Summary: Secretly, Team Seven has been watching out for their gay undercover agent's love life, worried that their friend has made some poor choices for lovers. They finally decide to intervene when one of their own falls in love with him. The road to love...

Reservations at 8
By MAC

"This stinks!" JD was fuming as he jerked the earphone from his ear.

"Yeah, it does," Vin agreed, but added, "so now we get rid of Greg too."

"About time, if you ask me." Nathan shook his head. "Man doesn't know what he had, sure didn't appreciate it properly."

Josiah sat back in the large club chair that he'd claimed when the team convened. "Things have a way of working out for the best. This is Buck's big chance."

"And, you are NOT going to blow it," Chris Larabee instructed as he finished tying off Wilmington's bow tie.

Buck, who'd been gazing with determination at the far wall, twisted his neck to look down cross-eyed at his old friend's handiwork. "Nice." His teeth appeared and chewed on his lower lip. "How do I look?" he asked the group as he stepped back.

JD grinned. This nervous Buck was a new Buck for him and he rather liked him. Gone was the cocky lothario. This guy was squirming in his dinner jacket, clearly uncomfortable dressed up to the nines. "Good, you look real good, Buck!"

Vin moseyed over and flicked dust specks from Wilmington's broad shoulders. "Mighty fine."

Nathan pushed through Tanner and Larabee and carefully re-buttoned two loose shirt buttons on Buck's white expanse of pleated shirtfront. "Remember to lean forward when you eat so you don't end up with drips all over this."

"Yes, mother." Buck twitched away from the hovering Jackson and appealed to Sanchez who seemed to be the oasis of calm in the room. "Josiah? Do I pass?"

"You do." Sanchez rose to his feet, making the room suddenly seem even smaller. He took the three steps needed to stand in front of their friend and team mate. "We are all trusting you on this, Buck." He paused, his ice blue eyes meeting Wilmington's darker ones. "Don't mess it up."

Chris sighed from behind Josiah. Trust the big man to get even more protective than the rest of them. Chris had faith in Buck Wilmington. Despite the man's reputation and act, he knew the gentle soul within and the kindness and loyalty that resided there. If Buck said he loved someone, it was a pretty momentous occasion. Because Buck said many things, but he never used the "L" word. Or hadn't until now.

"Take it easy, Josiah." Chris rested a hand on the big man's shoulder. "Buck may not be perfect, but his heart's in the right place and we can trust him."

JD, who'd swung around to watch his monitors, whipped back toward the center of the room and the rest of his team. "Showtime! Greg just arrived. He's not alone."

"That shit!" Vin raced over to hang on JD's shoulder and stare at the streaky black and white video monitor. The others crowded up, muttering darkly.

Except for Buck who stood like a stone in the center of the room, anger slowly building. He wanted to shoot the bastard, but that would really muck things up. He'd stick to the plan. Even as he thought it, Nathan and Josiah were striding to the door, both looking determined.

"Be cool, Buck," Nathan threw over his shoulder. "We'll handle Greg and his little friend."

Vin closed the door behind them and lifted a small clear box from the occasional table by the door to their hotel room. He brought it over to Wilmington with a certain reverence. "Now remember, Buck, this is a Central American Orchid. Kinda rare. The green streaks in the rose will match his eyes."

"Thanks, Vin." Buck admired the delicate flower anew. It was much smaller than the normal nosegay he might bring a lady, but it was for a boutonnière. The tiny flower was beautiful. He accepted the container and cupped it lightly in one large hand, smoothing his mustache with the other.

"Got 'em." JD crowed.

Chris Larabee grimaced as he watched his men cut out the young male duo that had just left a limo and stepped onto the red carpet of the restaurant's awning covered walkway. The males were both handsome, clean cut, and well off from the looks of things. Although he didn't know the red head, he knew that Greg Fontaine was a wealthy day trader in the city. Just the sort that fit the bill. Except that he was a two-timing bastard and needed his walking papers. Larabee protected his own. Larabee growled under his breath.

"Let it go, cowboy." Vin nudged his friend. "That's history you're looking at."

Chris nodded sharply and took a deep breath. He turned, running both hands through his blonde hair. The sight that greeted him brought a smile back to his face. His old buddy Buck Wilmington stood dubiously in a first class dinner tux, complete with studs, tie, and sharply creased trousers. The man's dark good looks and height had him ready to compete with any James Bond. He met Buck's eyes and said, "Go get him, tiger."

Buck tugged at his cuffs and squared his shoulders. "Oh - kaay." His eyes drifted across the room, meeting each of the remaining men's. "Wish me luck."

"Nope." Vin gave the tense man a shove. "No way you're gonna need any of that. You'll do."

The other two nodded silently. And Buck left the room without a backward glance.

"Monsieur?"

"He will be along shortly, Henri." Ezra sat straight-backed on the delicately curving chair, resolutely ignoring the face of his watch. Greg was late. Very late. Ezra sipped his single malt, taking just a small mouthful and letting the flavor linger, the smoky peat aftertaste permeating his senses.

Staring blankly at the white damask tablecloth, glitteringly covered in fine china, crystal and silver, Ezra re-thought his life. Greg was the third gentleman friend he'd had since coming to Denver. Neither Rick nor Michael had lasted long. They'd been lusty companions between the sheets, but had no staying power as intellectual partners. Greg was different. Brilliant and gorgeous, a wet dream walking, Ezra had fallen deeply for the man. Apparently, that was not mutual.

This was the third time that Greg had missed a dinner engagement. No excuses had been offered for the second time. The first had been forgetfulness. I am easily forgotten. Ezra shot his cuff and glanced at his watch with as much elegance as he could muster for his state. He was embarrassed, disappointed, and - learning.

Ezra finished his scotch. Looking up, he easily caught the Maitre de's eye.

Glancing away, he didn't see Henri intercepted.

"Is this seat taken?"

Shocked, Ezra looked up and into two beautiful, dark blue eyes. Silently, he shook his head.

"Good." Buck Wilmington sat with far more savoir-faire than Ezra would have ever given him credit. Not that Buck wasn't a graceful man, but this was not where Ezra expected to find his friend, not in this type of chic restaurant, nor in those clothes. Those clothes. Ezra sat back and stared. Buck was wrapped in a simple but well cut short-jacket tuxedo. He looked like he was ready for a high night on the town. So where was his arm ornament? His lady of the evening?

Buck looked around alertly before nodding to Henri and tapping Ezra's empty glass. Apparently Buck spoke 'waiter' well. Almost instantly, Ezra's glass was whisked away and two fresh glasses appeared and were deposited in front of them.

"Greg won't be here." Ezra spoke with finality. It wasn't a question.

Buck studied his amber swirl of liquor, watching the ice crack with seeming fascination. Then, he looked up and into Ezra's quiet green eyes. "Nope."

Ezra swallowed a dry lump in his throat and nodded. He reached for his newly full glass, only to have his wrist grasped gently by a large, competent hand.

"Someone once told me that the best way to drink single malt was to sip it slowly and to let the flavor roll over the tongue." Buck smiled with his eyes, the corners crinkling. His hand changed from a grip to a slow caress, fingertips lightly skimming the back of Ezra's wrist.

Shivering, Ezra met Buck's gaze and found his breath catching unaccountably. "I believe that is true, my friend." Without pause, he continued, never breaking eye contact, "Why are you here?"

"Figured you'd had enough time to sew your wild oats."

"You 'figured' what?" Ezra was taken aback. He tensed and drew his hand away, faintly disappointed at the absence of the warmth those finger pads had pressed upon his skin.

"You know. Rick, Michael, Greg." Buck tipped his head and spoke wisely, as if humoring Ezra.

In a flash of fury, as hot as any he'd ever felt, Ezra shoved away from the small table and lurched gracelessly to his feet. He hissed, "They are my private life, Mr. Wilmington. My life is not for public consumption!" Ezra tossed his linen napkin onto the table.

Buck was instantly on his feet as well and in one quick stride, at Ezra's side. Ignoring their increasingly interested fellow patrons, Wilmington swung a long arm around his friend's shoulders and pulled the man to his side. Leaning in, he breathed warmly into one ear, feeling Ezra stiffen and tremble.

"Ezra, I warned off Greg so I could take his place tonight." He held tight, muscles rippling beneath his jacket as he fought to contain the smaller man beside him. Putting his best, most sincere effort into his next words, he pleaded, "Please, give me a chance."

Ezra Standish was stunned. He ceased his stiff struggles to free himself with dignity from the clutches of his friend. Slowly, he raised his face up towards the man who towered over him. Buck looked back unflinchingly. Ezra took his time. It was much too late to pretend they weren't making a scene, but it didn't seem very important just now.

"A chance at what, Buck?" his whisper was full of helpless fear and sadness.

"Ah, Ez," Buck brought up one hand to cup Ezra's sweet face, his thumb rubbing across the man's wonderfully full lower lip, "A chance to win your love."

Ezra's eyes closed as he leaned in closer to this man who was both his friend and a total stranger. Ezra swayed. He felt as if his life were in limbo. Buck had scared off Greg, only to take his place. Buck knew about Rick and Michael. Buck was standing here in a public place, embracing Ezra and telling him that he wanted Ezra's love. Abruptly, Ezra's legs melted and he dropped back down toward his chair.

Buck eased Ezra the rest of the way into his seat as the man collapsed in the circle of his arms. "Ezra?"

With a shaking hand, the southerner reached out to grasp at Buck's trouser leg. "Buck, sit down, we're making a scene." He spoke to his dinner plate.

Buck smiled and patted his man on the back lightly. "Feel better? Thought you were going to choke there." He spoke loudly enough so that the nearest diners could hear. With a simple ripple effect, the spectators around them shrugged and returned to their meals, no longer interested in the small drama.

Ezra risked another look at the man seated across the table from him again. Still there. No hallucination then. "I just don't understand this."

Buck nodded firmly and smiled. "Have dinner with me tonight. Here." He leaned forward and touched Ezra's hand where it lay on the table near the glass of scotch. "Maybe you'll figure it out by the time we get to dessert."

"Dessert?"

Buck arched an eyebrow and smiled. "I like sweet things."

Ezra blushed a becoming shade of pinkish-rose. Which reminded Buck of the tiny orchid he had dropped on the serving table beside their seats. Reaching over, he retrieved the flower still encased in a clear presentation box.

In a husky voice, he said, "Here, this is for you." He placed the orchid on Ezra's large silver-toned charger.

Wide green eyes traveled from the small gift to Buck's face. "This is for me?" Ezra echoed in astonishment.

Solemnly, Buck nodded. The tall man was beginning to wonder if this had been a mistake. Ezra seemed to disbelieve everything he said or did. "Thought it might match your eyes."

Ezra dropped his gaze back to the flower. It had an interesting streaking of spring green over each pink petal. The size of the flower, so very small, reassured him. This was intended for a man's buttonhole. "Thank you." He began to wonder if he'd fallen asleep.

"This is no dream, Ezra." Buck's smile was soft like his eyes. Hopeful. He stretched his arm out across the table and poked the box closer to Standish with one large index finger. "Open it."

So Ezra did. He plucked out the orchid and let it sit on the flat palm of his hand, fingers curling only slightly, then brought it up level with his eyes. Studying the tiny thing, he became lost in the miracle of nature's beauty.

"Like you, Ezra, beautiful and perfect."

Buck's quiet words touched Ezra at so deep a place inside that he nearly wept. With a gasp, eyes shining, Ezra switched his focus to the man who had surprised him tonight. "Buck, you've never hinted at - " Ezra licked his lips and paused, then started again, "You always seemed so involved with ladies."

"Plural, pal. Never singular." Buck sat back, easing his tense muscles. This was going pretty well. Ezra hadn't shot him yet.

Ezra tipped his head to the side and continued to examine his companion closely. "Yet?"

"Ever." Buck leaned back down on his crossed elbows, pushing aside the large plate in front of him. Confidentially, he spoke low across the table, "I've been watching you forever. Watched you and Rick. Then you and Michael. Pretty boys, Ez, but not really your style."

"But Greg - "

"Nearly backed off over Greg." Buck shrugged and picked up his scotch glass, shifting his attention to the amber glitter within. "But I kept a watch, began to see that he wasn't treating you right."

"No." Ezra sighed, dropping his eyes again. Inside, he thought in panic, 'kept a watch?'

"You deserve someone wonderful, Ezra," Buck spoke earnestly, "but I hope you'll settle for me."

Without waiting further, Buck stood up and came back around the table. He smiled down at his companion and took up the boutonnière from Ezra's hand. With concentration, Buck carefully tucked the stem clasp into the tiny buttonhole on Ezra's lapel. Stepping back, he let one hand brush Ezra's smooth, cool cheek. "Looking good, buddy."

"And he scores!" Vin yelled, then spun away from the listening station and dunked his empty crushed soda cup in the room's wastebasket. JD was grinning from ear to ear, hands pressing his earphones tightly so he could continue to listen in.

Nathan and Josiah had slipped back into the room several minutes earlier, nodding to Larabee. Nothing was said, but everyone knew that Greg and his new friend were out of the picture now. Chris relaxed for the first time tonight. Maybe now Buck and Ezra would find each other and everyone could ease up. And now, they deserved some much needed privacy. He strode over to JD's jury-rigged station and reaching down, pulled the plug.

"What!" JD looked frantically down at his equipment, dead.

"Hey!" Vin leaned over JD to stare at Chris, then meeting his friend's eyes, he reluctantly nodded and backed up.

Josiah matter-of-factly began gathering scattered possessions, yawning pointedly. Nathan, after a moment's hesitation, flashed an approving smile and began to help.

Chris waited, staring into JD's startled eyes. Slowly understanding grew and JD also nodded, looking almost embarrassed. "Sorry, Chris." He turned away and began to dismantle his bits and pieces.

Larabee gave him a single pat on the back and then moved to the drapery-covered single window. He drew back the curtain slightly and watched as Buck Wilmington emerged from the restaurant below them, with Ezra Standish at his side. The two men moved comfortably, no signs of distress. Good. He felt the warmth of someone close and out of the corner of his eye saw Vin edging closer to look out also. Tanner smiled down at the street.

And in that instant, something changed. Chris saw it in Vin's face. Puzzlement, surprise, anger, fear - and Larabee turned back to look out at the passing scene below. Just in time to see his men pushed into the open back of an unmarked white van. "SHIT!"

He shoved away from the window, Vin doing the same. They spun around to face the rest of the team. "Someone's grabbed them!" Larabee shouted over his shoulder as he ran for the door, Tanner at his back. The three other astonished agents dropped everything and ran after them.

Larabee, Tanner and the rest burst from the hotel entrance next to the restaurant to find the street empty of the mystery van - and the doorman to the restaurant lying on the carpeted sidewalk, unconscious.

Vin punched the air in frustration while Chris stalked to the curb and stared down the busy night time street, seeing only red tail lights and on-coming headlights, no sign of one anonymous white van.

Jackson crouched over the doorman, trying to revive him. Josiah stepped to the side and flipped open his cell phone, placing a call to the local police. JD and Vin quickly moved in opposite directions along the sidewalk, questioning citizens, looking for witnesses.

Chris called back to the ATF building, reporting two agents missing, presumed kidnapped. Since Team Seven didn't have an active case, having just concluded the Jenkins-Warhol case, agents would have to start looking into past cases - including the team's most recent one. Once he finished, Chris checked his men. Nathan was still with the doorman who was now sitting up, propped against the outside of the building.

Josiah was still on his phone. Larabee questioned with a look.

Sanchez cupped his hand over the tiny instrument to say, "Talking to the EMTs now, an ambulance is on the way."

Chris nodded and scanned the street for his other two men. Vin was loping back towards him, looking grim. In the other direction, JD was chatting with an elderly street woman, the bag lady seemed alert enough. Might be something there.

"No one saw a thing." Vin was disgusted, having skidded to a stop next to his friend and boss. He faced Larabee. "I couldn't see them, did you make the plates?"

"No." Chris grimaced. "They were covered with mud deliberately." He grit his teeth and looked toward JD again. The kid gave a high sign so he and Vin headed over.

Buck rolled his neck, he'd been hit with some sort of rubber kosh, hard enough to nearly put him out but padded enough to stop short of breaking the skin. Least, that was what he figured since he didn't feel any trickle of warm blood back there. The throbbing let him know that he probably had a sizeable goose egg at the base of his skull.

Ezra was out cold, head resting in his lap. Buck pressed his bound hands flat on Ezra's chest, flexing his fingers. He could feel the rise and fall of the other's chest, feel the beat of his heart. He worked at keeping calm, right now Ezra depended on him to get them both out of this. Whatever this was.

He stared at the hooded men who sat facing them across the length of the empty van's shell. The two were strapped into a back-facing bench, merely lifting and falling slightly as the van hit potholes. Better than Ezra and him. Loose on the metal floor, they were slip-sliding around and bashing into the sides and back with each turn or bump as the vehicle sped along. From the vibrations, Buck calculated that they were moving swiftly.

Each man held an automatic weapon and looked professional enough to know how to use it properly. Definitely in over our heads on this. He clutched at Ezra's shirtfront with both hands as they were flung to the right again, Ezra's limp form crashing with bruising force against the unpadded sidewall of the van. Shit, he's going to be feeling bad when he finally comes to. Buck tried to hitch his friend up on to his lap more, hoping to protect him from more battering. It was difficult to do much with his hands so tightly bound. The bastards had used police plastic strip handcuffs, then pulled them so tightly that Buck's hands were numbing and discoloring. Ezra's were likewise tied off.

With a lurch and squeal of tires, the van came to a stop, engine still thrumming. Buck, still holding onto Ezra, skated across the floor, long legs skidding to the side as he and Ezra moved helplessly into the legs of their captors.

Buck ducked, hunching over Ezra's head as one man put his heel to Buck's shoulder and shoved hard, growling what sounded like a curse in a foreign tongue. Buck couldn't suppress a small grunt of pain at the kick as his shoulder bore the brunt of the shove. The other man unclipped his seat belt and stood, stoically watching with the barrel of his weapon pointed directly at the prisoners.

Slumping back away from their guards, Buck chanced a look up at the men who were both now standing over them. The hoods effectively hid faces and shadowed eyes so it was only body posture that gave him a sign of their temperament. Bored, but alert.

A clatter behind him told Buck that the back doors of the van were being opened. Bright light flooded the dimly light interior of the vehicle. Swiveling on his rump, Wilmington brought his knees up to cradle Ezra between his legs as securely as he could. Now would be an excellent time to wake up, he directed toward his still unconscious friend. 'Ezra?' He looked down and found pain-filled, slitted green eyes staring back up at him. With a quick shake of his head, he signaled that Ezra should play possum for now. The green eyes disappeared immediately and Ezra's body snuggled minutely closer to Buck's. Buck found that very reassuring. Nice, in fact. Promising for their future. He held in the smile that wanted to emerge. The smile died completely as he wondered if they would have a chance at a future.

Dark silhouettes jostled in the bright lights outside the van, and then someone grabbed the back of Buck's collar and heaved him, and incidentally Ezra, toward the door. Unable to brace himself against the unexpected push, he and Ezra ended up at the edge of the van's flooring, caught up in the door bracket floor trim. Hands from outside reached in towards them and then Ezra was being dragged from his lap to land on the ground beyond the van's door. Buck hooked his heels on the doorjamb and pulled hard, jerking himself out of the van in a tumble to the ground, no, cement floor, where Ezra lay unmoving. He landed hard on his knees and keeled to the side to subside on top of Ezra. Covering him.

Larabee stared coldly at Denver PD's two squad cars and milling officers. Aside from entertaining the passing evening throng, they didn't seem to be accomplishing anything useful and Chris was getting pissed. He stood like a rock, arms folded, glaring at the young sergeant who'd been 'volunteered' by the other officers to talk to him. A report would be filed. The witness would be interviewed by the police officers and her statement added to the files that would be read by department detectives.

JD had managed to get a description of the abductors from the bag lady he'd interviewed. There had been four men, all in black hoods, dressed in dark, simple clothing. Nothing had been spoken, the act carried out in silence. The van had driven up, right on to the sidewalk and when the doorman came out to protest, the four men in the van had boiled out, two from the driving bench, two from the rear. The poor doorman never had a chance. Then the men had run up to the sides of the front door and stood poised.

They'd ignored the first couple to emerge, a man and woman who'd run in horror upon discovering the unconscious doorman at their feet and the masked men at their rear. So far, there was no identification on the couple, but officers were inside questioning the maitre de, so it was possible that something might be discovered. The restaurant was a very popular spot and required reservations, with many returning clientele.

Vin appeared at Larabee's side. "Nada."

Chris flicked a hard look at his agent and then back at the nervous young man in uniform who was standing practically at attention before him. "Kale, isn't it?" At the man's nod, Larabee raised his chin in dismissal, adding, "Keep us informed."

Then he turned away to face Vin. "What?"

"They ran a red light at the next intersection, scared one of the bouncers when they went up the corner curb and nearly clipped the front of his bar." Vin pursed his lips. "He says it was a late model Dodge, two men in front, both in dark clothes, hoods."

"Anything there at all?"

Tanner nodded slowly. "Left a good track on the sidewalk, they had some greasy oil grit on the tires."

Larabee became more focused. He looked down at Tanner's discretely displayed fingertips. "And?"

"Smells like jet fuel."

Instantly, Chris closed the distance, snaring Tanner's closest arm and swinging them both around, away from the police cars still flashing blue and white lights. He started walking them to where JD and Nathan were packing up gear. Josiah came out with an armful of things to add to the stack just as Larabee and Tanner arrived.

Everyone looked up at Larabee. Chris' face was set in a fierce grin, a hunter on a scent. "Vin, get the truck. Everything gets dumped in it," he directed at the others. "Josiah, bring around your car too. Vin found jet fuel traces on the tire tread marks."

All eyes dropped to the tread marks on the curb in front of them. The dark greasy stains could be seen here too, Larabee realized. The police soon might realize they had a clue staring at them. Time to leave. He signaled GO and everyone turned away galvanized, the men scattering while JD and Nathan scurried to finish securing everything quickly.

"These? These are the men you brought me?" Disgust and anger marred the low, mellifluous voice of one of the men now standing over them.

Ezra swallowed a cough from the dust and fumes that coated the cracked cement floor. Buck was heavy on his body, essentially trapping him beneath the bigger agent. He could feel the rapid heartbeat of the man against his chest. And then Buck shifted and his face brushed against Ezra's, mustache teasing his skin. He risked opening his eyes again to look directly into Buck's deep blue ones. He saw worry there and caring, something more. Then Buck rose up, dragged off him, Ezra realized, from the way the man was levitating up and back, without the use of his arms.

Blinding light shone into his face and he shut his eyes tightly against the brutal beam. He felt something heavy drop down beside and against him. Probably Buck.

"These are NOT the men I wanted."

"We aren't gonna tell the police about this?" JD asked quietly, nervously watching his boss driving with genuine abandon, the flood lit road speeding by, lit by the hunting lights of the front rack of the Ram's roof.

Nathan, sitting grimly holding the side drop-down grip in one hand, his other braced on the back of Larabee's seat, spared a quick look at their youngest agent. "Waste of time. We can get there faster than we can explain it, and act with more freedom."

JD looked over at Vin Tanner in the front seat. Tanner had both feet against the dash, hands locked on grips at door and center. Tanner spared a glance back, flashing a wild grin at JD. Dunne shivered. Tanner released one hand to whip out his cell and start making calls. Dunne could hear enough to know that airport security was being alerted, as was ATF headquarters again, and finally, the police. Larabee's men would be first on the scene.

Josiah, following the Ram in his suburban, muttered dark passages of Dante as he kept his foot on the floor. It was going to be a close thing and he didn't want to be left behind. With a roar from throat and engine, Sanchez pulled in behind Larabee at the airport's employee entrance.

Flashing ATF cards and half-walking, half-charging ahead, the five men moved in, passing the security barriers and guards with no fuss. Between the call ahead and familiarity, the security teams knew better than to interfere. Most of Larabee's team was instantly recognizable due to their recent case and a raid in one of the hangers here at the airport.

Vin's call had garnered the information that an unmarked white van had entered through the private plane owners' entrance only about twenty minutes earlier. It had driven directly to one of the smaller hangers at the end of the civil aeronautics area of the field.

Nathan commandeered a follow-me jeep and everyone piled in. Jackson pushed the little vehicle which showed a respectable burst of speed and they headed for the far side of the airport and the private hangers.

Jenkins Shipping had operated out of one of those hangers and that's where they'd nabbed Horace Warhol and the Jenkins boy, Maurice. And fifty crates of illegally sniper-scoped rifles and ammunition. Sanchez, standing on the rear bumper and hanging on to the 'follow-me' sign itself, stared at that hanger as they sped by. Nathan was aiming for one further down the row. Couldn't be related, could it? Josiah shook his head silently. Life was full of coincidences.

Emro Dressler paced across the concrete floor to the far wall of the big hanger. He avoided the private black hawk helicopter that squatted in the center of the space. This was a farce! All I needed were two men, the right two men, and we would have something to trade with. Instead, I get stuck with two almost-look-a-likes. He reined in his temper with difficulty. It really was too much. True there was a surface similarity to the Major's sons, but these men were not Simon and Bart Mosher. If Emro didn't produce the Israelis soon, he was a dead man as far as the Palestinians were concerned. Actually, in light of that thought, Dressler paused in his pacing. Perhaps these men were close enough in resemblance after all?

"Oh, my god!" JD cried out, diving out of the jeep as it skidded and rear axle swung to the side. His teammates were doing the same. A big gray helicopter was screaming out of the hanger facing them, so low that the wheels nearly overturned their tiny vehicle. JD lay on his stomach on the tarmac, hands over his ears, eyes scrunched nearly shut against the wind-driven grit that bombarded them. The sounds were so intense that JD felt deafened. He could see Larabee and Tanner rolling over and over, away from the backwash and raising their pistols, two-fisted, at the hull that already was climbing beyond range. From the way their arms jerked, JD figured they had each shot at least twice at the huge chopper.

Crawling to his feet, Dunne gave Nathan a hand up as well, finding his teammate stunned on the ground nearby. He saw Josiah pick himself up, stagger and then sag against the big metal signboard at the rear of the jeep. By now, both Chris and Vin were standing too, reholstering their weapons and looking after the dark speck in the sky, now heading due west toward the mountains.

Clearing his throat, Dunne turned to face the gaping darkness of the interior of the hanger. "Shouldn't we check out the hanger?"

Somehow, that simple question seemed to bring the others back to themselves. Chris started issuing orders, still standing facing the sky where the helicopter had dwindled to a speck. Jackson climbed back into the jeep and Sanchez joined him, rubbing an elbow contemplatively. JD trudged after Larabee and Tanner who were striding directly for the hanger. He could hear Chris on his cell now, speaking to someone about contacting the Air Force.

Dressler went down on one knee in front of their captives, looking carefully at the men's faces. It was amazing how much they did look like Simon and Bart. Simon, a pint-sized replica of his father, and Bart, showing the large bones and height of his mother's side of the family. And the mustache. Unconsciously, Emro fingered his own upper lip as he thought about the possibilities.

"What are your names?"

Buck, startled by the earlier comment, frowned and remained silent. He really wasn't sure how to reply and figured he'd let Ezra handle this if Standish was capable after the blow he'd received. Buck looked away from the man who seemed to be in charge of their kidnapping and down at his friend. The southerner was blinking blearily. It didn't look like an act but with Ezra you never really could tell. Buck waited.

"Why should we divulge anything to you cretins?" Standish growled out.

Maybe I should have said something, Buck thought, wincing at the nasty tone to Ezra's blunt question.

Emro lifted his chin and caught the eye of one of the men around them. The man stepped forward and kicked the smaller captive sharply in the side.

The victim of this assault simply grunted and spat on the ground, anger in his movements. Buck began to wonder if this was the same Ezra he knew. The vulgarity that hit the air next had Buck's eyes opening wide. Ah shit, now you made him mad.

"Cut them loose." Dressler needed cooperation and it looked like simple coercion would not work. He eyed the two men as one of his own men snipped off the plastic cuffs with a switchblade.

Buck began to rub at his wrists as he was freed. Damn that hurt. His hands throbbed anew with pins and needles. He watched as Ezra's bound wrists were roughly yanked upwards, then sliced apart.

Holy crap! He lurched awkwardly forward and caught Ezra in a bear hug, dragging the furious man back, nearly into his lap. Standish had started to launch himself at the nearest goon with a low growl. Outnumbered, they didn't have a chance and here was Ezra acting as if that didn't matter. Buck held on tight to the angry, struggling man.

Wilmington was shaking inside with the thought that Ezra had nearly provoked a lethal response. As he fought to calm Ezra, he eyed their captors. The four hooded men had all backed away and were pointing their weapons at the two of them, looking as if they fully intended to shoot the begeezus out of them. Ezra was ignoring the threat, still growling and jerking about in Buck's arms. The leader, unmasked for all the good it did them - he had no idea who the guy was, the leader stood back, watching speculatively. Not good.

With an effort, Buck got his hands working again despite their numbed, shocky state. He had Ezra's legs trapped in a wrestler's lock with his own longer, larger legs. He gripped Ezra's head in a creative arm lock and wrenched the man's face around toward him. Eye to eye, finally, Buck cursed sincerely and internally. Ezra's very uneven pupil size told him the man was suffering from a concussion and so his unusual behavior wasn't going to go away with normal reasoning. Not that Buck's 'normal' had ever worked on Ezra before. Clamping hands on either side of Ezra's face, he steadied them, ignoring the men circling them, staring.

"Ezra! EZRA!" He was nearly bellowing now. "Listen to me," Buck lowered his voice to a near whisper. "Listen to me, listen to Buck."

Slowly, Standish's movements stilled. The murky look in the opaque green eyes began to clear a little and Buck became hopeful as Ezra's fierce look of rage softened to one of confusion. "That's right, buddy, just take it easy now."

Emro could see that these two men were close. The nameless one seemed more coherent and seemed to care about the one he called 'Ezra.' There was no time to dally. Dressler had missed his opportunity to kidnap the Mosher boys. But, if he could act fast enough, he might still pull off this game with these men as substitutes. If - if he could force them into cooperating.

He gestured to one of his men. "Get them on the transport, we are leaving." He paused, then added, while watching the bigger captive, "Use force if you need to."

Buck, still facing Ezra and willing some sense into the stubborn man, heard the threat and reacted. He pulled Ezra tight into his arms and buried his face against his friend's neck. "Ezra!" he whispered desperately, "Trust me, trust Buck. Don't fight this, not right now. Just do what I tell you. Please?"

Standish pulled back in Wilmington's arms and stared into Buck's eyes. The more alert look gave Buck hope. Ezra nodded, but it was a jerky movement, none of his usual style and grace. The man was hurting, concussed. Buck felt lucky that his friend responded with any sense at all. "Ok, Ez, here we go. We're going to stand up. You just stay right here with me, Ezra. Hold on."

With careful movements, Buck pushed to his feet, per force releasing Ezra's legs. With murmurs of encouragement, he got his friend upright as well, still held tightly to him.

Emro left it to his men to supervise and hurried over to the helicopter. He gave a wide arm signal to the shapes that could be seen in the cockpit and instantly the rotor blades began to turn, the muted sound of the engine suddenly growing loud. Ducking down instinctively under the high blades, now spinning with a sweeping whop-whop sound, he reached the metal drop-ladder and climbed aboard, moving to the front comfortable passenger seats directly behind the pilot and copilot. Once strapped in, and only then, he turned to look back at the open door hatch.

One of his men was already in and crouched there, looking down with weapon at the ready. Then two heads appeared together at the top of the ladder. The bigger hostage was apparently climbing the ladder with the smaller one in front of him, still caged in his arms. By now, Dressler had realized that the one called Ezra was likely suffering from a concussion. He shrugged, as long as the big one controlled him, his new plan should still work. He turned back to face forward.

"As soon as we are all aboard, go."

The pilot, who'd looked back over one shoulder, signaled a thumbs-up and lifted his chin to see further back. Dressler could hear the shuffling and muffled sounds of all the men entering and settling in the craft, then the scraping and thunk as the ladder was pulled in and the hatch slid closed. The pilot swiveled back to his instruments and the helicopter rose to hover just off the ground.

It was a confining, nearly claustrophobic feeling to be airborne while still inside the hanger. After another moment of rocking on the cushion of air, the craft tilted nose forward slightly and with an increase in power and sound, pushed forward as with increasing speed, it burst from the open hanger and into the air.

Dressler could see a small jeep headed towards them at a distance. It looked like armed men crowded on it. Then the Black Hawk was over them and rising, accelerating into the sky and away. With a choked off scream, Emro jumped in his seat as a neat black hole appeared in the floor at his feet and the edge of the seat beside him disintegrated in an explosion of leather and foam rubber bits. A sharp ping above his head and then a spent bullet dropped to the metal floor to rattle there irritatingly.

One of his men leaned forward and snatched up the tiny missile, shouting out a joke in Arabic to the men behind him, holding the trophy high. Laughter from the others and silence from their hostages. Emro forced himself to relax. Whoever those men on the ground were - they were far behind them now.

Buck felt hope for the first time since the snatch. Only his crazy teammates would be on their trail so fast - and - firing at a chopper this big. He shook his head at the fruitless action, but felt better anyway. Might not have stopped the thing, but they did send a message. They knew about this and would rescue them, eventually. Meanwhile, looked like it was up to him to keep the two of them alive. He looked at Ezra who was sitting like a ruffled bantam rooster in the seat at his side, plucking at the safety harness that held him in the seat as the air caused the helicopter to buck and lift.

Buck lifted one hand and touched Ezra's shoulder. When the angry, confused man turned his way, he lightly stroked Ezra's smooth cheek, letting his thumb hook around to frame his friend's chin. Ezra's eyes lost focus and smoldered at him, lids lowering halfway. "That's it, Ez, relax. We're together. We'll figure this out. The boys nearly caught up to us. They'll get to us. You know them, no stopping them." He smiled tenderly into eyes that still had a glazed look but that were clearly intent on him. He wasn't sure if Ezra understood the words but he was responding to the tone and the touch. Ah, lover-to-be, stay with me, sweetheart, stay with me.

With Ezra calmer and quiet, Buck turned his attention to his captors. The men around him were peeling off their hooded masks. None were familiar; all had dark Near Eastern looks. The bits of lingo that he'd heard made him think Arabic. Why the hell are they here in Denver, of all places? Wilmington let his hand slip from Ezra's face to neck and left it settled there at the top of his friend's shoulder. From the greenish pallor of Ezra's face, he figured that the concussion was about to make itself known again and not just with altered behavior.

The one who had spoken to them, likely the leader, had never been hooded. He was short and fat, greasy looking. Thinning dark hair had been brushed across in oily strands on a bald head. He was frowning now, his thick dark eyebrows coming together in a V. Buck hadn't liked any of this from the start, but the calculating look of the man now was making Wilmington feel like an interesting bug in a collector's net. Not good. Not much future there either.

The team gathered in a circle at the abandoned jeep on the parking area of the civil runway. There was a wing of security heading their way in two more of the little field jeeps. Nathan wondered if they had any left to lead the aircraft into the bays. He fingered the tiny Koran that they'd found on the floor of the empty hangar. There was a definite international feel to this thing. That helicopter had been a military issue Black Hawk in a civilian 'suit' of gray clothes. Local gangsters couldn't afford to run something like that - nor would they want to, much too distinctive.

Jackson surveyed his teammates. Everyone showed stress right now. We're all feeling a bit helpless.

Even as the two small jeeps braked to stalling stops in front of Team Seven, a wailing siren caught everyone's attention. Spinning onto the far end of the tarmac, a Denver PD car, lights flashing and siren on, came careening up the stretch to skid to a halt on their far side. Two plain-clothed men got out of the back and strode over to the ATF agents. Behind them, the driver and the other officer in the front seat with him got out of the car as well and quickly headed off the airport security personnel. Standing at a distance, they held a quiet discussion and the airport workers piled back into their jeeps and departed, turning back towards the terminal.

One of the men approaching Team Seven looked vaguely familiar to Nathan Jackson, but he could not put a name to the face so he waited.

"Agent Larabee?" The first man was rosy-faced, with small, burst blood vessels all over a bulbous nose. His average height had to carry a few extra pounds, but Nathan thought he looked solid, not overweight. A fringe of gray was all that was left of his hair. He came to a stop in front of Chris, not extending his hand.

"Baxter." Larabee said flatly. He eyed Baxter's companion silently.

"This is Fred Hernandez, CIA." A taller, coffee-toned man with dark, crisply curling hair nodded without speaking.

Chris looked the man up and down, then turned to his team and introduced them to Baxter. "Boys, this is Tiny Baxter, police liaison for the intelligence community." He pointed out and named his men as a simple courtesy to the two waiting. Jackson, like his teammates he was certain, was already worrying the situation and these new players in his head.

Hiram 'Tiny' Baxter, a thirty-year veteran of the Denver PD, had known Larabee a long time and respected the man. This time he had a feeling that things would not go smoothly. "Some of Mr. Hernandez's men fielded this one and Fred called me in to help intercede. You and your team are going to have to back off."

Jackson stiffened. Around him, the others froze. JD hissed under his breath and rocked forward on his toes. Vin seemed to sink closer to the ground without moving, his eyes nearly closing in a strangely lazy action. Josiah simply cursed in a murmur that still managed to have Nathan sending him a shocked look before turning back to see how Chris would handle this.

"No." Well, that was easy, Nathan thought with a smile that he bit back.

Baxter shifted from foot to foot and looked at the ground as he answered, "That won't work this time, Chris." He looked up into Larabee's cold eyes. Regretfully, he continued, "National security issues."

For the first time, Hernandez spoke, his voice a surprisingly high tenor with a slightly musical accent. "Mr. Larabee, your two rogue agents have become involved with a cell of Palestinian terrorists and an arms dealer who specializes in trading with them and with the Israelis. As we speak, your men are accompanying them to an unknown destination somewhere up in the mountains above the Denver - Boulder area. We can not afford to have any more of you involved."

"My agents are not rogue, Mr. Hernandez." Larabee jutted his jaw forward, eyes squinting as he gritted out, "They were KIDNAPPED." He arched his back and looked up at the empty sky for a moment before letting his eyes drop back down to fasten on the CIA agent. "And I won't walk away from them. Especially not now, knowing what a mess they've gotten themselves into."

Hernandez studied the angry agents before him, letting his gaze linger on Larabee. He gave no ground, simply nodded and reached into his jacket. Instantly, five ATF agents responded by reaching for their weapons, each breaking from the group in a separate direction.

"At ease!" Baxter bellowed, both hands raised. Everyone went still, five guns now aimed at Hernandez, who had yet to remove his hand from his jacket pocket. "STAND DOWN, Larabee! We are not the enemy here!"

Slowly, Fred Hernandez withdrew his hand from behind his lapel, bringing out a slim brown envelope, larger than normal letter mail. He seemed unaware of the weapons still pointed at him but he did continue to move slowly. With no pause, he serenely tapped the envelope against his palm, allowing the contents to slip free. Several glossy black and white photos dropped into his hand.

Nathan exhaled finally. He relaxed, lowering his gun to rest against his thigh, resetting the safety without looking. Around him, the others' actions mirrored his own.

Chris Larabee re-holstered his gun, knowing that his boys were still holding theirs and ready to react if the need arose. He kept his eyes on the CIA agent's face, his eyes.

"Here." Hernandez offered the photographs to Agent Larabee, his economy of speech endearing him to Chris.

Chris stared down at the pictures. What the hell? At first glance, it looked like several candid shots, taken from a distance, of Ezra and Buck, both in dark, European-styled suits. While Ezra might dress something like that, Buck only would under duress. He looked more closely. As he stared, two more glossies were slipped across the top of the stack he held. Two portraits. Two men. One dark, big, mustached. The other, smaller, clean-shaven, also dark. Not Buck. Not Ezra. But close. Suddenly, things began to make sense.

"They took the wrong men."

"Yes."

Hernandez nodded again. He crossed his arms and stood patiently as Larabee's men crowded around their leader, staring, first dubiously, then with stunned disbelief at the photos.

Chris gave his boys time to see what he'd seen, in the end it would save time. Now, collecting the photos and dropping them back into the brown envelope, he confronted the man from the CIA. "Who are they?"

"They are sons of Captain Aaron Mosher, a key figure in Israeli security forces. And they are vacationing here in Denver and the area, for rock climbing."

No one bothered to say the obvious, but Josiah had to choke back his anger that two of his friends were involved in a misadventure through sheer happenstance - doppelgangers becoming victims of their coincidental similarities. He shoved his gun into the belt holster at the center of his back, letting his arms swing forward just so that he could release some of the growing tension. An evening that had started out in such a promising manner was deteriorating into a nightmare.

Vin shifted from leg to leg, throwing out a hip as he leaned to relieve pressure on his back. That damn truck ride over here had been wild. It had hurt like hell on his spine when they crunched several traffic speed bumps on the airport approach road. He knew they wouldn't be backing out of this one, but it wasn't going to be easy. Not like hitting the street for information - though, now that he thought about it, it might actually work to their advantage, knowing the locals. These imports would be real difficult to hide and the Denver illegal community would likely know more about them than anyone suspected. Vin began to get that itch he used to get when he was a bounty hunter. He walked softly closer to Larabee so that Chris would know he was ready and had a plan.

Chris caught Vin's movement and turned his head slightly. He gave a slow nod, more a dropping of his chin, eyes still on Hernandez. It was enough for Vin, he knew. They could leave here anytime now.

JD was snapping his fingers soundlessly at his legs, arms hanging down loosely. Unless you knew him, you wouldn't realize that he was wired and percolating. All I need is access now. I've got some names, some places, and some connections. Gimme a few hours and I'll hand you their heads on a plate. Come ON, Chris, let's get out of here. JD stewed restlessly. His weapon was already back in his underarm holster and he was beginning to wish it wasn't.

Nathan Jackson deliberately moved into the space between Josiah and Chris Larabee, squaring up beside Chris. No point in letting Josiah blow now. Won't solve anything and might get us locked out totally. Leastways now the man is telling us things. He plucked the brown envelope from Chris' hand and tidied it up swiftly by pulling the pictures, sorting them and aligning them, then carefully tucking them back in the envelope. All the while, Larabee seemed focused exclusively on Hernandez. Nathan waited for a chance to return the evidence in a proper manner to the CIA agent.

"We can help."

"We don't need it." Fred Hernandez could be blunt when called for and he followed his instincts with this ATF commander. It didn't hurt that Hiram Baxter had warned him about the man and his crazy team.

"We're not walking away from this one. Buck Wilmington and Ezra Standish are two of my men, our teammates. They don't get hung out to dry." Chris didn't have to fake his anger but he controlled it easily. He'd read his men from peripheral signals and knew they all had ideas, didn't need more right now. When we break away, we can get started. But he knew if he made it too easy, they'd get pulled in by Travis and grounded. He didn't particularly want to risk that. Though, push come to shove, they'd work the case regardless.

Hernandez tilted his head to the side. "Mr. Larabee. We can handle this. We'll get your men back. Let us do our jobs." He's not pushing hard enough, something's up. Damned if I can figure out what.

"Can we go?" Chris looked blankly at Baxter now, dismissing the CIA man without another word.

Tiny Baxter seemed uncomfortable. He wasn't in the chain of command for anyone, he just acted as liaison between agencies, acting on behalf of the Denver PD. He glanced over at Agent Fred Hernandez. The man wielded a lot of power within his agency, had a big team out in the field here in Denver - something unheard of in the US before Homeland Security issues boiled over. Now all the alphabets were stepping on each other's toes and ignoring each other's spheres of authority. And their local power player, ATF's Larabee, looked ready to eat Hernandez for a snack. Baxter got no guidance from Fred so he pursed his lips and nodded slowly. "I'll keep you informed, Chris, I promise."

Larabee narrowed his eyes, staring holes into Baxter. "See that you do. You know how to reach me." With that, he spun on his heel and stalked off for the small jeep that Nathan had commandeered. He knew his men were trailing him.

Jackson paused beside Agent Hernandez. "Here you go, sir. Think I got them organized for you." He spoke respectfully and handed the envelope to Hernandez, having crimped the end closed so the photos wouldn't slide out. Giving a sketchy salute, he turned and followed along behind the rest of his team.

Fred Hernandez watched the ATF team climb stiffly back into their small transport, the big man, Sanchez, at the wheel now. As the jeep rolled off, he turned back toward Baxter and the waiting police cruiser. Without waiting to get inside, he pulled out his high security cell phone and contacted one of his lead men. "Henry? I want men all over Larabee's team. They are taking a piece of the action and this is their turf. I need to know what they know when they know it."

Baxter smiled at Fred, then nodded slowly. Hernandez was smart enough to know that Larabee was probably smarter.

"Alright, Nathan. What was that all about?" Chris turned in the front seat and raised his eyes to Jackson perched on the back shelf seat next to Vin. This time JD clung to the metal "Follow Me" sign on the rear, toes hooked on the rear bumper.

Nathan looked back at Chris impassively. Then he straightened one arm, pointing it toward Larabee. He shook the arm at the team leader. And two glossy black and white photographs dropped out of his sleeve into Larabee's lap. Nathan grinned, teeth a flash of white. "Sleight of hand, courtesy of Ezra's coaching."

Josiah's belly laugh had the jeep dancing down the runway.

"AIIIEEE!" Emro's cry of disgust had all his men peering toward the front of the aircraft.

Buck wrapped an arm back around Ezra's heaving shoulders and held on. With his free hand, he yanked his own bowtie loose and then used it to mop up the remnants of the vomit on Ezra's chin. "Easy, buddy, deep breaths now." He tilted them slightly away from the direction of the semi-hysterical thug leader so that Ezra wouldn't inhale the stench of the vomitus that now decorated the creep's lap, legs and shoes. From behind them came the sound of raucous laughter as the other four thugs reacted. With a smirk hidden in his sleeve, Buck soothed his confused and irritated, sickly Ezra while privately gloating over his poor friend's great aim.

"Control him!" The head-thug, as Buck thought of the man, hissed the order at him, gesturing furiously at Ezra who was again shaking with the early signs of heaves.

"He's sick, damn it! Concussed thanks to you bastards!" Buck wasn't about to back down, he could see that these men wouldn't be interested in anything other than power, force.

"Then take care of him." The man curled a lip, then stood up, picking futilely at his ruined trousers. He edged around their seats and toward the back of the large hull, calling for something in the sharp staccato of another language.

We're deep in something here, Ez, Buck thought silently to his friend as he eased the man's cummerbund and waistband, then picked the shirt studs loose and undid the bowtie at Ezra's neck.

Ezra tried to look at Buck hovering close in front of him. His stomach was curdling with the feeling of sickness and the continuing motion of the helicopter. His head pounded with the pain from his goose egg, the roar of the motor around them sheer agony. He swallowed the dry gritty taste of his own stomach contents and wished only for water and quiet. His world was so tumbled that he no longer had any idea of what was happening. The one constant seemed to be Buck Wilmington at his side. The how and why were receding in the waves of pain and illness, but the man's presence was the only thing he felt he could trust.

"Buck?" Ezra's voice sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Yeah, Ez?"

"Water." The very thought of a complete sentence was more than he could cope with so he sincerely hoped that Buck understood.

Apparently he did because Wilmington surged to his feet, one hand still firmly clamped to Ezra's shoulder, and twisted around to bellow to the rear of the hold, "We need water! If you want me to take care of him, give me some water now!"

Buck certainly sounded fierce, Ezra thought vaguely, glad for the feel of the man's big hand on him. It gave him a sense of connection that he really needed as the world swung wildly about him. Then Buck was sinking back down beside him and holding a plastic water bottle to his lips.

"Small sips, Ezra." That melodic voice was so gentle now, Ezra leaned into it as he nursed at the bottle pressed to his lips. Buck was hugging him again, the warmth of his long arm across Ezra's back was comforting. Ezra leaned further into Buck, enjoying the contact and sipping the cold water that cut through his nausea. Then it settled like a hard, heavy weight in his stomach and he began to shift in dismay. The bottle disappeared and his face was caught by Buck's other large hand.

"Ride it out, Ez, just take slow breaths, and hold on, buddy." Buck's soothing commands echoed in Ezra's aching head but he obeyed. Gradually, the feeling of a rock in his gut eased and the motion of the transport became the rocking of Buck's body cradling his. He let his head drop onto Buck's shoulder and it slid down on to the big man's chest. He could hear Buck's heart beating now, steady and reassuring. He rubbed his forehead against the stiff lapel of Buck's dinner jacket and suddenly thought about the tiny orchid that Buck had given him.

"Is it gone?" He realized dimly that he'd spoken but wasn't sure if Buck would hear his quiet question.

"Is what gone, Ezra?" Buck's head had lowered because now he felt warm breath on his face and then Buck's slightly scratchy cheek on his forehead.

"Flower." Ezra felt as if he was drifting off on a cloud of Buck now. Surrounded by the smell of his aftershave, the texture of his jacket, the heat of his body, the touch of his skin.

Buck listened in surprise. Then he smiled as he realized that Ezra was asking about the boutonnière that he'd given him over the dinner table. Was it only a few hours ago? He tilted his head so that he could see Ezra's face. The pained look was etched there, but Ezra had still managed to fall asleep. Aw, Ez. Buck pressed a kiss to the sweaty cold forehead and then closed his eyes and rested his chin on his friend's head. I should wake him. You're not supposed to let folks sleep with a concussion. He sighed.

"Ezra?" He gently shook the smaller body pressed against his. "Ezra, you can't sleep now, wake up."

Bleary green eyes slid back open and blinked up at Buck.

"Good boy!" Buck patted the pale cheek and suppressed a grin at the look of indignation that appeared.

"Boy?" Ezra sat up slightly, "I am not a boy, good or otherwise." Then he slumped back down against Buck unwilling to give up the nice warm heat of his friend's body or the good feeling of the touch.

"Nope, guess you're not a boy, Ezra." Buck let his fingers comb through the other man's ruffled hair, the suggestion of waves that had always charmed him becoming more apparent as sweat and disarray allowed nature's curls to reassert themselves.

Buck hugged Ezra slowly closer and smiled. "You're all man and one that I'd like to get to know better."

"You would?" Ezra's eyes seemed huge this close. The greens were gradually clearing, though it was clear that not all the lights were back on yet, Buck thought affectionately.

"Yes, Ezra, I would." He let his hand trail down the lapel to Ezra's waist, then on to his hip where he captured the farther thigh and tugged Ezra's body even closer to him. "I do think I could fall in love with you, Ezra."

Ezra snuggled into Buck's chest and smiled. That sounded very nice.

The drone of the helicopter engine coupled with the throbbing sound of the blades had lulled Buck into a doze. Ezra's warm body curled up against him had been an added inducement to drowsiness. Their kidnappers had been ignoring them for some time. Waking to full alert with a change in the sounds of the transport, Buck cracked open an eyelid and stared around the windowless cabin. Both side hatch doors were shut. Even without any terrain for clues, he had some ideas about where they might be. With his former military experiences, Buck had a feel for the range of a helicopter. He'd never flown in this particular model, but they had to be a great distance from Denver by now.

On the pretense of rolling his shoulders and neck, he checked the rest of the passengers, their captors. The men were seated on the side benches behind them. He and Ezra were in the second seats after the pilot's. The little man in charge seemed to be sulking in the rear, now dressed in an oversized Air Force pickle-suit.

Buck leaned back as Ezra sat up, awake as well. "Hey pard, how are you doing?"

Ezra swiveled to face Buck and met his eyes. "What did I miss?"

So, you're back? Buck pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Nothing good. We got picked up right from the restaurant, whacked from behind." Buck paused to rub the back of his neck in sympathetic remembrance. "You got hit pretty hard, Ezra. I think you have a concussion. You've been out of it, or only half conscious for nearly three hours now."

Standish rubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth and grimaced. Wilmington nodded consolingly and handed him a half-empty plastic water bottle. "You got sick. Up here in the air." He jerked his chin toward the rear of the craft. "Upchucked over Snow White back there."

"Snow White?" Ezra's reserved look was settling in. As he suppressed his surprise and bewilderment in favor of playing his undercover persona, willing to seek information rather than succumb to physical ailments. He firmly told himself to disregard his nearly blinding headache.

"Didn't give me a name, but that fellow in the one-piece," Buck nodded rearward again, "That guy and his dwarves are the ones that took us." Buck quirked his lips ruefully. "Seems they made a mistake - thought we were somebody else."

"This is all a mistake?" Ezra forgot to control his voice and heard it rise in confusion.

"Yeah." Buck smiled ironically now. Ezra was becoming fascinated by Buck's range of expression with those lavish lips. He nearly missed the next bit. "Fact is, Snow asked us what our names are."

Buck waited. When Ezra didn't comment, he continued, "You called them cretins, refused to answer, and they started whacking on you all over again." Buck shook his head at his friend. "You were a bit of a terror. You get pretty nasty when you're concussed, Ez."

"Doesn't seem to have done us any good," Ezra observed, leaning back on his seat, wondering why he felt chilled when he'd been warm when he woke.

"Not sure what will." Buck tentatively rested a hand on Ezra's shoulder. When it wasn't shrugged off, he smiled and relaxed, leaning back himself next to Ezra, leaving his hand were it was. "I think old Snow might be thinking up some way to use us. He knew we weren't the right ones back in Denver, still took us along for the ride."

"Speaking of Denver, where precisely are we? And where are we going?" Ezra's voice had moderated to a quiet murmur now, his awareness growing as was his understanding of their current predicament.

"Not sure. No windows and Snow hasn't been much of a tour guide." Buck hesitated, then added, "And guess you should know, I think the goons are speaking Arabic."

Ezra closed his eyes. What the hell was wrong with his social life anyway? First he couldn't seem to find Mr. Right, if his previous 'partners' had been any indication. Greg had been a dangerous disaster. He quelled a shudder at the thought of the man. Then, along comes Buck. Things are looking up, really wonderfully. And wham. Kidnapped. By mistake. What is wrong with my kismet, anyway? "Arabic." He didn't ask anything, life seemed to be one big question mark right now.

"Yeah." Buck checked over his shoulder and then pressed down on Ezra's, tipping his head closer to whisper, "speaking of the little shit, here he comes." Buck licked his lips. "Ah, Ezra, I should warn you - he don't like you much right now."

"Oh? Why is that?" Ezra straightened in his seat. As if I really care.

"Like I said, you puked all over him."

"Buck, we really need to work on your word choices." Ezra placed his hands flat on his knees and arched his back to relieve the stiffness he was only beginning to realize he had. A sharp pain on one side hinted at some bruising there as well. Wonderful.

"Soon as we get out of this, Ezra, we can work on anything you want. As long as it's together." Buck leaned in and gave Ezra a brief peck of a kiss on his cheek. "Hold that thought," he whispered before sitting up and staring at their approaching captor.

Ezra stole one last glance at Wilmington. Trust Buck to find time for romance in the middle of a kidnapping. Ezra hid a smile. I like it.

Emro saw that the men were both awake again and the younger one, who looked so much like Simon Mosher, seemed less upset, calmer. Good. Now to find out more. "Gentlemen." He came to a stop in front of the two men and gave a half-hearted bow. Rubbing his sweaty palms on his borrowed jumper, he looked both over. It really was amazing how much they looked like the Mosher brothers.

Neither Buck nor Ezra chose to answer. Both simply stared stonily at the man.

Dressler began to think that these two were not your average man in the street that the news broadcasters were constantly mentioning. He really did need to establish who they were before going on. "Who are you?"

Silence.

Dressler tried again, varying things slightly. "My men made a simple mistake in apprehending you. You bear a striking resemblance to two other men that we were trying to find."

"You always kidnap folks when you find them?" Buck bit back more that he was going to say, angry with himself for saying anything at all. He felt a touch on his thigh. Looking down, he saw that Ezra was resting one hand there, pressing lightly. He understood and closed his mouth.

Emro was pleased to get any sort of rational response from these two. He snapped up the opportunity to trot out his new little twist. "No, of course not. We do not find 'folks', we find criminals and worse. We agents of Interpol," he smiled as the two men exchanged wary looks before staring at him again, "we Interpol agents track down suspected terrorists and try to apprehend them as quickly as possible before they can do harm." He shook his head woefully. "Unfortunately, you are close to being dead ringers for the two we were seeking."

This time Ezra couldn't resist. "Close to being dead, anyway, at your treatment."

"Yes, yes, unfortunate that. However," Emro smiled brightly, his slicked down black hair strands gleaming on his greasy pate, "this may be a very good misadventure for us all!" He clapped his stubby hands together as if greeting himself. "You see, you may be able to help us capture more of their cell here in America. Yes," he nodded wisely, "You may be heroes!"

Buck swallowed a cough, nearly choking and Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Oh, my, that does sound promising."

Chris leaned back in his desk chair and stretched. It had been over ten hours since two of his men had vanished in a private helicopter. Worried as he was, he knew that his team was working full out but that no one had snatched more than a catnap all night. It was eight in the morning and they needed a break.

He dragged himself up out of his chair, discretely rubbing his rump, numb from his hours in the seat while on the phone. He then rubbed his ear and shoulder. Numb, too.

They had made some progress. Vin and Josiah had disappeared into the streets the minute they hit the edge of town, Nathan had started in on calling contacts and JD had lit a fire on the 'net. Chris windmilled his arms and yawned. Coffee and some food. Everyone needed to stop and fuel up. Maybe take out some time to sleep. Morning business hours were dead time on the streets, too busy on the Internet, and no one was answering telephones. Decision made, he walked out into the bullpen of his team's suite of offices, part of the ATF units in the federal building.

Everyone out here looked groggy and glassy-eyed. "Okay, boys, time to take a break."

Tired eyes rose to meet his as he turned around to look at each team member. "Let's do a meeting down at the Rooster Grill."

Nothing was said. The men stood and shrugged on jackets or sweaters against the fall weather, already cool in the mornings in September. As a group, the five men entered the elevators, looking formidable enough that two secretaries dashing down the hall suddenly found themselves with enough time to wait nervously for the next down car.

"You know, if Buck had been with us, they would have piled in, too." Vin mused to the wall in front of him.

JD grunted. He didn't want to think about his roommate right now, the hard rock of worry in his chest had grown big enough already.

Chris spoke mildly. "Been thinking about what to tell Travis."

Instantly alert, the other four men turned to face him in the small space. He added, staring at his feet, "We might have to take some leave time if he doesn't see this as part of the job."

"You think he'd do that?" Jackson was concerned and unhappy at the prospect of fighting their boss. He folded his arms across his chest and frowned, hands tucked out of sight.

Chris shook his head. "Nope, I think he'll let us loose to follow the trail, leastwise until there isn't one."

"I found some stuff," JD started.

"Hold it until we're at the Grill, JD," Larabee instructed, eyeing the elevator walls warily as the door dinged open on the lobby floor. The others followed the direction he was looking and everyone became grim.

"You really think?" Dunne asked askance to Josiah.

Sanchez simply nodded his head toward a man lounging in the lobby, over by the directory. "Don't think he's really lost, son."

The five men walked out of the elevator and, looking straight ahead, moved in tandem toward the exit, no one giving their observer a second glance.

Striding down the street, Vin, at Larabee's side, muttered, "Two more on our flanks."

"And one in front," Larabee nodded.

"Boxed in?" Nathan loosened his jacket, releasing the buttons so the jacket could swing free in front. He wanted quick access to his weapons.

"Think they're just watching." Josiah sounded serene. "Mr. Hernandez didn't strike me as the sort to let us step on his toes."

"If it's just his boys, we let them be." Chris turned his head to stare at one of their shadows, realizing that no real attempt was being made at cover. "Probably better this way. I don't have to call Tiny when we need them." He looked ahead to the Grill, a local dinner-style storefront restaurant that they frequented when any of the team ate breakfast. They'd had morning meetings there before. In the doorway, just out of the sidewalk traffic, stood Fred Hernandez. "Might be having someone join us for breakfast."

"Shit, then he pays the tab." Vin's grin was wicked though his eyes were watchful.

No one spoke again as they came even with the CIA agent-in-charge in the field. FBI they were used to, CIA was a new player in Denver.

"Mr. Larabee? Mind if I join you?"

"Talked it over." Chris' tone was flat, uninviting. "You can come if you pay."

"That's fair." Fred Hernandez nodded complacently, turning to hold open the door for the five ATF agents.

"For all of us," Dunne added as he followed his teammates inside.

Fred faltered for a moment, then smiled in admiration at the men strolling inside in front of him. Piece of work, the whole damn team.

The helicopter was no longer moving forward. Even though they couldn't see out, the sense of momentum eased. And then everyone felt it, they were dropping. Emro was sitting chummily with Buck and Ezra, having finally gotten their names. Ezra Sanders and Buck Williams. They were ex-soldiers, which explained how at ease they'd been with all the firepower his men had displayed. Both were firefighters now, so they were used to dangerous situations. That explained why they hadn't panicked. Dressler was satisfied that he'd convinced them that he and his men were Interpol.

"If you could just explain again why we are going to a base so far from the city?" Ezra asked politely, fastening his seatbelt at the increase in turbulence.

Dressler frowned. He'd gone over all this. The smaller man was apparently a bit slow-witted compared to his larger partner. "Yes, well, as I already explained, Mr. Sanders, or perhaps I should call you 'Ezra'?" He looked at the young man inquiringly.

"Mr. Sanders will do splendidly."

"Um, yes, Mr. Sanders." Emro had the uncomfortable feeling that he was missing something. "We got word on the radio from some of our contacts that the criminals have left the city. They are already on the way into the mountains. We must have a place to work from that is close to where we expect to locate them. And, if we do not find them, from where we can contact their people and convince them - with your able assistance and fortunate similarity in appearance - that we HAVE found them."

"And this will do what?"

Emro's frown became darker. "We will be able to force certain cooperations from them, in exchange for your lives - ah, their friends' lives, er, freedoms." By the time he finished speaking his voice was becoming snappier, more impatient.

"Don't mind my friend, Mr. Dressler, he's just trying to make sure we do everything the way you want it." Buck made calming motions, using his good-old-boy tone of voice that had convinced more than one criminal that he was not a threat. Too bad. For them.

"Umm, yes." Doubtful, Dressler pursed his lips and became busy fastening his own seatbelt.

Then there was a jolt and the chopper settled down on a surface with a random bounce. Emro brightened. Soon, he could rid himself of these nuisances and catch the real Mosher boys. Still it was good to keep these two in his grasp until he was sure. It would not do at all to get on the wrong side of the Palestinians. He looked anxiously back at the men in dark clothing. So far, those four had left everything to him. He needed to pull this off or he would be a dead man.

The door beside Buck slid back suddenly with a metallic clatter and squeal. Harsh floodlights had everyone squinting and Dressler bustling forward to lean out and yell something in Arabic.

Ezra's eyes went up in surprise. Buck had told him about that but this was the first time he heard it since he'd started thinking straight again. He reflexively rubbed at his head, then bent over to unbuckle his seatbelt only to find Buck's hands already there in his lap. He looked over at Wilmington. Buck's eyes were on his task and his face was a picture of concentration. Suddenly, Ezra really saw Buck Wilmington, as if for the first time.

Team Seven, or at least the five members still at large, settled into seats around a big table at the back of the Rooster Grill. CIA Agent-in-Charge Fred Hernandez pulled out one of the two other vacant seats, laying a folder quietly on the table in front of his seat.

None of the ATF agents said a word. From the reports he'd received, Hernandez knew that these men had been working all night. How the hell did they get on this so fast? As far as I can tell, there wasn't any case there that they were working. Fred didn't particularly like puzzles that entered his domain when HE was working. His men had been on the trail of Dressler and the cell of terrorists for two continents and three weeks. He knew now that they were after Major Mosher's two sons. He'd finally located the young men's planned destination for their climb, but, from what his men learned at the Grand Hotel Restaurant, so had the black agent on Larabee's team. Fred Hernandez jutted his jaw out and rubbed his nose. Everywhere his men had turned last night and early this morning, they'd tripped over Larabee's men.

If Ezra was here, he'd be able to read this man, Larabee thought grimly, staring silently at the CIA man. They damn well better find Standish and Wilmington. He waited.

"Mr. Larabee, my men have been keeping track of you and your team." Fred found himself toying with the edge of the file and had to press his fingers down on the Formica table top to stop his nervous mannerism. These men were beginning to get on his nerves.

"Yeah." Chris leaned back, arching his back and yawning widely. He already had that figured out. Secretly, he eyed that file folder, fingers itching to snatch it up.

Hernandez shook his head and pressed the folder forward an inch. The greasy paper placemats made him want to cringe but the other men looked quite comfortable with the place.

"Coffee all around?" A bored voice at his shoulder made Fred start slightly before swallowing, then nodding like the others. The waitress, who he could now see at his elbow, simply turned and left again.

He turned back to face the circle of tired faces. "Have you found anything?" Anything that I don't know about? he thought as he watched them.

Chris cocked his head to the side. "What makes you think we'd tell you if we had?"

Hernandez stared into those cold hazel eyes and took a deep breath. It was difficult not to feel intimidated by these locals. "You'd get something back in trade."

Everyone stiffened, alert looks entering the exhausted faces of the ATF agents. The big one, Sanchez, put both his elbows on the table and leaned forward over the center.

"You know something more?" His voice was a low, crooked teeth showing beneath a raised lip.

Fred sent a look towards the formidable agent before turning back to Larabee once more. "I may have a lead on where the Mosher boys are headed."

Jackson rested his hands against the edge of the table in front of him and silently beat a tattoo with his fingers. He sat straighter and snapped out, "Might be we already know that."

Larabee frowned at Nate. Man couldn't keep a secret to rest his soul. He breathed out a huff of air but kept his peace.

Hernandez tipped slightly to the side and raised an eyebrow at the black agent. "We just found out that they are already on their way there." He tapped the folder in front of him significantly.

"You got anything else?" Chris finally answered with another question. He didn't like playing these games and wished he could trust this man, but he hadn't ever had much in the way of dealings with spooks and a good word from Tiny Baxter wasn't enough to convince him to deal plainly with Hernandez yet.

Fred tucked his lower lip under his upper and snorted. "Yes." He edged his fingertips under the corners of the file and lifted it slightly. "We may have located the helicopter's destination."

The youngest agent present, who Fred identified as JD Dunne, raised a hand to flick his fingers toward Hernandez. "We got that."

Fred noticed that the other four men blinked though they didn't look towards their youngest. Instead, Larabee pressed his hands down on the table and stared directly at Hernandez. "Try again." It came out as an impatient growl.

"Look, Mr. Larabee, we can do more together." He sensed the hostility among the men present. "I know you offered before, but I am only now realizing the resources you can offer that we don't have available." Eating humble pie wasn't easy, but Fred Hernandez was nothing if not a realist. This meeting was not going as planned. He'd expected to show up with important investigative discoveries, then get one of the ATF agents reassigned to his team for liaison with their inside kidnapped men. Now, though, it looked like Larabee's reduced team was still ahead of his men and Hernandez realized that he needed them. He met Chris Larabee's cold eyes. "Will you work with us?"

The one called Vin Tanner, who, according to reports was the sharpshooter and all-purpose man on the team, finally drawled out, "Don't see as how we need you if that's all you got to offer."

A general shifting of the men let Hernandez know that they agreed and that he wasn't getting anywhere. "We have more." Running a blunt hand through his crisp, wavy dark hair, he said, "We have a rather large budget. We can bring in helicopters, satellite intell, and paramilitary forces if needed."

"Can do that ourselves." Sanchez spoke to the opposite wall, stretching back and clasping his hands behind his head.

Fred was getting irritated, didn't Larabee have any discipline with this bunch? He seemed content to let them speak for him and Fred wasn't going to get cooperation if he had to negotiate with the whole damn team. He rolled his shoulders and sank into himself, then suggested, "Maybe, Mr. Larabee, we could step outside together, reach some agreement?"

The tension in the area seemed to double, and then Larabee barked out a short, unamused laugh. "I don't work that way, Hernandez."

In the quiet that followed, Fred sagged back in his seat. The waitress arrived and deposited a round tray with six mugs and two thermos of coffee, both marked regular. No one moved.

"Alright." Fred bit his lip and lifted his folder higher, then reached across the table, offering it to Larabee. "Here. This is all we've got."

Chris didn't show his surprise and accepted the folder as if he'd expected it. Opening it slowly, he decided that maybe he could work with Hernandez after all. Eyes racing down the first page of the thin set of documents, he quickly tossed pages of coordinates off to Vin. Other pages, with radio frequencies and translations of limited exchanges, he passed to Josiah. A third set, with printouts of traces on the Internet, he long-armed to JD. He gave Nathan a page on background information on the terrorist cell, and kept the executive summary of data for himself.

Team Seven digested the material and looked back up at Hernandez with what he could only describe as wolfish expressions.

"Backs up my stuff." JD dropped his share of the paperwork on the table, nodding.

Vin scratched at his chin. "You got anyone in the mountains yet to confirm these sightings? Pretty wild down that way."

"No." Fred was beginning to get the rhythm of conversing with these men. His own confidence was returning with the respectful way they were now looking at him. Maybe this would work after all.

Buck dropped from the helicopter deck to the ground and looked around quickly before turning back to watch Ezra spring down lightly, and then stagger to the side. Buck grabbed him and held on to one arm until Ezra straightened, nodding to Buck and balancing on his feet. Damn, he's not a hundred percent yet. Buck had already released Ezra but stood close by. Just in case. There wasn't much to see in the dark. Landing lights and staging lights made it feel like they could be anywhere, but from the thin metal stands and the mess of cables, his guess was that this was a temporary camp of some sort. Buck was unhappy. Wish I could see more of the country around us.

Ezra fought off vertigo and steadied himself with determined focus. He welcomed Buck's closeness and regretted his inability to hold his own just yet. Looking over his shoulder, he watched Dressler drop down with a clumsy hop, catching hold of the copter platform with one hand to regain his feet. Ezra's head was spinning with too much disconnected information. The phony Interpol bit was so transparent that he wasn't sure they could even trust the ruffians to continue to play along with their own con. It never paid to deal with crazies. Ezra edged a bit closer to Buck and the fingers of his right hand caught at Buck's nearest trouser leg. He clenched his fingers in the loose fabric and bit his lip. Not much to do until they did figure this all out. So he held on and refused to wonder why touching Buck made him feel better. But it did.

Dressler brushed down the front of the ill-fitting green jumpsuit, eyeing the prisoners. His eyes narrowed with interest as he saw the way the smaller one, Ezra, held on to the big one. Whatever else these boys were, it was fast becoming clear what they were to each other. He smiled calculatingly and rubbed his hands together.

Moving past the landing lights, Buck discovered that they were in rough terrain, and by the way the starlight was blocked, he'd guess deep in the lower ranges of the Rockies. Shit. He put a gentle hand on Ezra's shoulder. The man had been holding on to him since they hopped off the chopper. He squeezed the sturdy shoulder, trying to convey his confidence, shallow though it was. He dipped his head to murmur in Ezra's perfectly shaped ear, "It'll be fine, Ez. We'll get out of this!"

Ezra looked up, shocked, into Buck's face. So near he could almost count the individual hairs on the man's mustache. Did he look so much like he needed reassurance? Then his eyes dropped to where his own hand still held tightly to Buck's trousers. He blushed brightly, suspecting from the heat that it showed even in the dimmer lighting of the open camp, now that they were past the helicopter pad's landing lights. He found he had to force his fingers to unclench and release his hold. He licked his lips and met Buck's eyes. "I know." He patted Buck's stomach with daring. "Just a bit rocky still."

Buck caught the hand on his belt buckle and stroked it warmly, smiling into Ezra's face a moment more. "Don't worry, pard, I'm fine and I'll watch your back."

The men shared another stolen moment of silent communications, lips so close that they shared a breath. Then both pulled back, the sounds of the men around them reminding them of their danger.

"So we know that the two Mosher brothers were in the same restaurant and left after our boys." Chris rubbed at his eyes, feeling the weight of the sleepless night and the pounding anxiety for his missing friends. He cleared his throat, then said, "But we're not sure when they hit the road."

"No," Fred Hernandez agreed. "We think they are well on their way to the New Mexican canyons just south of the Colorado border, but there are several routes they could have taken and we don't have a fix on their transport."

JD interrupted. "I do. It's a Chevy Blazer, red, with Colorado plates, about a year old."

Fred straightened in his seat, noting the proud way the other men nodded to their youngest. "How did you?" He didn't finish the question as he saw the way Dunne's face went blank and he suddenly found the napkin on the table in front of him very interesting. "Never mind."

He pulled out a cell phone, flipping it open, belated realizing that he'd nearly caused another incident as he saw the men around him slowing relaxing and removing hands from beneath jackets or lifting them from waistbands. Shoot, these men sure are touchy. The blinking light on his cell reminded him of his original intentions. Hernandez refocused and touched in the numbers of his second in command. "Shelby? We got some more on the Mosher's vehicle, run this," and he gave him JD Dunne's information. "Yeah, that should help." Clicking off, he pocketed his cell with a look of apology to Larabee.

Tanner interrupted, "We need to get closer intell on the camp. Can see a helo-pad here." Vin laid out a satellite image photo of some rugged hills with what looked like tiny dark boxes in one location, a fairly identifiable white X just a short distance away in an area that seemed fairly level.

The other men leaned in to study the picture while Dunne began to shift around in his seat and look anxiously at his boss. "Chris?"

"Go." Larabee nodded, leaning back to grab a egg stuffed muffin from the tray of a passing waitress. He ignored the indignant, "Hey!" and wrapped the bun in a napkin, handing it to JD as the young agent snatched up Vin's photograph and headed for the door.

Jackson stood abruptly and took a deep swallow of coffee, then headed for the lunch counter in the back, tossing over his shoulder, "He may need some help." They could see him pick up two more muffins from a ready-order on the short order cook's prep shelf and swing away, already eating as he strode after JD Dunne.

By now, the waitress was back at the table, frowning at Larabee. "Mr. Chris!"

Chris flashed her a look and dragged out his wallet. "Easy, Evelyn, here." He thrust out several bills in her direction. "Send extras to the folks who have to wait a bit longer."

The dirty blonde nodded her head and accepted the cash with a sigh. "Yes, sir." Then she shifted her feet and pulled out her pad, plucking a pencil from behind her ear. "Rest of you want to order now?"

Sanchez spoke first, "Ma'am, I think we need something to go. Can you just run up a box full of those egg sandwiches?"

The waitress nodded, tucking away her pad again. "A dozen be enough?" She looked to Larabee for the answer to this.

Chris was nodding to Sanchez, acknowledging his wisdom. Turning up to the woman, he said, "Better make it two." And handed her some more cash without counting.

Everyone was starting to rise now. Josiah, still cradling his coffee mug in his hands said, "I'll wait for the order and bring it back."

Larabee paused, assessing whom he needed most, then nodded. Vin probably could do something right away with maps; Josiah would need more data first on the men they were seeking. "See you back at the office."

No one invited Hernandez along, or even asked his opinion about the sudden change in plans, but Tanner took hold of his arm and tugged him up out of his seat and along with Larabee. Fred fought down a smile. It actually felt good to be so casually included. He looked back over his shoulder to where Sanchez was still standing over the table, a contemplative look on his face as he gathered the scattered papers left on the table, placing them in the abandoned file folder. Turning to face forward, Fred found himself already moving out the dinner's door and into the street. A quick look found his men at strategic observation posts. He gave a stand-down sign, then a follow-me. They might still come in handy to help out Team Seven. At this point, he knew it was the team's show, not his.

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