirt as one of Chris's favorites. So were the boots. But the rest of it - he couldn't tell.
"I'm not sure," he said softly. "I'm really not sure."
The forensic examiner nodded. "We're going to run DNA tests, along with dental records - what we can use. It would help if we could get any x-rays that were taken of him."
Travis nearly broke down at that point - when weren't one of his boys in the hospital? There was plenty of film of Chris Larabee's various injuries, almost all in the line of duty. He nodded, giving the examiner the name of the hospital where the boys were usually treated.
When he stepped outside, he breathed deeply of the crisp, clean air and closed his eyes. It hurt so much, but hope was refusing to leave. It wasn't Chris - it couldn't be. But he knew what needed to be done next. He had to call the boys. They deserved to know something was wrong before it was on the news.
Flipping open his cellphone, he made the hardest call he'd ever had to make. He started with Vin, knowing that Vin could badger and bully copies of other medical records from the hospital as next of kin if the hospital wouldn't release them.
"Yeah?"
"Vin? It's Orin."
"What's wrong?"
Travis heard the voice change, become more alert. "There's been an accident involving Chris's truck. I think you and the boys should come up here."
"Where's here, and how's Chris?"
He swallowed hard. "There was a fatality involved. The physical descriptors are close to Chris, and the…the…body was so damaged I couldn't make positive identification."
There was a few seconds before the Director heard the shaky voice respond. "Aw, hell."
The amount of emotion in those two words caused the Assistant Director to bite his bottom lip, turning his back on the building. He blinked twice, followed by clearing his throat to get the words out. "Son, I don't know. I don't think so, but I can't say for sure."
"Where?"
Travis told him.
"We'll be up."
"I need you to bring me his x-rays and records from the hospital."
"All right."
There was a long pause, Travis not knowing what more to say.
"He's okay," Vin told him with conviction. "Alive, at least."
"How do you know?"
"I know," the Texan calmly stated. "We're on our way."
Travis hung up and headed to the storage lot to check out the truck, hanging on to the positive conviction of Larabee’s teammate and friend.
+ + + + + + +
Vin put the phone down slowly, taking two attempts before he got it right. "No," he said aloud. Deep in his heart, he knew the news wasn't true. It couldn't be. He tried hard to believe in the words he’s spoken to Travis. Swallowing hard, he took a moment to think about Chris.
A picture of his drunk, laughing face appeared in his mind's eye, the two of them holding each other up while watching Buck trying to fold himself into Casey's Mini Cooper. Or the last time they went horseback riding together, just enjoying each other's company.
"It's not true!" Vin picked up a baseball and threw it across the room. It embedded in the drywall, but he didn't notice. "Aw, hell, Chris."
Forcing his emotions in check, he called the hospital first to request the records. After ten minutes of arguing, he said he would be there shortly to collect the films. He then packed a bag, called a pilot friend to charter a flight out, and then sat down to make the next series of calls. All five of his friends took the news as badly as he did, but each one of them said it wasn't true.
On his way to the hospital, Ezra's words came back to him. "Chris is too cantankerous and stubborn to die."
That was the right spirit to have. By the time he arrived at the airport via a stop at the hospital, the others were there. He told them what little he knew, repeating it several times, and the rest of the flight was spent in silence.
All Vin could think about was his friend. It couldn't have been Chris. It wasn't Chris. He just had to keep telling himself that.
Two long days later, even Vin was losing hope. The tests on the body could not determine one way or another whether it was Chris. Given the damage to the body, and that the remote lab was not equipped for the more detailed testing, the samples were shipped to the larger lab in Denver. With their usual backlog, the final results were not expected for a few days.
The bad news was they did find evidence of Chris's blood on the back of the seat. The blood workups determined it was his; but what was on the windshield where the person went through didn't match. It made no sense, just added to the mystery, but gave the others hope.
They found Chris's campsite intact, just like he'd left for an errand. The police had already been here and roped it off. No one entered yet because it was a scene turned over to the ATF. Vin checked the tracks around it, and the only bootprints there belonged to Chris. There were no other clues there.
None of the statements of the people working in the dry goods store helped much; they described what Chris was wearing and identified a picture of him. They also verified he had been in the store before the accident and that he was alone.
As each part of the puzzle didn't fit, Vin couldn't help but feel that something was dreadfully wrong. The body in the morgue wasn't Chris. It couldn't be; the blood type was correct, but the markers were different. Too many of the bones had broken, so the forensic specialists were having a hard time comparing Chris's films to the body. But they needed the official results to give an absolute determination that the body was not that of Chris Larabee. So far, officials other than Travis were hesitant to believe the gut feeling of his men, and the discrepancies in the blood test, that Larabee was indeed alive and they should broaden their investigation.
Each day wore on Vin, worry and uncertainty eating at him. From the scattered property down the embankment, Chris's gun, identification wallet, personal wallet, cellphone, and his pocket knife, the sharpshooter wondered why all of these things were loose instead of on the body. The physics weren't adding up. If the body went through the windshield and stayed pinned halfway while the truck rolled down the mountain, everything should have remained on the body. Others were trying to tell him that maybe the items were on the seat, but Tanner never knew Chris to carry either his wallet or weapon that way.
Vin refused to think of the person that had died as Chris, or as a person. If he only thought of it as a body, not the remains of a living person, he could objectify everything. Objectivity was the only thing keeping him on the fringes of the investigation; the others had already been kicked off for arguing and interfering. Buck wavered. Vin was worried about him. Buck usually held his emotions in check, being one of calmer ones in times of crisis. However, his emotions had never been so taxed before. Concern over the possible loss of one of his oldest and closest friends was keeping him on a tightrope. The rogue would rein himself in by his sheer stubbornness and his conviction that Chris needed their help. It was at night, when they were forced to rest, that they were sure he was finally going to fall apart. Especially when Buck was starting to drink himself unconscious.
They needed answers.
+ + + + + + +
His head hurt. That was the first thing that struck him - pain. Trying to lift his hands resulted in even more agony, and he let himself fall back into nothingness.
He didn't know how long he'd been out; all he knew was that it was dark when he woke, and he couldn't see anything. Literally - everything was black. Taking a deep breath, his chest exploded in pain. Short, quick pants kept the oxygen flowing, but he felt dizzy and weak. That was followed by passing out again.
This time when he woke, he didn't move. He didn't breathe deep, twitch, blink, open his eyes, move, or anything. Just laid there like a lump and took a mental inventory.
Breathing - okay as long as it's not deep. Check.
Sight - Nope, still dark there. Maybe something over his eyes - blindfold?
Smell - he stank, and thinking about his smell made him nauseous. Moving on…
Legs - yup, can feel 'em. That's always a good sign.
Arms - two of them. Even better.
Fingers - they wiggled. Check.
Head - still attached. And announcing itself quite loudly.
Pain locations - Hello, pain.
By concentrating on the amount of pain he was in, all the little - and not so little - hurts he was experiencing rushed to the forefront and overwhelmed him. Darkness claimed him again.
+ + + + + + +
Forget slow. He woke and sat straight up, intending to get the agony assault over with immediately and go from there.
He succeeded in banging his head hard against something, and excruciating torture filled him. His body didn't feel him fall back to the ground.
+ + + + + + +
Now he was pissed and had to go to the bathroom. He stretched his feet out and the bare toes encountered solid rock. Moving ever so slowly, he used those appendages to check the areas within reach. So far, he was surrounded on three sides with rock. This was not good.
Giving a tentative sniff, a part of him identified fresh air - fresh being relative considering his own overpowering stench. He slowly moved one arm up his chest toward his head, discovering his ribs were rather sore. Using care to move, Chris methodically checked what felt like rock walls along his side. His hand encountered open air. Figuring he needed to see where he was, he worked his hand over to his face.
Fingers encountered material, and he pushed it up away from his eyes. It stuck briefly and tugged hard on the back of his head, bringing tears to his eyes from a pain localized there. When the tears cleared, he saw more rough rock above him.
How did he get here?
Stretching his memory, he remembered the dry goods store, and getting directions to the liquor store. So far, so good. When he got to his truck, he opened the door, and then -
Oh yeah. He got hit from behind so hard he lost consciousness. At least he thought that’s what happened; had to have been for the fuzzy memories of what occurred afterwards. When he woke, he caught the would-be assailant and thief trying to take his clothes. He'd swung, busted the guy's lip, and was in the process of throwing his hard left when the bat caught him in the ribs. That managed to piss him off more, and the fight was on.
Chris hated himself for losing, and a part of him realized that the other man took advantage of his earlier head wound by continuing to attack that spot and his ribs. No wonder his head felt like it needed to roll off his shoulders. Thinking back on it, he tried to remember his attacker. A body, tall and blond hair, slender build . . . almost like him he realized. It rankled him he lost to someone that he should have more than been able to hold his own with, much less subdue. He was a trained professional. Fat lot of good that did him.
But that was the past, and he needed to work on getting himself out of wherever he was to a phone. Then he could worry about taking care of whoever tried to do him in. Gritting his teeth, he tipped his head back, feeling the pressure on the wound sending immediate spikes of pain into his brain. Once the worst of it passed - he was not going to go unconscious again - he opened his eyes and looked.
Oh, boy.
He was apparently tucked inside a cave in the side of the mountain. Carefully pulling himself toward the entrance, not trusting himself to stand, he peered out and down, finding himself at least fifteen feet from ground level. Muddy tire tracks led away and around the rock face out of sight, and he could see some strange scrape marks along the rock wall just under the ledge he was on. Having done a little rock climbing himself, he noted the face was not a difficult climb. His head hurt enough though, that he wasn't going to ponder on how or why the suspect chose this spot to hide him instead of leaving him on the side of the road. There were plenty of handholds for him to climb down, but that wasn't going to happen right now. He was in too much pain to even attempt something that physical. Besides, the slope wavered several times while he stared at it - telling him he probably had a concussion. With the chill in the air, he'd need to feel a little stronger before trying to walk through the woods wearing only his t-shirt and shorts so graciously left for him by his attacker.
Just great.
After emptying his bladder through some creative twisting and massive cursing, Chris tucked himself back into the hidey-hole he'd been shoved. If he'd been safe for however long, then he might be okay for a bit longer.
At least he hoped so.
It was his last thought before he passed out again.
PART FOUR
Time had no meaning. He'd passed out, slept, and endured short periods of pain-filled consciousness for he didn't know how long. Chris finally figured either he was going to get weaker and die here, or he'd make a go of it in the wild outdoors, wherever the hell he was.
Brutal self-examination told him that he was probably going to die either way; his wounds being untreated for so long were probably infected; he was weak; and he didn't know his location. The odds of someone finding him in this hole were extremely slim; if he went for it on foot, he had a chance. A very small chance, but a chance nonetheless. With a kind thought to Ezra while calculating his odds of success, he went with crawling out and walking.
Chris managed to twist himself out of the crevice he'd been secreted in, and then worked to find the handholds with his eyes first. Looking down only made him dizzier, so he opted to feel his way down. The first couple of feet went easily even though the rock was damp. He smelled the soggy scent of stale rain in the air, so he lowered himself slowly.
After that, he grew dizzy. The more he tried climbing down, the more his sore ribs brushed against the rough stone, and pain became his constantly growing companion. Finally, it grew to be too much. He was dizzy and sore, and his foot slid in an unseen pool of moisture. Down he went, landing in a heap at the bottom.
That hurt, he thought to himself. Once the spots disappeared from his vision, the screaming agony that was his chest settled to a dull roar, and the unending torture in his head deadened sufficiently, he did another mental checklist of injuries.
Somehow, he'd twisted his ankle. Big surprise, idiot, he thought – that would be called falling. His tailbone hurt from landing on it, jarring his entire spine.
He was tough, he told himself. He could do this. Repressing as much pain as possible, Chris used the cliff face to pull himself upright, and then looked in all directions. What he found beyond the barely readable tracks was unending wilderness. Taking a few weaving steps, he noticed that the tracks faded and disappeared because it must have rained at one point during his periods of unconsciousness. Chris tried but he didn’t recognize any of his surroundings. Even being in the mountainous area the last few days and hiking over the terrain was not helping. He was well and truly lost, something that did not make his chances for survival better.
Far in the distance, he could make out a ranger watchtower, and that gave him a point of focus. As long as he could see the tower, he knew which way to go. Those towers usually had a way to contact others for help. With that goal in mind, he started limping that way.
It was hard going, and every part of his body screamed at him, but he was going to make it. Failure was not an option.
At the end of the day, his survival training came into full play. He found a hollowed out log to sleep in, bugs to eat, and a brackish stream. Chris chose not to look at himself, or think about his survival tactics, because it all came down to one concept – living.
The next day found him with a walking stick, but he continued his slow trek toward the tower. It seemed the same distance away as it was yesterday, telling him he had miles to go.
With resolution, Chris marched that way.
+ + + + + + +
Marva Brighton loved her job. She was the primary watcher for the bald eagles in these mountains, and had names for all of those under her care. Having spent countless hours just admiring them, she'd learn their behavior patterns and habits. Not much ruffled her babies, but the monotony was one of the things she loved best.
Today, however, something was bothering them. They kept circling around one section of the forest, calling out to each other. Training her binoculars on the flapping wings above the thick copse, she saw a couple of carrion birds circling, with the eagles circling higher.
Something died, and it was big. The carrions never came out in those numbers unless it was a buck or buffalo. Shifting the glasses down into the copse, she couldn't see much. It was the policy not to interfere with the normal behavior of the birds, and one that Marva agreed with whole-heartedly.
It was then she noticed the copse dwellers were missing. That was a bad sign – usually they only disappeared when something foreign came into their woods. Perhaps a hunter had poached; it wasn't the first time. Deciding to get a closer look, Marva moved to one of the blinds built in the trees, careful not to leave a trace of her passing if she could help it. Some of the animals would already know she was there, but that couldn't be helped.
Setting up her video camera, she swept the area with the lens. Yup, something had died. It was the center of activity – and non-activity – in the copse. The carrions were trying to get to something, and in their typical fashion, fighting each other more than achieving their objective.
Marva sighed, focusing her camera on the object of so much attention. What she saw surprised her – it was a man. Grabbing her radio, she called in to the base station.
"I'm at the Grove. I have an injured man down. I haven't approached, but he's not moving. Start me the police and an ambulance."
Without waiting for a response, she slowly worked her way over to the fallen form. At her approach, most of the birds scattered, but one wasn't about to let his meal go. Shaking her head, she screamed at the top of her lungs, which was sufficient for the bird to leave. In fact, she heard a lot of wings flapping away from her.
"Ow," the form groaned.
"Oh My God! You're alive."
"Stop…screaming."
Marva saw all the dried blood on him, combined with the deep bruising on his sides. One of his ankles was obscenely swollen. Squatting down beside him, she touched his forehead once. "You've got a fever."
He didn't reply.
She brought her canteen around, dribbling some water into his mouth. "I radioed for an ambulance and the police."
"Good."
"What's your name?" Marva knew the importance of getting as much information while she could; he didn't look good, and she needed to know who he was just in case the worst happened.
"Larabee." He swallowed and winced. "Chris Larabee."
"Chris, I'm Marva. I'll just keep you company until they get here."
"Water."
"No more. It could cause problems for the doctors."
The man sighed. "Hell."
"I think you're on your way out."
+ + + + + + +
Vin's cellphone rang.
"Agent Tanner?"
"Yes?" He didn't recognize the voice, and not that many people had his number. Well, he'd given it to the main Agents here, but beyond that, it was a private number.
"This is Marva Brighton. Do you know a Chris Larabee?"
"Yes," he said cautiously. "Why?"
"I'm with him, and he wanted me to call you and have you meet him at the hospital."
"Which one?" Vin felt his heart start beating again; at least it was going fast enough to make itself known.
She told him, and he promised he'd be there shortly. Putting the phone away, he leaned back and let out a whoop. Grinning, he charged into the lobby of the hotel. "He's alive! C'mon boys, we gotta go!"
Six stunned faces stared back at him.
"What?" Buck asked confused. As the statement hit his tired brain, he rushed to his feet. "Let's go." He tossed JD out of his chair and headed for their rental van. "Explain on the way."
During the drive, Vin gave them what he knew, "A woman called me, said she was with Chris, and he was being flown to the trauma center. Chris wanted me called and gave her the number."
"What's his injuries?"
"Nate, I didn't stay on the phone long enough ta ask. Reckoned we wanted to get there and find out ourselves."
"Vin Tanner?"
Six men stood and faced the doctor.
"I take it you're here for Mr. Larabee?"
They nodded.
"Mr. Tanner?"
"Go ahead, Doctor. I give authorization." As Chris's next of kin, patient information could only be given to him, and those he chose to inform. He wasn't going to keep any secrets from the others.
"Dehydration, five badly fractured ribs, a severe concussion that we're going to monitor closely, a broken tailbone, multiple infections, a sprained right ankle, along with a few minor injuries. He will be closely monitored, but he is in stable condition."
"A full recovery?" Nathan asked.
"Very possible with the right amount of post-care."
"Meaning?"
"Strict adherence to instructions and compliance with the medications I will prescribe."
"He'll do it, Doctor," Vin promised.
+ + + + + + +
"No."
"Ya have ta eat," Vin told Chris. It was the sharpshooter's turn to watch over Larabee, and the team leader was proving stubborn, as usual.
Not that the stubbornness was unexpected, but it was starting to get harder and harder to keep Chris on bed rest while he recuperated.
"Fine. Get me something solid."
"Yer pills make ya barf anythin' solid."
"Tastes good going down." Chris smiled.
"So does the broth."
"Horse piss."
"Nah, that's Nathan's teas. The broth's bad beer."
"Even worse." Chris glared. "Ezra's fault I couldn't drink the stuff at the dry goods store. Gimme food."
"That glare won't work, cowboy, 'specially when I can toss ya around like feed."
"Go ahead and try it, cowboy." Chris growled a challenge, preparing himself for the attempt.
Lightning fast, Vin pinned Chris to the bed, though he didn’t try very hard and only used a mere fraction of his strength. "Don't mess with me, Larabee. I'll take ya down. Now, ya gonna eat yer broth, or am I gonna have ta pour it down yer throat?"
"Get off me." Larabee would not be accused of not trying to wrestle the slim form holding him down off him, but his strength barely made an impression.
"Gimme an answer."
"Texan pain in the ass." Chris growled giving a barely effective jab to the sharpshooter’s ribs.
"Yes or no?” Vin huffed.
"Fine, I'll eat it. Get off of me."
Vin rolled off. "I hate doin' that. Why do I have ta pin ya every time ya gotta eat?"
"Give it to me." Chris held a hand out for the broth.
Tanner handed it off. "I'm serious, Chris. We both know ya don't have ta act like a two year old when it's chowtime."
His friend sipped the broth, and then lowered the cup. "Because I hate being weak."
"We all do, pard."
Chris waved that off. "I know, I know. But if I fight each time, then I know I'm getting better."
"What kind of logic is that?" Vin stared incredulously at him. The room grew quiet while Vin waited, seeing Chris trying to find the words.
"You don't laugh at me when I try."
"Getting this hurt ain't funny."
"No," Chris said. "You don't understand."
Vin waited silently.
Taking a deep breath, then wincing, Chris said, "I had the choice up to either give up or take a chance on prolonging my death by leaving the protection of the crevice. I knew leaving would be harder, and probably more dangerous, but staying there wasn't true to who I am." He paused. "Who we are – fighters."
"Reckon we don't give up easy."
"I'm not giving up now. You know I don't fight Nathan and JD when they bring me food; that's because they're still treating me like I'm made of glass."
"Ya ain't. Yer tougher than that."
"I want to see how much I'm improving, and the only way to do that is to exercise."
"Makin' me pin ya ain't exercise."
"It is for me. I know right now I'm weaker than Buck surrounded by women, but each day that we tussle shows me how much strength I'm getting back."
"The others won't play, huh?"
"Nope." Chris grinned.
"Reckon I can push ya around fer a bit longer."
"Figure I'll fight back."
"Remember one thing."
Chris lifted a brow.
"Ya never beat me healthy." At that, Vin tried to duck out of the room before he wore the broth. Closing the door and letting it catch the half-full mug, he waited a few seconds, and then stuck his head back in. "Ya done makin' messes, cowboy?"
Larabee glared.
"Forgot ta tell ya one thing, cowboy."
"What's that?"
Vin walked over to the bed and extended a hand. "Glad yer alive. Don't like pondering on believin' ya were dead." He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. "Just quit givin’ us such scares."
"You do the same." Chris clasped his forearm and squeezed.
They stayed like that, forearms clasped; staring at each other, easily reading the emotion in the other's face, but not a word was spoken.
For that short period of time, everything was right with the world.
One week later
"'Ey, Cowboy. Your look-a-like's been identified." Vin tossed a manila folder onto the bed.
"Who?" Chris flipped through the pages.
"Some jackass named Fredric Freudein. Wanted through Interpol. That's what took so long ta identify – he snuck in."
"Huh." Larabee stared at the photograph of the man.
"Looks a lot like you," Vin commented.
"He did, but now I'm an original again."
Vin snorted. "World can only handle one of you."
The End
