The crisp white shirt smelled of starch and felt like a sandpaper straight jacket. Vin ran his finger along the collar confining his throat. He'd partaken in any number of dangerous and difficult assignments with ATF Team Seven. He'd been shot, stabbed, drugged, beaten. He'd been hospitalized, imprisoned, endured claustrophobic hours on stakeouts, and he'd still consider trading the hours ahead of him for any of those preceding conditions.

"Chin up."

Obedient, but seething, Vin tilted his head and allowed Ezra Standish to tighten the noose of a bow tie around his neck. "Don't know why I couldn't use one of them clip-ons," he muttered, trying to suppress the urge to gag as Standish tugged the knot tight.

"Because the clip-on tie is the sign of a social heathen, Mr. Tanner."

"Hell, I ain't never claimed t'be religious."

Ezra winced at the deliberate grammatical solecism. While scarcely given to erudition, Vin was capable of intelligible sentence construction; but he was pissed as hell, he was uncomfortable, and he wanted to annoy Ezra in the worst possible way. He was succeeding.

"Cuffs," Ezra demanded shortly, and Vin extended his hands with the resigned air of a man being led away in restraints. Standish snapped on gold and ebony cufflinks and took the tuxedo jacket from the hanger. He held it out to Vin. "Ready?"

"No so fast there, Ez. Ya fergot somethin'."

"What?"

Vin reached over to the chair behind him and slipped a leather shoulder rig over the crisp shirt. He secured his Sig-Sauer in the holster. Ezra patiently waited, the jacket held ready for Vin's arms. Tanner finally settled the weapon comfortably and slipped into the garment. Ezra fussed with it for a bit.

"They don't cut these to accommodate side-arms," he commented.

"Mighty short-sighted of 'em."

With a final tug at the jacket hem, Ezra stepped back to survey his handiwork. "A miraculous transformation, Mr. Tanner. Take a look." He opened the closet door, revealing a full length mirror.

Vin stared at his reflection. "I look like a waiter in a fancy restaurant," he grumbled. "And feel jist about as ridiculous."

"Nonsense. Waiters don't wear Brioni tuxedoes," Ezra said briskly. He ran an approving gaze over his creation. Tanner might be a woolly to the bone, wild Texas sharpshooter, but tonight he looked like he could walk down the red carpet to the Academy Awards. Elegant, clean-shaven, his brown hair glinting with red and gold highlights -- still longer than fashionable, but at least it had been trimmed -- he was ... passable. Even in the Dress Circle at the Colorado Opera.

Vin shifted uncomfortably. "Hell, Ezra. Quit lookin' at me like I'm the prize pig at the county fair."

"Charmin' analogy. Try to keep your homespun comments to a minimum tonight."

"Yeah, an' I promise not to spit on the floor, cuss, 'r whistle at the ladies, either." Vin's rasp of a voice was edged with acid, and Ezra had the grace to look ashamed.

"My apologies." Ezra gave his own impeccable appearance a quick once-over. "I take it you've never been to an opera before."

"Been to the Grand Ole Opry," Vin winked at Ezra. "Don't suppose that counts."

Ezra knew when he was being tweaked and had to laugh. "Hardly. The thought of Tosca being sung with a Nashville accent is enough to unnerve the strongest of men."

"What's Tosca about?"

"Betrayal, lust, torture, death. You'll love it."

"Y'ask me, all opera is, is large women, loud voices, and the sorta music Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd chase around to."

"Then you ought to appreciate it." Ezra's tooth glinted wickedly.

"Shit, it ain't even sung in English," Vin objected.

"They'll project the lyrics in English over the stage. Supertitles."

"Well, ain't that super," Vin said ironically, knowing that his dyslexia would make the supertitles as meaningless as if they were written in Italian. "Sounds a laugh a minute. Cain't hardly wait."

It had all the earmarks of being a very long night. But he wasn't there to watch an opera, he was there to watch Gianni D'Amico, weapons dealer extraordinaire and supporter of the fine arts. For three months, Ezra had been working undercover, courting D'Amico with the promise of a huge deal, and tonight was to see the fruition of that plan. Vin's job was to keep an eye on D'Amico's goons while Ezra drew the noose tight. Hopefully, by the third act, they'd have Gianni and his henchmen locked up, and he could get out of this monkey suit, into his jeans, and enjoy a beer with Larabee and the other members of Team Seven.

There was a knock on the door, and Ezra left to answer it. Vin stood before the mirror. A slim, solemn, uncomfortable-looking man stared back at him. He rolled his shoulders to release the tension in them, worked his neck from side to side, felt the starched collar dig in and winced.

"Partner, you look about as easy as man on the gallows," Chris said, standing in the doorway. "Relax."

Vin grinned sheepishly at Larabee. "Hell, there ain't no ease in me long as I'm wearing this rig."

Chris chuckled. "Welcome to the real world, Mr. Tanner."

"Got news fer ya, Larabee. This ain't the real world. This is Cinderella goin' t'the ball. At midnight I turn back inta the real Vin Tanner."

"Gun and all?" Chris raised a brow.

Smiling, Vin patted his side. "That's *always* real. Got it right next to my heart."

A low whistle from the doorway announced Buck's presence. "Well, well. Ya look right nice in that getup, Junior. Have the ladies fallin' at your feet." The tall agent did a slow walk around Vin. "Who'da thought you'd clean up so nice."

"Thanks, Buck. I took a bath and it ain't even Saturday," Vin drawled acidly. His cheeks were burning bright with irritation and embarrassment. Everything itched, and he just wanted this evening to be over.

"Hey, Vin. You look good." JD joined the group in the bedroom.

Could this get any more embarrassing, Vin wondered. He caught Chris' eye. Larabee was leaning against the doorframe his arms crossed; trying and not succeeding to look as if he weren't enjoying Vin's discomfort. Angry, beyond caring that the suit he was wearing cost three times his weekly salary, Vin stuck his hands in his pockets and stood scowling in front of his best friend. "I'll get you for this, *cowboy.*

Chris just smirked. "C'mon, gorgeous. Let's roll."

************************

The Buell theater was resplendent that night. The jewels of the women in the Parquet level lobby captured the lights from the chandeliers, their dresses were as many-hued as the wings of a butterfly, and the men who accompanied them were prosperous, groomed, civilized. Vin saw a few younger men wearing blue jeans and suit coats, but they were moving towards the stairs leading to the balconies, not the Dress Circle where Ezra's seat was, or the boxes, where Vin was to be stationed.

"Here," Ezra pressed a glass of champagne into Vin's hand. "Mingle."

"Somethin' strike you as bein' funny, Ezra?"

"No, what?"

"Oil and water don't mingle."

"Make an effort. I have to locate our friend D'Amico." Ezra sipped nervously at his champagne and moved into the crowd gathering around the bar.

Vin chose to not to mingle. He tried to melt into the shadows, but there weren't many shadows this night. The whole place was lit up like Christmas. He found a space behind a pillar and settled against the sandstone facing. He turned his head at a flicker of movement, and caught his reflection in the dark glass of a mirror. For a moment, he didn't recognize himself; lean and unfamiliar in the tailored tuxedo; sharp, fine, features framed by the brown waves of his hair and set off by immaculate white cotton. The reflection mocked him with a wry twist of his mouth, identical to the one he felt tugging at his lips. Cinderella. Right.

Ezra, catching a glimpse of him from across the room thought he looked like a falcon in jesses, tamed for the moment, but wild at heart. He shivered, pitied any man who would fall into the line of those hooded eyes, and at the same time was immensely grateful that those same eyes would be protecting him.

Ezra took his refilled glass of champagne from the bartender and went to stand at the foot of the stairs, where he had agreed to make contact with D'Amico. He caught Vin watching him, and lifted the glass in acknowledgment.

Vin sensed the tension radiating from Standish, and knew the time of the rendezvous was close. He shrank a bit deeper into the recess offered by the pillar and watched as a stocky, dark-haired man strolled towards Ezra. His temples were touched with grey, but his tuxedo was tailored to set off his broad shoulders and fit body. He wore a gold ring on his left hand, and a diamond signet on his right, that caught the eye in a glittering rainbow of light. He had a hard face, and his eyes were dark and slightly reptilian. Every fibre of Vin's being recognized a dangerous man.

He pulled out his cell phone -- a wire being unnecessary where the phone was considered nothing more than an accessory. "Chris, Ezra just made contact with D'Amico. Looks like they're heading to their seats. I'll be in mine shortly. Won't be able to contact you from there."

"Intermission?"

"Yeah." Vin closed his phone, and started up the stairs towards his box seat. A grey-haired woman smiled warmly as she handed him a program and showed him to his seat. It was on the aisle, front row, affording an excellent view of the main floor and particularly the Dress Circle where Ezra and D'Amico were just being seated. Ezra glanced up casually, his eyes finding Vin, then moving on, as if he were admiring the auditorium. D'Amico spoke to him and Ezra smiled. He gave Vin a last gliding look and sat down.

Vin rose to allow a party of four to move into their seats. It was nearly time for the curtain to rise. All around him, he heard the buzz of voices as people anticipated the start of the opera. It was a happy sound, and he wondered what it was about this spectacle that fascinated people. Seemed important to them to dress up, all in their bib 'n tucker, as his grandpa used to say. A man in the next row of seats had an earpiece that Vin was pretty sure was connected to a radio tuned to the Rockies game, not classical music. He caught the gentleman's eye, and the man voiced "Two to one, us."

Grinning, Vin settled back in his seat. The woman next to him took out a pair of small, jeweled binoculars. Hell, this was just like a sporting event, after all. The curtain rose, and the performance began.

It was surprising. The woman singing Floria Tosca was gorgeous, with a voice like an angel. The costumes and scenery were lavish, the music stirring. He didn't understand much of what they were singing aside from the supertitles that he was able to get his brain to decipher, but found that the music carried the story. When the villain Scarpia sang of having two victims for his revenge, one on the gibbet and one in his bed, chills ran up and down his spine, and he was disconcerted to find himself casting Gianni D'Amico in that role. He sure hoped Ezra wasn't playing the ill-fated hero, Mario Cavaradossi.

By the ending of the first act, Vin was enthralled. The lights came up, dazzling him for a moment until his eyes adjusted. He sought out Ezra, found him making his way into the lobby. Vin pulled out his cell phone, hurried out of the auditorium, and called Chris.

"You survived Act One?" Chris asked.

"Yeah, and so did Ezra. He's on the level below me, drinking more champagne with D'Amico. Chris, I have a bad feelin' about this."

"Keep your eye on him. There's not much else you can do until D'Amico makes his move."

"I know. Listen, Chris, they're heading back to their seats. I've got to go. There's another intermission. I reckon that's when things'll heat up."

"Watch your back, pard."

"Thanks." Vin shut his phone. He went back to his seat. Ezra and D'Amico entered, chatting like the best of friends. The unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach persisted. He returned to his seat, waited to see that Ezra and D'Amico were in theirs, and kept his eyes fixed on them until the house lights dimmed.

As the lights went down, the world on the stage suddenly seemed more real than the world surrounding him. His training as a sniper had taught him to be outside his body; he could view the action on the stage, and still be aware of Ezra's peril. He watched and heard the performance. Scarpia attempting to seduce Tosca even as he tortured Cavaradossi. Tosca, betraying her lover's cause to save his life, weeping as she sang. His stomach churned as Scarpia swore to save Cavaradossi, and at the same time, betrayed his word. He sat upright in his seat as Tosca drove the dagger into Scarpia's body and laid him out with candles and crucifix. It was magnificent. And it told him something that crystallized his fears.

Vin turned to the woman in the seat next to his. "Ma'am, could I borrow those binoculars?" he asked her.

"These?" Surprised, but courteous, she handed her opera glasses over to him. He focused. Ezra and D'Amico were gone. D'Amico had set a trap.

He gave the glasses back, and with an agile leap, made it to the aisle just as the house lights came up and the rest of the audience moved to leave their seats. The main lobby was filling rapidly, but he caught a glimpse of Ezra's auburn hair as he and D'Amico exited the theater. Vin shoved the crowd aside, pulled out his cell phone, called Chris.

"It's a set-up! Get someone around the east exit. I'm right behind him." He didn't wait for Chris to respond. He shoved the phone in his pocket and took out the Sig Sauer as he went through the doors. Darkness, where there should have been light. That D'Amico had some of his goons take care of that detail, Vin didn't doubt. He moved along the wall, figuring that Ezra and D'Amico couldn't be far ahead of him.

He edged close to the corner of the building where the shadows deepened. The dark shape of a car was barely discernible. The driver's side door was open but the darkly tinted windshield obscured the interior, and Vin wondered how many men were in D'Amico's entourage. He heard voices, a harsh growl that had to be D'Amico, and Ezra, answering in a drawl that managed to retain its elegance despite the faint edge of shocked disbelief -- as if the agent were trying to convince D'Amico that he was innocent of whatever charges were being laid against him. The headlights of the car came on full, nearly blinding him. He blinked hard, squinting. Ezra was shoved out of the car, and a hulk of a man caught him in a choke hold. D'Amico emerged behind them, a pistol in his hand.

The light beams illuminatined the three figures; D'Amico, Ezra, and the hulk, who pinned Standish against the wall with one meaty forearm, while the other drew back and delivered a savage blow to his midsection. Ezra's breath went out in a gagging wheeze and his knees buckled. He would have fallen, but the big man continued to support him against the wall. He looked at D'Amico, who nodded once. The arm pumped, the fist hit with a sound like a brick beating against a wet sponge.

Vin drew a breath and launched himself from the shadows, the Sig shooting flames into the night. The big man went down first, Ezra crumpling in a heap over him. D'Amico was fast for a man of his age and size, he drew his own gun, aimed and fired. An invisible fist slammed into Vin's side. He dropped, rolled, came up to one knee, unsteady, but shooting with the deadly instincts that had been trained in him. Crimson blossomed on D'Amico's white shirt, his gun fell from lifeless fingers, and he went down hard. Gunfire erupted from the direction of the automobile. A burning pain lanced through Vin's arm, concrete chips flew as a spray of bullets danced across the wall. Vin whirled. He lifted his arm, braced his wrist across his forearm, and squeezed the trigger at the flash of the gunfire. Glass shattered, a harsh grunt of pain, and the shooter fell flat on the concrete and was still.

Vin hauled himself up, his hand pressed against his side as blood welled and dripped between his fingers. "Ezra!" he gasped. He was running out of strength, running out of time. He staggered over to Ezra. Standish was pale, his lips smeared with a bloody froth. The weight of Vin's pain bore him to his knees. He laid his hand against Standish's throat; there was a faint pulse beneath the cool skin. Relief shivered through him, and, as a hot, red wave of pain overwhelmed him, he doubled over and fell into darkness.

*******************

Too late. He was too fucking late! Chris and the others swarmed into the alley, guns drawn, and then halted, apalled. Three minutes, less, since Vin's warning. D'Amico had planned it well, blocking access to the east exit, slowing the team just enough. Now, Chris stood there, his chest heaving, and his mind foolishly thinking that he was looking at the final scene of an opera -- everyone dead but the mourning chorus.

Buck caught his arm in hard fingers. "Chris!"

The illusion vanished, and he saw Vin, collapsed and bleeding, one arm outflung over Ezra's still body. D'Amico was dead, his bodyguard, dead. His driver, dead. When Vin shot, he didn't miss. Chris went down on his knees beside his fallen friend. "Jesus, Vin ..." There was so much blood. He pulled aside the black tux jacket; the shirt beneath was more crimson than white, but Vin's chest rose and fell beneath Chris' palm, and his pulse was beating, weak, but regular. Chris jerked the cummerbund from Vin's narrow waist, folded it into a pad, and pressed it against the wound in his side. More blood seeped from a wound high on his shoulder, but it was a sluggish flow and seemed to be slowing. "Hang on, pard. Help's coming."

Dark lashes fluttered open. "Chris ... Ezra's down."

"Shhh. Buck's looking after him. You just lie still."

"He all right?" Vin asked in a thready whisper.

"Buck?" Chris turned to Wilmington. "How's he doin'?"

"Ezra's alive. Doesn't seem to have been shot, just had the shit beat outta him." Buck said. He pulled off his jacket and covered Standish with it. "JD's already called 911. The paramedics should be here any minute." He didn't know if Chris heard him, he was so focused on Vin, as if those green eyes of his could cauterize Tanner's wounds by staring at them.

Chris laid a hand alongside Vin's cool cheek. "Pard, you hear that? Ezra's okay. We're getting you both to the hospital." But Vin's eyes had closed again, so pale that the fragile veins on his eyelids showed blue through the translucent skin, terrifying Chris. "Hold on, partner. God, Vin ..." he choked down an anguished whisper.

Buck's big hand closed on Chris' shoulder. "He'll make it, Chris."

Chris looked up, his face illuminated by the throbbing light of ambulance and police lights as they pulled up to the curb. "Tell 'em to hurry, Buck."

Then the paramedics arrived and Chris had to move from Vin's side so they could treat him and transport him. As they loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, Chris grabbed the door. "I'm riding with him," he said, and swung into the bay.

*********************

An eternity later, a tired, blood-stained surgeon stood in front of the five men who had gathered in the surgical waiting room. "Mr. Larabee?"

Chris stood. "Yes?"

"It took three units of blood, some fancy surgery, and Mr. Tanner's own stubborn determination to stay with us, but he's out of immediate danger and his vital signs are stable." He could have sworn five collective breaths were drawn in relief, as they indulged in a moment of quiet celebration. They had been lucky that night. Ezra had been admitted from the ER with cracked ribs and deep abdominal bruising, and was being held overnight for observation. It could have been so much worse.

"Can we see him?" Larabee asked.

"In the morning."

"Doc, it's important."

The surgeon shrugged. "He's out of it. He won't know you're there."

Chris smiled slightly. "He'll know."

The surgeon considered. Five men, dissimilar but for the look of concern in their eyes. He sighed and folded his arms. "All right. One at a time."

Buck held Chris back for a moment. "I'm gonna look in on Ezra, give him the good news, if he's awake. You tell Vin I'm pullin' for him."

"Thanks, Buck. I will. Tell Ezra to get some rest. I'll be in to see him later."

Chris waited outside the curtained cubicle for his turn to visit Vin. JD had come out a few minutes earlier, shaken and solemn. Chris had sent him and Nathan down to visit Ezra, knowing Buck would take the young agent under his wing and see him safely home. Now, he could hear Josiah's deep voice rumbling a prayer. Chris doubted his own prayers reached the ears of the Lord, but he believed that God would listen to Josiah, if only for the sheer pleasure of hearing that velvety voice He had created.

He looked up when Josiah moved the curtain aside. "You think that helped?"

Josiah's weary face creased into a smile. "Didn't seem t'hurt. Might have got the Lord's attention focused on our young friend. He's a strong man, Chris. All that fightin' he did just to stay here proves that." He gave Chris' arm a gentle squeeze. "Don't you give up on him, brother."

"Ain't a givin' up man, you know that, Josiah." He slid the curtain aside.

Too many machines, too many tubes and wires; and on the narrow bed, Vin. Slight and pale beneath the sheet that covered him. Blood, as rich and red as burgundy wine, dripped through an IV tube into his arm. Chris wished he could squeeze the last drops from the bag to force some warmth and life into Vin's face. Right now, his only color came from the dark feathering of his lashes against his cheeks, and the swirl of brown hair on his forehead. But he didn't seem to be in pain, and the throb of his pulse on the monitor was steady and strong.

Reassured, Chris sat in the chair next to the bedside and touched Vin's hand with the backs of his fingers, lightly brushing over the cool skin. "Damn thin-blooded Texan. You don't have much to spare to begin with, without getting plugged full of bullet holes. Not to mention what you're costing the US government in health insurance." He sighed, took a breath, "And me, in worry and aggravation. Damn it, Vin. I don't know how much more of this I can take, partner. One of these days it's gonna catch up with you, and I don't think I could stand that, I really don't." He stopped his voice from cracking on the edge of a sob, angry that he had let someone breach those stony barriers he had erected over the last few years. "The team needs you. *I* need you. So don't you give up, Vin. You hear me?"

Impossibly, that hand stirred beneath his. Chris lifted his head; a faint crescent of blue showed beneath dark lashes. "Vin?" The pale lips voiced his name, but there was no breath behind the effort to make it audible. "Shh, partner. I know. You just stay with us, okay?"

A faint twitch of the lips, a sigh, and the eyes closed again. The monitor continued beeping, the blood continued dripping through the IV, and Vin slept. Vulnerable and so goddamn young that Chris was afraid to leave his side. He stayed until the surgeon reappeared with a nurse in tow.

"You'll need to leave, now, Mr. Larabee."

"If there is any change -- any at all -- I want to be notified."

"Are you family?"

"Check your admission forms. I'm listed as next of kin, and as holder of his power of attorney," Chris said, his voice crisp and authoritative. The doctor nodded, flipped over a few pages of the chart he held.

"He's been stable now for several hours. I doubt there will be any reason for alarm, but we will contact you if his condition changes. He should be able to be moved to a regular room by morning."

"Thank you." Chris watched the nurse checking the IV and monitor. She smoothed the sheets, and touched Vin's forehead gently. Chris tried not to smile. Women. Seemed they all felt a need to comfort Tanner when he was hurting. Too bad he was usually unconscious and couldn't see the effect he had on them. It put Buck's infamous animal magnetism to shame. But he'd never tell Wilmington that.

After he left the SICU, he went down to Ezra's room. Nathan was sitting in the hallway. He looked up when he heard Chris' footsteps. "JD and Buck went back to the office," he explained. "They said they'd take care of some of the paperwork."

Chris nodded gratefully and sank down next to Nathan. "How's Ezra?" Chris asked.

"Pretty doped up. He was glad to hear about Vin, though."

"He awake?"

"Barely."

Chris peered inside the room. Beneath the overhead light, Ezra was very pale, closed eyes dark-circled, and his mouth drawn in a straight line. He was hooked up to an IV and a morphine pump. "Ezra?" Chris whispered, and the eyes fluttered open.

"Mr. Larabee ... I'm sorry ... went badly."

"Wasn't your fault, Ezra. We'll figure it out in the morning."

"Vin?"

"He'll be all right."

"Bled all over."

"Yeah, he did."

"Brionitux ..." he murmured.

"What?" Chris wasn't sure what Ezra was trying to say, but it didn't make much sense. "Get some rest, we'll work on it tomorrow." Ezra's eyes had closed again. Chris dimmed the overhead light, and left. Tomorrow was going to be a real bitch of a day.

*****************

The day started far too early. Chris was on the phone to the hospital before seven, checking on Vin and Ezra. According to the nurses, both had spent a quiet night, and Vin was being moved to a private room later that morning. Then he went to the office, facing an inquiry into what exactly had gone wrong. A thousand questions, and he had the answers to none of them. He sat at the conference table, facing Orrin Travis, and several other ATF honchos, an FBI investigator, and a supervisor from the Treasury Department, all of whom had ties with the D'Amico investigation. He was grateful for Josiah Sanchez's large, quiet presence at his right hand.

The Treasury Agent, a man Chris had never been particularly fond of, raised his brows, as he read Buck's hastily written report from the night before. "You have no idea what went wrong?" he asked, implying that Chris was somehow derelict in his duty.

"I know what went wrong," Chris said in that cold drawl that could send icy rivers of sweat down a man's back. "One of my agents damn near bled to death last night, and the other was so badly beaten that his internal organs were bruised. That's what went wrong."

"I was speaking of the cause, not the effect, Mr. Larabee."

Chris leaned back in his chair, and only Josiah knew how deceptive that posture was. Larabee's eyes were half-closed, his fine hands were clasped loosely on his the lean middle, and he considered Williams with green eyes that held a smouldering anger. "Given the number of agencies and people involved in this investigation, I can only guess that human error was involved."

"Are you suggesting that the investigation was compromised by a deliberate breach of security?"

"Hell, no." Chris set his folded hands on the table. "I'm saying that my men were betrayed and left out to hang. I don't care if it was deliberate, accidental, of if a fucking little birdie sang in D'Amico's ear, the leak had to be internal."

"Bullshit!"

"Gentlemen!" Orrin Travis interceded before Williams and Larabee could tear out each other's throats. "Obviously, we are getting nowhere with this at the moment. I suggest we take Mr. Wilmington's reports back to our respective departments, and start asking questions. I agree with Mr. Larabee, something was leaked. We cannot continue an investigation of this scope without knowing what went wrong. And as much as I regret the injuries to agents Tanner and Standish, it would have been much worse if Vin Tanner hadn't taken action."

Williams objected to Travis' defense of the sharpshooter. "Thanks to Tanner, D'Amico is dead! We might as well use this documentation to wipe our asses." Williams swept a dissmissive hand over the files in front of him.

Orrin saw Larabee jerk upright in his seat, saw Josiah Sanches reach out quick as lightning and grab hold of his suit coat to restrain him from a rash act that could ruin his career, and stepped in quickly, his own anger close to the boiling point at the insinuation that the lives of his men were expendable. "Agents Tanner and Standish are ten times more valuable than Gianni D'Amico, Williams. Remember, Gianni may have been the head of his organization, but the Hydra has many heads, you cannot kill it by decapitating one. This investigation is far from complete. However, I will not proceed until I am sure that no more of my men will be compromised."

Williams opened his mouth, thought the better of crossing the gimlet-eyed Assistant Director, and subsided into silent fuming. The other representatives nervously gathered up their papers, and, with a promise to Orrin that they would have their preliminary reports on his desk later that day, filed out. Williams and Larabee shot daggers at each other until Orrin stepped in once again.

"Agent Williams, I believe that the brunt of this investigation now rests on the Treasury Department, at least until we can discover the source of the leak."

Chris, who had been alarmingly quiet since Josiah's intervention, spoke up into the silence. "Yeah, maybe you can get him on Income Tax Evasion, like Al Capone."

"My men weren't fucking around in bed with D'Amico, Larabee. Maybe Standish got a little too chummy. A man who wears thousand dollar suits and drives around in a car like his doesn't buy those perks on a government salary."

Chris was beyond anger. Beyond speech. He uncoiled from his chair, and this time Josiah didn't hold him back, and Travis knew *he* couldn't; they watched transfixed as Chris leaned forward across the table. He didn't lay a hand on Williams, but the Treasury Agent was paralyzed, speared by those green eyes.

When Chris spoke, his voice was calm, conversational. "I don't have time for this. I've got two men down with wounds a lot more serious than a fucking paper cut. You watch your back, Williams, because after today, no one else will." He straightened his arms, standing upright. "Orrin, I'll be at the hospital. I can't stay here. Josiah, you coming?"

"Yeah." Josiah rose, got a nod of dismissal from Travis, and followed Chris out the door. Chris was halfway down the corridor, his shoulders high and tense, his normally smooth strides taut and angular, as if the rage he was holding inside were struggling to get out and couldn't force its way through the prison of flesh confining it. Josiah didn't try to stop him or slow him down. Larabee was a man who spent his emotions in physical actions, and if that release could be harmlessly discharged before he got behind the wheel of his truck, then that was for the best. He kept within sight, just to be sure some unsuspecting soul didn't run into Larabee and set off that fuse.

By the time Chris reached the garage, his anger had dissipated. Josiah found him leaning against his truck, grasping the door handle, his forehead resting on his bent arm, and drawing deep breaths.

"You all right, Chris?" Josiah asked. No answer. He shook his head. "I sometimes wonder what the Lord was thinkin' when he created assholes like Williams."

Chris turned around, white lines of anger still bracketing the corners of his mouth, but the deadly rage seeping away. "I woulda thought you'd blame the Devil for that, Josiah."

Josiah laughed. "Satan created evil. The Lord created stupid to test and strengthen our control over our less civilized impulses, so we can resist evil."

"Right now, I don't see much difference, Josiah." But a weary smile curved his lips.

Josiah grinned, pleased to see the famous Larabee rage on the wane. "You be careful drivin', Chris. We don't need another body in the hospital."

"I will."

"See you there in a while, then."

**********************

Vin woke with a mouth like cotton and a fire in his side like the devil was prodding him with a red hot poker. Where was he? He focused his senses on solving the problem. The odor of antiseptic, a steady electronic beep, the dry feel of the sheets beneath his body that weren't rough, but weren't smooth and cool either. Hell. Or as close to it as he was gonna get in this life. The hospital. Shit.

He remembered the opera, seeing Ezra being beaten by D'Amico, the fire fight in the alley, and then ... nothing. Well, sort of nothing. He knew Chris had been there; no matter what happened to him, Chris was always there. He cracked open an eye. Yup, the hospital. And he was gonna be here for a while, judging from the way he felt. He moved his hand over the covers until he located the call button and pressed it. A disembodied voice crackled from the speaker on the wall.

"How can I help you?"

"W-w-water?" He wasn't sure there was enough effort behind his voice, but eventually the door opened and a tall African-American nurse stood looking down at him. She took his blood pressure, held his wrist in cool, impersonal fingers, wrote something down on a clipboard, stuck a thermometer in his ear. Wrote that down. "Guess I'm alive," Vin whispered, attempting humor.

A smile lit her severe face. "Sure are, sweetie. What can I get for you?"

"Water?"

"How 'bout some ice-chips?"

"Thanks."

She disappeared. He closed his eyes and drifted.

A warm, firm hand cupped the back of his head and neck, raising him. There was a cool slide of moisture over his dry, chapped lips. They parted to allow the melting ice to trickle liquid into his mouth. Heaven. "More?" he whispered.

"You sure?"

Vin opened his eyes and smiled. "Hey, Chris. Ya look tired."

"You look alive. Barely." Chris tilted the glass of ice until a small chip slid through Vin's lips. He waited until Vin took a few more chips before he spoke. "How're you feeling?" he asked.

"Been better." He sighed tiredly. "Been worse, too."

The strong sunlight coming through the window showed how pale he was. Sallow beneath his light tan; the fragile skin under his eyes bruised and sunken. But his lips were faintly pink, and the beds of his nails were no longer dead white. Chris smiled. "Seen you look better. Seen you look worse, too."

"How's Ezra?" Vin asked after a minute, when he had enough strength to speak again.

"Cracked ribs, deep bruises on his abdomen. He was in a lot of pain last night. I haven't been down there yet today."

"I'd like t'see him."

"Maybe you can figure out what a 'brionitux' is," Chris said wryly.

Vin frowned. "Sounds like some sort of antibiotic." He yawned. His eyes closed, then opened again, a bit blurred with the enormous fatigue that weighed him down.

Chris watched Vin struggle against exhaustion, aching for him. He rested a hand on Vin's shoulder, gripped it lightly. "You rest. I'll be back later."

"Thanks, Chris. Reckon I'm tired."

"Hell, partner. I can't imagine why." He stayed by the bedside until Vin's breathing became slow and deep. He didn't like seeing the pain etched on Tanner's face, but knowing Vin's resistance to analgesics, he wasn't surprised at his willingness to endure it. Damn stubborn Texan. Then Chris smiled, realizing that he wasn't much less obdurate than Tanner.

He left Vin's room, sought out the nurse and told her about Vin's reluctance to admit to pain. She lifted a brow at him. "You think I haven't figured that out?"

"Sorry, ma'am, I just thought I'd mention it."

This time, a wide smile lit her face. "He's got good friends. Dr. Raine Jackson told us the same thing. I'm keeping my eye on him, don't you worry."

Relieved, Chris went to visit Ezra, making a short detour along the way. When he looked into the room, Standish was sitting up in bed eyeing his breakfast tray suspiciously. He seemed to be better, but the hunch of his body betrayed that he was hurting still. And given what Chris had seen last night, he'd be hurting for a while.

Ezra looked up when he noticed Chris standing in the doorway. "Mr. Larabee, welcome to my humble abode. Breakfast has been served, though I fear I cannot recommend this noxious yellow substance that is attemptin' to pose as scrambled eggs."

"Thanks, Ezra. I think I'll pass on that."

Ezra picked up a piece of toast, which drooped as if it had been soaked in liquid. He set it down with disgust, and examined his coffee. "I have no great hopes for this ... this brown water."

Chris brought his hand from behind his back. "Maybe this will help." The delicious aroma of a latte rose from the cup in his hand. "They have a coffee kiosk in the lobby, and something told me that you would appreciate the real thing."

Ezra's eyes widened, and for a moment his expression was so nearly identical to the look in Vin's when some small act of kindness took him by surprise, that Chris was startled. Standish was the last man he expected to be taken aback by such a gesture. He took the cup from Chris, inhaled the fragrance, and sighed. "You have my undying gratitude, Mr. Larabee."

"Ezra, don't make promises you can't keep," Chris grinned, and Standish resumed his world-weary demeanor.

"You wound me, sir. But I still am grateful. I believe I might live through the morning." He sipped, smiled, sank back against his pillows. His blissful expression faded as a memory returned to him. He recalled Vin reaching out to him, his blood soaking the white pleated shirt he wore. He cast a cautious glance at Larabee. "How is Mr. Tanner?" he asked.

"Weak, but recovering."

Ezra saw there was more to that response than Larabee was willing to say. "I'd like to see him before I'm discharged." And then as if he needed to explain, "He saved my life."

"You think you'll be out of here today?"

"I intend for it to happen today. There is nothing they can do for me here that I can't do for myself in the comfort and privacy of my own home. At least the food is edible there." Ezra scowled at the remains of his breakfast. "And all this at rates that would easily keep me in luxury at the Ritz."

"Ezra, what happened last night?" Chris asked.

Ezra pleated his covers with nervous fingers. He looked down, shook his head. "I assure you, if I knew what had gone wrong, Mr. Tanner and I would not be in this place." When he looked up at Chris, his green eyes were shadowed with more than physical pain. "I have *always* prided myself on my ability to read my opponent and gauge the strength of his hand. Unfortunately, I seem to have met my match."

"Your match is dead, Ezra."

"And so nearly was Vin. I hold myself to blame. I should have seen --"

"You were betrayed, Ezra."

"Betrayed?" Disbelief echoed in Standish's voice.

"Your hand was tipped."

Ezra paled. "Who?"

"I don't know." He leaned forward, intense. "I have to tell you this, Ezra. You might find yourself a suspect."

Standish's normally cool demeanor slipped. He slammed his hand against the edge of his tray table, shoving it out of the way and heedless of the IV in his arm, and his painfully bruised muscles, swung his legs over the side of the bed. "That is a lie! I may be many things -- Lord, I have been many things in my life -- but I am not a traitor --" Weakness and pain hit in a wave that left him shaking, clinging to the IV pole, and gasping.

Chris grabbed his shoulders, set him down on the bed. "Easy, Ezra. I know it's a lie. I know you would never sell out Vin, or any of us. But there's some folks out there who have questions about what happened, and I have to give them answers."

"I don't have any," Ezra whispered bitterly. He looked away from Chris, and Larabee stood over him for a moment.

"Ezra, what's a brionitux?"

"What?"

"Brionitux. You seemed very worried about it last night."

Ezra started laughing, then winced as his abused muscles tightened in protest. "Not brionitux. Brioni tux ... tuxedo. Unfortunately, that is what Mr. Tanner was wearing last night."

"Oh?"

"You don't want to know how much it cost, Mr. Larabee."

Chris laughed. "Hell, the Treasury Department's running this investigation. I'll just let them pay for it. I never liked Williams, anyway. Less since he was inclined to put the blame on you and Vin." He set a surprisingly gentle hand on Ezra's shoulder. "You take it easy, Ezra. Let me deal with Williams."

As he left Standish's room, the thought of Williams having to fork out several thousand dollars for Vin and Ezra's evening wear brightened his day briefly, before worry set in once more. Just when you thought you saw the light at the end of the tunnel, it turned out to be the train.

*****************

Ezra made his painful way down the hospital corridors towards Vin's room. He had genteelly bullied his doctors into discharging him, sweet-talked JD into bringing him some clothes, and was determined to prove that he was not only fit to be discharged, but could manage to navigate his way unassisted. Consequently, he was exhausted by the time he sank down in the chair at Tanner's bedside. He was grateful that Vin was sleeping and hadn't witnessed that ignoble collapse. He breathed as deeply as his ribs would allow and waited for the sharpshooter to wake.

Vin's sixth sense of presence roused him. He knew who it was before he opened his eyes. Ezra's distinctive aftershave gave him away. He turned his head, and saw Standish watching him with worried green eyes.

"Hey there, Ez. Looks like yer blowin' this pop stand."

"Not nearly soon enough. I am sorry it isn't the same for you."

Vin shrugged, forgetting his wounded shoulder and winced. "Ya think I'd be used to it by now. Been here often enough."

"Vin, I regret what happened. You saved my life, and I was unable to stop D'Amico --"

"Wasn't yer fault."

Still, looking at Tanner's drawn face and the inescapable evidence of the severity of his injuries, Ezra felt a stab of guilt. "No, but --"

"It ain't yer fault. Don't think like it was," Vin insisted. "Chris ain't holdin' y'to blame, is he?"

Ezra laughed softly at that. "If he did, I wouldn't be sittin' here." The next words were hard to say, and he couldn't look Vin in the eye when he spoke. "He did tell me, however, that some of the other agencies involved are lookin' at me as a convenient scapegoat."

Vin snorted. "Aw hell, Ez. They're jist tryin' t'cover up their asses. They're the ones that fucked up. If they'd done their chickenshit jobs right the first time, ya wouldn't've had t'cozy up t'D'Amico, and none of this would've happened."

"It happened," Ezra said bitterly. "And regardless of blame, I do regret it." A pained expression crossed Vin's face, and Ezra rose a bit unsteadily. "You don't need me to keep you from your rest, and I believe Buck will be arrivin' to effect my release shortly." He looked down at Vin without a trace of his usual world-weary demeanor. "You did save my life, Vin. The thought of what that ... that creature would have done to me without your timely intervention is the stuff of nightmares. Thank you."

A faint blush suffused Vin's pale cheeks. "Even though I ruined that fancy suit ya put me in?"

"Signore Brioni should be honored to have his creations worn by a man such as yourself."

Vin chuckled, "Thought they said the clothes make the man."

"Not in this case, my friend. Not in this case." He touched two fingers to his brow in a salute and left Vin smiling.

********************

Chris had never been so glad to get out of his office in his life. For five hours he had been going over surveillance tapes, transcripts, and oral reports made by the three government departments involved in the D'Amico investigation. They all claimed to be entirely innocent of blowing Ezra's cover; Williams in particular had made a point of insinuating blame on Team Seven despite the fact that there was *no* supporting evidence of any wrongdoing, deliberate or unintentional.

Chris would have bled out the last of his blood in defense of Vin and Ezra; reining in his temper wasn't much easier. He had held his tongue until the acid in his stomach was like to wear a hole clear through the walls and his head was throbbing with unrelenting pain. Finally, when he was one whisper away from throttling Williams, Orrin Travis had called him away.

Travis had seen Larabee angry. He had seen him violent, he had seen him strike with the speed and cold calculation of a rattlesnake at an enemy. He had also seen him weep with frustration, cradle an injured man with a touch as tender as a father's, and face hell and screaming bullets to save the men on his team. He had never seen him so close to collapse as he was that day.

When he invited Larabee to have a seat, the tall agent's bones seemed to fold like a house of cards. Travis reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. When Larabee raised a brow, the older man shook his head. "You tell Evie about this, and I'll have your badge."

Chris gave a tired chuckle. "Evie finds out, and you'll be in no position to make threats."

"Medicinal purposes, only." He offered the glass to Chris. "Take it, son."

"Thanks." He tossed it back and set the glass down on the floor at his feet. He lay his head against the back of the chair. "Orrin, if you don't get Williams off this case, I will commit murder."

"You know I can't do that, Chris."

"Then tell him to shut the fu -- to stop implying that D'Amico turned Ezra."

"I will advise more discretion from *all* of the investigators. Your team included."

Chris narrowed chilly eyes at Travis. "I never figured you to turn into a politician, Orrin."

Stung by Larabee's assessment, and uncomfortably aware that the accusation was true, Travis answered a bit coldly. "Like it or not, Chris, we are *all* politicians at this level."

Chris stood, anger impelling him into motion. "Not when it comes to my Team, Orrin. Not when it comes to my friends. Have you been to see Vin? Do you care that he nearly died that night? That Ezra would have died, if Vin hadn't been as good a shot as he is? Do you care about my men?"

"Damn it! Of course I care! Evie thinks of you all like family -- and I --" He stopped, drew a deep breath. "We lost our son, Chris -- to lose any of your team, including yourself -- would be like losing Steven all over again." For a moment his anguish showed on his face, then the lines smoothed away as he mastered his emotions. "But I have responsibilities. Favoritism will get you nothing but resentment and uncooperative attitudes from the other departments involved. That could be a hell of a lot more dangerous than Williams sniping at Ezra Standish."

"And if it goes beyond sniping?"

"Then you know I will be at your side. I swear it." Chris studied Orrin. Trust came hard to him, and his acceptance of Travis' pledge was tainted with doubt. He turned to leave, and Travis called him back. "Tell Vin I truly appreciate what he did the other night, and that Evie and I are thinking of him."

"And what do I tell Ezra?" Chris asked.

"Tell him what I just told you." Travis met that level gaze, challenging Chris to accept his word. Larabee was as unyielding as granite, and Orrin couldn't blame him. After he left, Travis picked up the whiskey bottle. He held it up to the light as if considering taking a drink, then tightened the cap and set it back in the drawer. He needed clarity of thought, not the false security of liquor. He pulled out a file and began reading.

*********************

His head still throbbing, Chris drove out to Ezra's swank development. He parked and sat in the gathering darkness, trying to figure out how to approach Ezra. They hadn't talked, really talked, about the accusations against him and Chris needed to get things clear in his mind. He didn't doubt Ezra, but he could understand why others might look askance at the undercover agent.

His own lifestyle came under scrutiny on occasion. Questions about how he could afford a place like the ranch, his horses, his truck, on his government salary. He answered them honestly, if they were honestly asked, and stiffed them if they were malicious. He didn't expect his team to account for every penny of their income. He didn't ask Vin what he did with his money -- God knew he didn't spend it on himself -- or Nathan. He never asked Buck how much he frittered away on his women, or JD on his stereos, bikes, and various recreations. Why should he question Ezra's standard of living? He had long suspected that some of Ezra's luxuries were financed by winnings from high stakes poker games played in the back rooms of Las Vegas casinos, but there was nothing illegal about gambling in Nevada, and, since Ezra showed no signs of it being a dangerous compulsion, Chris had never inquired about his particular vice. Hell, looking at Ezra's condo, car, and wardrobe, it was hard to see any downside to the issue. Ezra was a damn fine agent, a generous friend, and a decent man. That was all that mattered. Armed with that belief, he rang Ezra's doorbell, and waited.

It took a while, but eventually the lock clicked, and the door opened. Ezra was hunched over like Quasimodo, pale and uncharacteristically rumpled. He peered at Chris with bleary eyes. "Mr. Larabee?"

"Jesus, Ezra. Are you sure you should be out of the hospital?"

"I am fine. Unfortunately, those analgesics they prescribed have rendered me slightly woozy."

"Woozy?" Chris grinned and slid his arm beneath Ezra's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you back to the couch."

"Why, Mr. Larabee, I didn't know you cared." Ezra's drawl was so pronounced that his r's had completely disappeared. He leaned gratefully into Chris' support and lay down with a pained sigh of relief when they reached the couch. "Thank you. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" he asked, and then sat up quickly. "Vin? Is Vin all right?" He sank back with slight moan.

"Easy, Ezra. He's fine. Probably in better shape than you are at the moment."

Ezra closed his eyes. "I am ... relieved to hear that, but now I truly am honored by this hospitable call." He opened one green eye. "Unless of course, this is an official visit."

Chris sat wearily. "Not official -- not yet. But there are questions that have to be answered, and I figure you'd rather answer to me than to Williams. I spoke to Orrin, and he's sworn to back us up."

"It sounds like I've been convicted without a trial."

"I won't let that happen."

Ezra raised a brow. "Not that I doubt your intentions, Mr. Larabee, but I feel the hot breath of hounds in pursuit of a scapegoat on the back of my neck."

"Ezra ..."

"Ask away, Torquemada." He lay back, looking martyred, but serious in his answers. Chris listened for the most part, prodding occasionally for more detail, but there were few clues to the mystery of the betrayal. When Ezra looked beyond exhaustion, Chris stopped asking questions. He rose restlessly and arched his back until his vertebrae cracked.

"Sorry, Ezra. I didn't mean to take the starch outta you." He pulled a beige alpaca throw from the arm of the sofa and laid it over Ezra's legs.

"I understand the necessity, of this inquisition, Mr. Larabee. I only wish I could have answered more of your questions." He fell silent, twisted the fringe of the throw. "Might I ask if you believe me?"

The quiet, wistful question caused Chris to look at him sharply. "Jesus, Ezra. Of course, I believe you!"

"Will you tell Vin?"

"About this conversation?" Ezra nodded. "Only if you want me to."

"He ought to know. What I didn't know nearly killed him."

"He doesn't see it like that. He never would."

"I see it like that," Ezra said. "Would you take something to him?"

"Sure."

"That package, over there." Ezra pointed. "Something to help him while away the hours of stultifyin' boredom in the hospital."

Chris picked up the small box. "He'll appreciate it."

Ezra laughed. "Either that, or he will call down imprecations of doom on my head."

Chris gave him a curious look, shook the package, and shrugged. "Whatever. You get some rest, Ez. You're gonna need it."

"I thank you for that cautionary warnin', Mr. Larabee." He yawned. "Close the door on the way out, if you don't mind."

***********************

The headache Chris had been fighting all day blossomed into full maturity on his way to the hospital. By the time he found a parking place, located Vin, who had been moved out of intensive care and into a private room, and navigated the hospital corridors to find said room, he could scarcely see beyond the throbbing red haze that had descended over his vision. He stood outside Vin's door, wilting.

"Chris?" A soft, concerned voice. A gentle hand on his arm. "Chris, are you all right?"

"Rain?" He tried to focus on Rain Jackson's lovely face. Worried brown eyes peered into his.

"Yes. Are you sick? " She laid a cool palm across his forehead. "You don't have a fever."

"Headache. I haven't had one like this in years."

"When was the last time you had something to eat, something to drink other than alcohol or coffee?"

Chris honestly couldn't remember. "I don't know. This morning."

Rain tucked her arm in his. "Come with me. I prescribe food, water, and I have some medication to help your headache."

"I was going in to see Vin."

"He's resting. Half an hour won't make any difference to him." She led him to her office, went to a small refrigerator and took out a sandwich and a bottle of water. "It's not fancy, but it should help."

"I can't eat your dinner."

"Sure you can. I can get something from the cafeteria. Nothing those cooks can do to the food could possibly hurt me. I'm immune" She watched as Larabee yielded and unwrapped the sandwich. He seemed too weary to eat, and there was a fine tremor in his hands, those hands that she had never seen unsteady. He was being pushed to the brink by something. Nathan had told her some of what had transpired the night of the opera, and she had been watching over Vin's condition closely. She knew that Larabee was closer to the sharpshooter than any of the other members of Team Seven and had seen the uncanny communication that existed between the two men. When either of them was hurting, the other felt every pain. The difference this time was that Vin was resting peacefully, while Chris looked like he hadn't rested in days.

He finished the sandwich, drank the water and leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. "Thanks, Rain. That helped."

She handed him two pills. "These should improve matters considerably. But do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"I get off in an hour. Come home with me. Stay with Nathan and me tonight. You shouldn't drive back to the ranch, and there's no way I'm going to let you sleep on that bed of nails you call a couch at the office."

He started to refuse, then realized that he needed what she was offering. Being alone would only lead to the temptation to drink himself to sleep, and spending the night on the couch would only aggravate his exhaustion. "Thank you, Rain. I'd like that."

"Visit with Vin, and I'll come by his room when my shift is over."

She walked with him back to Vin's room. Vin was sitting up, watching TV. The flickering light played across his face, deepening shadows. To Chris' worried eyes, he looked too thin, too pale. He hesitated in the doorway, then backed off from the line of sight.

"Is he all right?" he asked Rain.

"He's healing very well," she reassured him. "He's young, strong. His body will compensate for the blood loss quickly as long as he doesn't push too hard. He hasn't had any bleeding from his liver since the surgery. He should be out of here in a few days."

"How close was it, Rain?" His voice was a low, grim thread of sound that sent a chill down her spine.

"Very close. The bullet just nicked his liver. If it had been a more devastating wound, I doubt he would be sitting here watching Bugs Bunny." She drew a breath, "But he is. He's here, he's healing. You need to let go of that worry, Chris."

He laughed softly. "Yeah, it ain't like a thousand more won't get in line to take its place." He bent forward; his lips brushed her cheek. "Thanks, Rain. I ever tell you how glad I am you and Nathan found each other?"

"I'm a smart lady. I figured it out." She patted his arm. "See you in a bit." When it looked like Chris would argue, she added firmly, "Our spare bed has your name on it, Mr. Larabee, and you *will* be using it tonight. "

*****************

"Kill da wabbit, kill da wabbit ..." Elmer Fudd, wearing Viking horns and carrying a round shield, was swearing vengeance on Bugs, dressed as a Brunhilde. Until the other night, this was the sum and total of Vin's exposure to opera, and as much as he had found himself enthralled by the glamour and tragedy of Tosca, he still preferred the overt silliness of Bugs and Elmer. Someday he'd have to record this and show it to Ezra. Might even make him laugh ...

He switched off the TV in time to hear voices outside his door. Rain and Chris. Chris sounded tired. Then the door opened and he came inside. Lord, he looked tired, too, Vin thought; like he was carrying the weight of the world on him. He recognized the draw of pain around Larabee's mouth, the faint translucence of the skin around his eyes. Chris claimed to be as tough as old nails, but he was as vulnerable as any man to exhaustion and pain. He'd also deny it to the heavens if faced with it straight on. But Vin figured he'd earned the right to call Larabee's bluff on that matter.

"Chris, ya look like I feel. Sit down b'fore ya fall down."

"And a big howdy to you too, pard," Chris growled and sank down in the chair. "Mouthy Texan."

"Mouthy? Hell, half the time yer yellin' at me 'cause I ain't talkin."

Chris' mouth quirked. "Glad t'see you're feeling better." Then seriously. "You had us real worried, Vin."

The sharpshooter looked away from the warmth he saw in Chris' eyes. "Sorry."

"Sorry? It ain't like you shot yourself."

Vin shifted uncomfortably on the bed, and changed the subject. "How's Ezra? He get home all right?"

"He's hanging on. Wasn't too happy to hear what Williams was saying about him."

"You tell Orrin?"

"I tried." Chris rose restlessly and paced to the window. He couldn't see much, just darkness and the reflection in the glass from lights in the other hospital tower. "He said he'd stand by us."

Vin sensed faint doubt behind the words. "You believe him?" he asked. This was serious if Chris wasn't certain of Travis' support. The two hadn't always seen eye to eye, but mistrust had never been a problem. If Travis was siding with Williams, then Ezra was in a heap of trouble.

"Right now, I don't know. Williams is looking to cause trouble for us -- I don't know why. Technically, Williams is *my* superior, and Orrin has been a politician for a long time. Maybe he's willing to sacrifice Ezra if he believes it is for the good of the team."

"We cain't be a team without Ezra," Vin said in a hard, quiet voice. "He's one of us."

"Yeah, he is." Chris remembered the package he'd set down when he came into Vin's room. "He sent you this." He handed it to Vin.

"What is it?"

"I'll know when you do." He watched, smiling slightly as Vin opened the package. The Texan loved presents; he obviously hadn't had much experience with them in his hard life, and when he got one, was as eager as a six year-old to get through the wrappings to the box underneath. Underneath was a personal CD player and a recording of Tosca. Chris raised a brow. "Ain't exactly your style, pard."

"Hell, Larabee. How do you know I ain't developed high-falutin' tastes after hangin' around with Ezra lately?"

"Have you?"

Vin gave a derisive chuff of laughter and slanted an amused glance at Larabee. "I ain't lettin' him truss me up in one a' them suits again. But I kinda liked the music. And I never did get t'see the last act. Might be interested in knowin' what happens." He turned the jewel case over in his hands.

"Probably doesn't have a happy ending."

"Seems most of 'em don't. Even Bugs knows that," he smiled, recalling the end of the Loony Tunes version of grand opera. He tugged at the plastic wrapping on the CD. "Damn things are glued up tighter'n Fort Knox."

Chris pulled out his Swiss Army knife. "Here, make it easy on yourself." He watched Vin carefully cut through the plastic and tape sealing the CD's.

Vin examined each CD, frowning at the album liner. He shook his head, sighed, defeated by his dyslexia. "Cain't do it, Chris. Words 'r jist runnin' all together. Reckon I'm tired."

Chris took the paper from him. "Want me to read it?"

Vin saw the weariness in his face, the way Larabee's body was slouched in the chair. "Nah, go home with Rain. I heard her offerin' you a bed. Ya look like shit, old man."

A lazy spark of anger lit Chris' eyes. "Fine talk from a man who looks like all the blood's been sucked outta him." But he was relieved that he wouldn't be forced to focus his eyes on the fine print. "Still got some time before she's ready to leave. Mind if I stay on a bit?"

"You want the TV on?"

"No."

"You mind if I listen to this?" Chris shook his head and slouched down further in the chair. He closed his eyes. Vin selected a CD and put it in the player. He slid the headphones on, dimmed the overhead light, and reclined his bed a bit. For a while, the music carried him along, then the threads of the melodies and the voices spun out into a thread of a dream, like silk from a spindle, and he fell asleep.

When Rain Jackson came into the room, both men were sleeping. She stood looking down at them. Chris, with the face of a fallen angel; bright and perilous, frightening at times in his intensity. Vin, dangerous in his own way, but at the moment vulnerable, and young, with a slight frown of pain still etched between his brows. She wondered what it was about these hard men that caught at her heart and made her ache inside. She was married to Nathan, but they were all her family; Nathan's brothers in arms, and at times, in blood. She gently pulled the headphones from Vin's ears, and turned off the CD player. He didn't move as it slid from his lax fingers. Rain smiled, smoothed the hair back from his forehead and pulled the covers higher on his chest. Vin sighed, nestled deeper in the pillows, but stayed asleep.

She turned her attention to her fallen angel. "Chris?" She touched his shoulder. "Wake up."

He sat upright, blinking at her owlishly. "What?"

"You fell asleep. Are you ready to leave?"

Chris ran a hand over his hair and scrubbed his eyes. "Yeah." He gazed at Vin, and the expression Rain saw in his eyes made her throat ache. "He looks -- " His voice, husky with fatigue and emotion, failed.

"He's fine, Chris. And I think it's time you got some real rest. Let's go home." She tucked his hand in her arm. "I'm driving."

"Won't argue with you there," Chris sighed. He walked out with her into the cool evening air. He didn't remember much of the drive to Nathan's; didn't remember finally crawling into bed in their spare room. He was only vaguely aware that Rain gave him more pain pills before she said goodnight. The last thing he did remember, was hearing Nathan's deep voice welcoming Rain when he came home from a late night at the office. Chris wanted to ask why he was so late, but before the thought could take hold in his mind, sleep claimed him and carried him away.

******************

He woke in the middle of the night with a start, his heart thudding in his breast like he had been running a race and sweat beading on his brow. He didn't remember his dream, only the feeling that he was alone in a cold mist. His mouth was dry as cotton, and he blamed the painkillers Rain had given him for the dream and the lingering lethargy and thirst. He stumbled out of bed, orienting himself to a place he had seen only in daylight.

He found the bathroom and turned on the light. The overhead fixture with its tulip-shaped glass shades shone down on his gaunt features; the cavernous shadows of his eyes and hollow cheeks. He turned the water on and, when it was steaming, splashed his face, then turned it to cold and repeated the action. He ran his wet fingers through his hair, smoothing the wayward licks, remembering how Sarah had laughed at his sleepy dishevelment. *Don't go there, Larabee,* he told himself, and banished the thought. There was a clean glass on the sink, and he filled it and drank deeply to quench his thirst.

His jeans were folded on the foot of his bed. He pulled them on and, barefoot, padded downstairs to the quiet kitchen. The light over the sink shed a dim glow. Chris went to the refrigerator and took out a carton of milk. His stomach was burning with acid and his ulcer medicine was at the ranch. It had been a long time since it had acted up, but it seemed the business with Williams was triggering another siege of pain and stress. First the headaches, and now this. He'd be a wreck in two weeks if this didn't resolve itself.

He poured some milk in a glass and sat at the table, drinking it slowly. A brush against his lower leg made his hand jerk, and he laughed shakily as Rain's cat, Bastet, wound her way around his ankles. The Abyssinian meowed, then leapt up on the narrow space of his lap, looking over the tabletop at the drops of milk that Chris had spilled when she had startled him. He dipped his finger in the puddle and offered it to Bastet. The rough rasp of her tongue made him smile. She bumped her head against his chin, then looked straight over his shoulder, gave an apologetic meow, and jumped off.

Nathan, standing in the doorway, laughed softly. "Never saw her sit on anybody's lap but Rain's," he said. "She don't even like me much."

"It wasn't me she was after, it was the milk. Hope I didn't wake you, stumbling around in the dark."

Nathan got a glass and sat down at the table across from Chris. "No. Just my damn empty stomach."

"You were at the office kind of late tonight. Problems?"

Nathan hesitated. "Paperwork."

"Paperwork kept you in the office until after midnight?" Chris raised a skeptical brow. "Buck left me a voice mail saying that he and JD finished up the paperwork from the case and handed it in to Orrin before they left the office today." His eyes narrowed. "Anybody tell you it's not a good idea to lie to your boss?"

Nathan looked at his glass of milk and sighed. "Wish this was somethin' stronger."

"Hell, I'm game," Chris said. "Can't sleep anyway."

"Got whiskey in the den. C'mon."

The two men settled into deep chairs. The whiskey tasted good, and at that point Chris didn't care what it did to his stomach. "Tell me," he said after several deep swallows had warmed him.

"I wasn't lyin' t'ya, Chris. I was doing paperwork. Williams was askin' for the files from the D'Amico investigation. He wanted Ezra's reports."

"Shit."

"Wasn't anything I could do." Nathan looked despondent, as if he had somehow let the team down.

Chris started laughing quietly. "Don't blame yourself, Nate. You don't think Ezra kept everything at the office, do you?"

The devils were dancing in Larabee's eyes and Nathan choked down his last swallow of whiskey. "Damn, Chris!" His eyes were watering. "You think so?"

"For a gambler, Ezra doesn't leave much to chance. I'd be willing to bet he's got a copy of those files. Find out in the morning." Chris drained his whisky. "Thanks for this." He unfolded his long body from the chair. "See you in a few hours."

Nathan corked the whiskey back up and stowed it behind the bar. He yawned. A few hours. Wasn't much time for a man to catch up on his sleep. But at least he'd be spending those hours with Rain, not alone staring into the dark and worrying. Something told him that was what the rest of the night held for Chris Larabee.

7*7*7*7*7*7*7

Bells were ringing. Loud, insistent, and far too early for Ezra's taste. One hand emerged from the covers, found the nightstand and fumbled for the phone. "'lo?" he mumbled, thinking that if Buck was on the other end of the line, he would have to shoot him the next time they met.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?"

"What?" Part of Ezra's brain registered that it was not Buck on the phone, while the part that was still fogged with painkillers played a slow game of catch-up.

"The price of betrayal is death." Click.

Ezra sat up, the pain in his midsection still sharp enough to make him feel vaguely nauseous. Or perhaps it was the phone call that made his heart pound and his stomach lurch. He reached for the recorder that he kept on his phone line, and pressed the replay button. The voice returned, disguised by some sort of electronic scrambling device, but clear enough to be understood. He listened, comprehension dawning slowly in his drug-fogged brain. He fell back against the pillows, his arm thrown over his eyes. As Vin would say, he was sooo fucked.

*****************

A nurse woke Vin at five to take his vital signs. A lab tech came at six to draw his blood. At seven, he was asked how often he had used the urinal during the night -- a question that had his cheeks burning with embarrassment -- and then at seven-thirty, breakfast came, delivered by a way too cheery food service worker. He was supposed to be resting. How the hell could he rest when every ten minutes someone wanted something from him?

And then his phone rang.

Tired, exasperated, and unhappy, he snatched it from the cradle. "Yeah?" he snapped.

"Did you really think it would be that easy?"

"Buck?" A low, cold laugh made Vin sit up too fast. "Who the hell is this?"

"The price of betrayal is death." Click.

Vin looked at the receiver. He was in a hospital; that much had not been publicized. He knew Chris wouldn't have allowed it to become common knowledge. But someone knew. Someone who made death threats. Vin pushed the disconnect button and punched in Ezra's number.

Three rings, and Ezra's voice mail came on. Vin listened impatiently to the recorded message. "Ez, if yer there, pick up. It's important."

"Mr. Tanner?" The undercover agent's voice sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

"Ya know anybody else sounds like me?" Vin asked.

A pause. "My apologies. I have been the recipient of one prank call already this morning."

"Got news for ya. Don't think it was a prank."

"You, too?"

"Think we oughtta compare notes?" Vin said.

"I'll be there in an hour."

"Watch yer back, Ezra."

"I assure you, I shall exercise the utmost caution."

*******************

Chris finally fell into a deep sleep at 5am, only to be awakened at seven by Rain's soft knock on the door. He unglued his eyelids. His headache was a lingering dull throb, and his stomach was still uneasy from last night's whiskey. A shower helped. The mug of coffee he found on his nightstand when he came out of the bathroom made him feel nearly human. Rain had also set out one of Nathan's dark T-shirts for him so he wouldn't have to wear the his own from the day before. With a pang, he thought Sarah would have loved Rain. And then a brief passing jealousy, not of Nathan, but of the sweetness that a woman brought to a man's life. His relationship with Mary Travis was an uneasy one, neither of them ready for commitment, and both with careers that demanded too much time and energy.

He buckled on his shoulder holster, cast a wry glance at his haggard reflection in the mirror, and went down to breakfast. Nathan was eating oatmeal and reading the morning paper. Rain was packing a lunch to take to the hospital. They both looked up when Chris came into the kitchen, and both wore identical expressions of concern.

Chris appreciated that more than he could say. But he was fine, and he said so, as he poured a second cup of coffee and joined Nathan at the table. Without asking, Rain set a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. "Eat it," she ordered gently when he made to push it away.

He did, and felt better for having something other than old whiskey and bile in his stomach. "You ready to go to the hospital?" he asked when he had finished.

"Anytime you are." She stood behind Nathan, her hand resting tenderly on his shoulder. His big hand came up to cover hers. He didn't even seem to be conscious of that fond gesture. "See you tonight, babe?"

"If my boss don't keep me late," he replied.

Chris shook his head. "That is a shameless ploy, Nathan." He stood up, put his bowl in the dishwasher. "I'll see you at the office after I talk to Vin."

"Tell him to get his sorry ass outta the hospital."

"Nathan!" Rain remonstrated. "I have a hard enough time keeping him there as it is, without you and Chris urging him to leave. You know he will sign himself out against medical advice with the least bit of encouragement." She bent and kissed his cheek. "But I still love you." She looked at her watch. "We'd better be on our way. My boss is almost as difficult as Nathan's." She winked at Chris.

"Later, Nate." Chris plucked his jacket from the peg at the side door and followed Rain to the car. He was silent during the drive to the hospital, two lines of worry carving themselves deep between his brows. When she dropped him off by his truck, she pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. A prescription. For Zantac.

"Rain, I don't --"

"Take it. Get it filled at the pharmacy. You need it. And *no* arguments." When he opened his mouth to protest she stopped him. "What purpose will be served by your being miserable?" she asked. "Will it help Vin and Ezra?" She raised a brow, and he conceded the point.

"All right. I will follow doctor's orders."

"I'll be checking up on you, Larabee."

He laughed. Rain's growl had mimicked Nathan's to perfection. "Thanks for everything, doc." She drove off and he checked his truck, a habit born of painful necessity. Never again would he assume any vehicle was safe until he did a walkaround.

When he was satisfied that the Ram was as he had left it the night before, he went to the pharmacy to fulfill his promise to Rain. With a pocketful of pills, and a fresh cup of coffee from the kiosk in the lobby, he arrived at Vin's door and heard voices, one of them Ezra's aristocratic drawl. He looked at his watch to confirm his belief that it was at least an hour earlier than Standish considered civilized.

He waited outside the door, listening for a moment, and didn't like what he heard.

"Are you going to enlighten Mr. Larabee as to our mutual communication?" Ezra asked Vin.

A pause, as if Tanner were considering. Chris stepped inside the room. "I think *Mr. Larabee* would appreciate the enlightenment," he said. "Boys."

Ezra looked guilty. Vin merely raised an ironic brow. He greeted Chris with a brief nod. "C'mon in and join the party."

"Morning, Ezra. You seem to be on the mend."

"I am considerably improved, Mr. Larabee."

Chris showed teeth in a smile. "Good. Then I won't feel so guilty when I have to apply the thumb screws."

"Hell, Chris. Ain't no need t'git nasty. We'll talk." Vin shifted uncomfortably as he pushed himself upright. He was wary, defensive, and Chris sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

"What do I need to know?"

Vin looked at Ezra. "Go ahead. Play it for him."

Reluctantly, Ezra took out the small tape recorder. Chris's headache began a throbbing return. He rubbed the lines between his brows. The threats themselves, nonspecific as they were in nature, were only too specific in their targeting. Ezra's phone number was unlisted and Chris had told no one outside of the bureau -- hell, outside of their team -- where Vin had been taken following the shooting. Someone knew. Shit.

"You were plannin' on keeping this little secret all to yourselves?" Chris asked finally.

"I thought that if we compared notes we might be able to arrive at a consensus as to the identity of the caller."

"Did you?" Chris asked, one brow aslant.

"We ain't hardly had time," Vin defended their actions. "And we figured we'd be savin' you a hell of a lot of grief and tail-draggin' work if we could." All those words were too much for his still fragile strength and he fell silent.

Chris saw the color leave his face. Ezra, equally observant and nearly as tired, rose cautiously. "I will take this tape to Mr. Dunne, and see if he can't work some of his digital magic on it. Mr. Larabee, my apologies for my misguided attempt to conceal this from you."

Chris gave him a look clearly communicating that a repeat of that behavior would be a disaster, but when he spoke, his voice was soft. "Watch your back, Ezra. We don't know who's out there. And don't overdo. The last thing I need is two agents in this damn hospital."

"I will exercise more than my customary caution, in both of those matters," he promised and with a salute to Vin, left the room.

Chris sat for a moment, studying Tanner's face. His eyes were closed, but, judging from the tension in his body, he wasn't sleeping. Hell, knowing Vin, he wouldn't sleep as long as he felt the presence of a threat. He looked, and was, vulnerable; and that made Chris ache with worry for him. Vin was like a captive falcon stripped of his ability to fly. He had no defenses in this place, no strength. Chris considered an alternative, and came to a decision. He touched Vin's hand. "I'll be back in a bit. Let you recover from Ezra's visit."

A smile touched Vin's mouth. "All them big words c'n sure take it out of a feller. Makes m'hair hurt."

Chris went to the nurses' station and asked them to page Rain. Then he sat on a bench and kept an eye on Vin's door until she found him.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"How soon can we get him out of here?" He could see the objections rising in her eyes. "Rain, I'm not asking this as a friend, but as an ATF agent concerned with security."

"Security? Has something happened?"

Chris nodded. "Both Vin and Ezra have gotten threatening phone calls."

"Vin's safe here," she objected. "Hospital security --"

"Rain, listen to me. It's not just Vin's safety I'm worried about. The men making these threats have access to high-powered weapons and explosives, and they don't hesitate to use them. There could be a lot more people at risk here." Chris rubbed his eyes. "If I can get Vin out of the hospital, it would be better for everyone."

Being married to Nathan had taught Rain not to question Larabee's judgments when it came to the dangerous jobs they held. She knew Chris would die for the members of his team, her husband included, but she also knew that he would do his best to keep them alive. She trusted him. She *had* to trust him.

"I'm not his attending physician, Chris."

"Then find Elizabeth Stone. Talk to her. Get her to agree to release Vin. I'll have Nathan detailed to take care of him at my ranch."

Rain sighed and leaned against the wall, her arms folded. "It isn't that simple. He suffered a Grade II trauma to the liver and the potential for hemorrhage still exists."

"Potential or certainty?" Chris asked. He was as grave as she had ever seen him. "I'm tellin' you, Rain, get him out of here, because I *am* certain that if you can't protect him, you can't protect anybody else."

Rain pushed herself off the wall. "I'll talk to Elizabeth."