Roots. When the hell had he had roots? Not in this lifetime. Not until he had met Chris Larabee and found the missing half of his soul. Now he had a home, a family. Roots. And he suddenly, fiercely, didn't want to lose them.

He heard the ring of Chris's boot heels on the hardwood floor of the hall, and he turned to see Larabee buttoning the cuffs on his shirt, his tie threaded under the collar, but hanging loose.

Chris glanced up. "You ready?"

"I ain't so sure y'oughtta be seen with me."

A blond brow shot up. "You afraid I'll damage your reputation?"

Vin blushed and laughed. "Yeah. That's it." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "You know what I mean, Larabee."

"What're they gonna do? Kill me? Got news for you, partner. They've already tried that and haven't scared me off. Kick me off the job? Hell, I told you I'd give it up before I left you and Ezra to hang. So pack a bag and let's hit the road. We're running late."

"Pack?"

"I'm not driving back here tonight. And trust me, once Nate takes a look at you, neither are you."

Vin nodded once, not arguing. He threw some clothes into a gym bag and in a few minutes, he and Chris were on their way.

He stayed alert for the drive out of the city, his eyes flicking to the side view mirror, his fingers drumming nervously on his thigh. Chris noticed, didn't say much, but concentrated on the rush hour traffic clogging the streets. He let Vin worry about being tailed, and could tell when the Texan had decided that they were out of danger by the decreasing tension in his body. By the time they were on the open road, Vin was on the verge of dozing off.

Chris had put a quiet jazz CD into the player, knowing the music would send Vin to sleep. He gave Chris an amused looked from beneath lowered lids. He knew what Chris was doing. He settled his head into the angle of the seat back and window and closed his eyes. It wouldn't be a long nap, but he'd take what he could get.

The tires whined in an odd sort of cadence with the music from the speakers, and as he relaxed, the aches in his head and body eased back a bit. He hadn't realized how constant they had been until they started to fade. It wasn't much farther to the ranch and Chris's presence was as warm and comforting as Nettie's quilt. He quit arguing with himself and drifted to sleep.

He woke when Chris pulled onto the gravel drive, the crunch of stones under the tires breaking his subconscious awareness of the music. He opened his eyes, stretched out the kinks in his back and shoulders. The long, sprawling house looked peaceful, quiet. None of the others had arrived yet, and when Chris cut the engine on the Ram, Vin opened the door, hefted his bag, and waited for Larabee to unlock the front door and disarm the security system. He took his bag to the back bedroom he slept in when he stayed over, and then after Chris had changed from city clothes to jeans and a work shirt, they took a walk down to the stables.

Still not saying much, they did the evening chores; mucking out Pony and Peso's stalls, making sure they had food and water. Both geldings were getting frisky, begging for more exercise than they had been getting in the pasture the last few days. Vin stroked Peso's velvety nose, chuckling at the wounded looks he was getting when Peso realized that there weren't more treats forthcoming from Vin's pockets. Vin laughed softly. "Greedy ol' mule, ain'tcha? Maybe t'morrow," he promised. "Git some a' those jitters worked out. Hmmm? I know how ya feel, partner."

When Chris finished with the better mannered Pony, he paused and watched Vin and Peso, amazed as always by the way quiet sharpshooter and the ornery gelding had bonded. He had brought Peso at an auction, taken by the animal's conformation and spirits, and unfazed by the display of ill-temper that had put off most other buyers. Then they had embarked on a months-long battle of wills: two stubborn creatures butting heads at every turn. He had just about resigned himself to owning a horse he couldn't ride, was on the verge of selling him, when he had introduced Tanner to the intractable gelding. He didn't know if it had been a matter of like speaking to like or opposites attracting, but the two had become inseparable. He heard the growl of a familiar truck engine and a few moments later, Buck's paces as he approached the barn.

"Kinda reminds me of somebody I know." Buck's voice was low and amused. He stood behind Chris, watching Tanner with Peso.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Buck grinned. "You figure it out."

"JD setting things up?"

"Brought along all his wonderful toys."

"Good. I have a feeling we're gonna need them." His eyes rested for a moment on Vin before he spoke. "C'mon, cowboy. Time to stop playing with Peso and get to work."

Vin gave Peso a final, regretful pat on his glossy neck. "Be back later with something for ya," he said softly. He looked up, saw Buck. "Hey, Bucklin."

"Hey, Junior. You ready to say goodnight to that critter and come eat some of Inez's finest chile rellenos?"

"Why didn't ya say somethin' earlier?" Vin tossed a last forkful of hay into Peso's box. He came forward, brushing bits of hay from his jeans and shirt sleeves. "I'm ready." The three men started up to the house together, but Chris eventually dropped back a few paces, waiting for Buck to do the same.

"JD find anything?" he asked.

"Not as of when we left the office. He was downloading some things, though. Might have found something since then."

"Good." Chris paused for a moment on the porch, his green eyes narrowed against the setting sun as he looked out over his land. But his mind wasn't really on the land, and Buck knew it.

"You're worried about Junior," Buck said, no question there.

Chris gave him a measuring look and a one-sided smile. "Hell, yes! And about Ezra, and about the rest of the team - even about you."

"Me? I'm jist a lazy ol' hound dawg lyin' around waitin' fer a bone and a pat on the head." His eyes danced. "Least that's what Williams seems ta think."

"He's sharper than you realize, Buck," Chris warned.

"Yeah, but I'm sharper than he realizes, too. Don't forget it, Chris."

"I'm not likely to, partner."

"But you'll still worry."

Chris nodded silently. Buck set a hand on his shoulder and frowned at the raw feel of bones too close to skin. "Hell, Larabee. You're gettin' as scrawny as Junior."

Uncomfortable with Buck's concern, Chris shrugged off the touch. "I'm fine. Need some food and some sleep. And I ain't gettin' either of that standing out here on the porch."

JD was setting up his laptop and a mess of communication equipment in the den. They left him to it, and went into the kitchen where Vin was rooting through the shopping bag of food Buck had picked up from Inez. Chris thought he hadn't looked this happy and relaxed in weeks, and he silently thanked Buck for thinking of bringing the food. God, he needed this. They all needed this. To be together, to be a team. He'd never liked fracturing them into undercover, field, and office, even though that was what the job demanded at times.

Josiah, Nathan, and Ezra showed up within half an hour. They settled around the kitchen table with cartons of Inez's food, beer, sodas, wine. By tacit agreement, they didn't talk shop, didn't mention Williams, D'Amico, Fazio. Chris stayed away from the more inflammatory dishes and along with Vin, drank ginger ale. He didn't miss the alcohol. He was lightheaded from the release of tension alone. He knew the undercurrent of anxiety was only suppressed, not banished. The troubles were still waiting outside, but they did not cross the threshold into these walls, this room.

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

Troy D'Amico stood at the window overlooking the city. If you could have drawn a straight line from his office to Vin Tanner's apartment, they would have been nearly opposite each other. Worlds apart, but not as the crow flies.

D'Amico's intercom beeped unobtrusively and he returned to his desk. "Yes?"

His secretary answered. "Ronnie Fazio would like to see you."

"Do I have a choice?" D'Amico sighed. "All right, Margaret. Let him in." He appreciated that she had the guts to keep Ronnie at bay long enough to warn him. She wasn't as decorative as Troy would have liked, but she had been his uncle's secretary, and knew secrets that made keeping her loyal, imperative. He wondered if Gianni had been fucking her on the side - she didn't seem heartbroken enough over the old man's death to have been a lover - but the will had left her a substantial bequest. Maybe another year of service and she could be persuaded to leave, when she was of no more use to Troy.

All those thoughts passed in the blink of an eye and when Fazio entered, Troy was ready for him. "What is it?"

"Larabee isn't backing down."

Troy lifted a brow. "Did you expect him to play dead just because somebody took a shot at him? Pity they missed, but it was a bad plan." He seemed to examine his manicured nails. "I shouldn't have listened to you, Ronnie."

Fazio leaned forward on the desk. "The plan wasn't to kill Larabee. I got his attention - made him look away from the real target." He gave D'Amico an ugly smile. "I have something for you, Troy." He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "That schedule you've been so hot for." He straightened. "Pick your time, your place. But I wouldn't tell Tanner a thing, or he'll find some way to get out of it."

D'Amico laughed. Low and cold, it sent a chill down Fazio's back. "It's time to start reeling him in, then. He won't fight the line. Not with the bait I'm using on the hook."

"What?"

"Not what. Who. It's time I met your man inside. We're going to need him in on this for it to work."

"I'll need a few days."

D'Amico looked at the paper on his desk. "The fifteenth. At the dedication. That will give you three days."

Fazio grinned. "It's done."

After he left the office, Troy D'Amico sat back in his chair, his hands linked behind his head. He was pleased, very pleased, with his plan.

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

Chris turned on the lamps in the den, pulled out a bottle of whisky and some glasses, and set them out on the wet bar in the corner of the big room. If the night had been colder he would have lit a fire, but the warmth of the day still lingered in the room and the extra heat wasn't needed. He pulled the drapes shut, an action that a few days ago would have seemed an unnecessary precaution. He hadn't stayed alive this long without listening to his instincts. The one time he had ignored them had been fatal, and that void ached whenever he allowed the thought to cross his mind. If he had learned to deal with 'what ifs', it was only because of the men at his side and he wasn't about to risk losing them to a stupid oversight.

They were all settled in: Ezra, JD, and Buck on the couch, Nathan and Josiah in the armchairs, Vin in the rocking chair he preferred. He had pulled it close to the coffee table to get a good view of the computer screen. Chris hitched a hip on the arm of the couch and waited for JD to power up his laptop.

"Anything new?" he asked.

JD looked up from his keyboard. "Sorry, Chris. I couldn't find anything to link Williams to Mohawk. I put Jimmy on the case to see if he couldn't dig deeper. I was worried that somebody would be able to follow my e-trail through the agency computers. I did what I could with the databases that wouldn't arouse any suspicions, but those all came up blank."

"It might not be our friend, Ed Williams," Ezra drawled. "Perhaps that is why you couldn't find any traces of the elusive Mohawk."

"I thought of that. But I didn't want it to look like I had all his team under watch, so I let it go. You know that search I did about that gun licensing scandal? Well, I e-mailed the reporter who wrote about the case." There was a tremulous hint of excitement in his voice. "You know how it was blamed on a computer foul-up?"

"Lord, tell me it wasn't," Buck said.

"It wasn't," JD said triumphantly. "That was the official story. The reporter, Tom Kelly, told me he was sure there was more involved than a computer snafu. He claims he had documentary evidence that he presented to his editor, but that the evidence 'disappeared,' and his story was discredited. They said he was -"

"Was what?" Chris asked.

"Well, you know, making it up to cause trouble for the ATF."

"Why?" Buck asked, puzzled.

JD gave him a disgusted look. "Geez, Buck, it was right after the formal report on Waco."

"Oh ..." Buck sighed, enlightened. Mention Waco to an ATF agent and you were likely to end up eating his fist. "Is this Kelly a Branch Davidian or something?"

"I guess he'd written some pretty harsh columns about use of excessive force."

"Shit, maybe he was making it all up," Vin said. "Wouldn't be the first time a reporter stretched the truth for a story."

JD shook his head. "I don't think so. He seemed real upset when he told me about his evidence being hushed up. It would have been better for him to have some live ammunition, not just blanks. Besides, what he told me, well, it sounded pretty plausible."

"Tell us, son," Josiah encouraged. "Us old-timers might have a line on whether or not he was feeding you a line."

JD took a breath. "He said that there were false permits issued to several gun dealers who were selling on the side. And not only guns, but possibly other munitions. He told me the names of the dealers, and at least three of them had ties to some militia groups."

"Had?" Chris's brow slanted.

"And still might have, according to Kelly. Their permits were never revoked," he said significantly.

"Lack of evidence, or lack of interest?" Josiah queried.

"I thought the day of the wild-eyed survivalists had drawn to a close with the capture of the Unabomber," Ezra commented. "Swallowed up by the dot-com revolution."

Vin slouched lower in the rocking chair with a sigh. "Yeah, well if ya ain't noticed, Ez, them dotcom-ers have gone flat. When the economy dives south, folks start lookin' fer scapegoats. And guess who's number one on their hit list? The US government. Ya git a bunch of discontented fellers t'gether, add a few guns, and lookee here, ya got a militia. Don't help if ya got gun dealers willin' to bend the regulations t'suit their customers."

"Neither," Chris went back to Josiah's question. "Like JD said, the issuance of the faulty permits was blamed on computer error. But most of them were reinstated without prejudice."

It was Nathan who asked the inevitable question. "Did Williams's department issue those permits?"

"His department was involved in the investigation," JD said carefully. "But when I brought up names, Kelly started getting real cagey, like he didn't want to answer." He added quietly after a pause. "Like he was scared."

Chris closed his eyes for a moment. All of this was hitting too close to home for him. Sarah and Adam had been killed when Waco was still a hot issue, and while no one had ever claimed responsibility for the bombing, Chris had a long list of likely suspects, including several paramilitary groups that had since disbanded. He wondered if Vin's assessment was accurate - if they were arming once again. "Ezra, did D'Amico ever mention who his customers were for his merchandise?"

"Unfortunately, I fear my cover was blown right about the time I was gaining Gianni's trust. Another few days, and I might have had some access to the files."

"Computer files?" JD's ears pricked up.

"JD, you know I am not conversant in the whys and wherefores of electronic data maintenance. All I know is that Gianni's office is guarded by a dragon of a secretary named Margaret, who I believe was also his mistress on the side. The lady is fiercely loyal, and retained by Troy at some expense."

"She attractive?" Buck asked.

"I truly hope you're asking that for a reason," Chris sighed.

"Hell, Larabee. Even an old biddy needs to step out once in a while."

"No. I'm not even going there," Chris said shortly. "You're not James Bond, and I ain't letting you play with Pussy Galore."

Buck threw up his hands in innocent objection. "I was just offerin' my services as a distraction."

"That kind of distraction leads to disaster, my friend," Josiah chuckled. "Think you ought to put that idea on the back burner."

"J'siah's right. D'Amico's files are off limits. 'Sides, seems t'me that D'Amico ain't the feller in touch with Mohawk. Fazio is. And Ronnie ain't the type to keep his appointments in a Palm Pilot." Vin rubbed his eyes tiredly, and Nathan leaned forward.

"I think Vin needs a break here, Chris. And you, too."

"We don't have time, Nate."

"Fifteen minutes ain't gonna kill ya, Chris."

He wasn't about to argue with Jackson. He was too tired. "Coffee?" he offered the others, ignoring Nathan's frown. He stood up, stretched, went to make a pot. Vin followed Chris into the kitchen. He leaned against the counter, watching as Chris measured the coffee and filled the pot.

"I think the kid's onto something with that reporter. There was a lot of shit going down and that shit still stinks."

Chris slanted him a glance. "Yeah, I smell it too, pard. Every time Williams walks into the room." He flicked on the switch and listened to the burp and bubble of the water as it steamed through the grounds. "God, we are *this* close!"

"Ain't so sure I wanna git any closer, Larabee."

"D'Amico?"

"He wants me to kill somebody, Chris."

"If we can get this Mohawk, we might be able to find who and where."

"If ... might ... I always hated those words." He pushed away from the counter and started taking down mugs. "It's like shooting through a mist and not being able to see what yer aimin' at."

The coffee pot burbled to a finish. The others drifted into the kitchen and carried their mugs back into the den where JD was scrolling down his computer screen. He paused, tapped in a password, and looked up. "I got something from Jimmy." He read silently. "I didn't even think of that," he said, sounding disgusted. "And it was right there in front of me."

"What is it, kid?" Buck asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Williams's bio when he applied to the ATF. It says right there. He's part Native American. That's got to be the reference to Mohawk."

"That's a mighty tenuous link, JD." Caution tempered Chris's instinctive response to the news. "I can't take that to Travis unsupported."

"What about the investigation in Phoenix? The gun dealers?"

"I'll talk to Orrin in the morning. See if he knows anything else about that situation. Maybe he can call in favors. But I can't go around pointing fingers. Not yet." Chris paced to the mantel, paced back to where he had been standing behind the couch, and then paced back again, as if the physical activity could somehow relieve the tension that was tying him in knots of frustration and fear.

They sat in slightly glum silence, startled by the sudden jarring beep of Ezra's cell phone. He looked at the number, then indicated for silence. They listened to the start and stop of Ezra's conversation. "Yes. Yes, of course. I will be glad to pass the message on to Mr. Tanner. I'm sure he will be there. I apologize for the little misunderstanding at the Sportsmen's Club. I assure you, it will not happen again as long as you keep Ronnie Fazio tethered a good distance away from Mr. Tanner. Good-bye."

He closed the phone. "We have an appointment with Troy D'Amico tomorrow in his office. He insists we both attend."

Chris looked at them, hard. "You should wear a wire."

"No." Ezra refused flatly. "No wires."

"Christ, Ezra. I don't want to send you and Vin in there unsupported. JD, think you can pull something out of your box of toys?"

JD shrugged. "Sure, I've got some things, but the problem is the range. Two hundred meters, line of sight is the best we can hope for."

It wasn't much. "Ezra, what's the layout of the place?"

"As usual for a modern office, the secretary's desk is in an outer room. But I would not put it past D'Amico to have his office swept for electronic surveillance. And his visitors, as well, I might add. The man is many things, but not stupid or careless, I fear."

Chris thrust a frustrated hand through his hair. He wasn't thinking clearly or he'd have been one step ahead of Ezra on that one. His tired body and stressed mind were screaming for relief.

Buck stood up, crossed over to where Chris stood by the mantel. He laid a warm, supportive hand on his shoulder. "Old son, you need t'get some rest. Come at this fresh in the morning. Pack up your things, JD, and let's head on home."

"I'm fine," Chris objected, and heard Nathan's derisive snort. He shot him a glare, but Jackson just glared right back, for once winning the contest of wills.

"Buck's right - and you know I don't say that too often. Ya gotta rest, Chris. And don't argue on his behalf, Vin. You're looking mighty transparent right now."

Vin threw up his hands in surrender. "Hell, doc, I ain't arguing."

Chris looked around at his team. "See you in the morning. Eight a.m. Ezra, what time are you meeting D'Amico?"

"Eleven."

"Good. That gives us a couple hours. I'll keep you posted on what Travis has to say. Stay close to home, you hear me?"

"I will await your every word, Mr. Larabee. However, I have already arranged for a hotel room this evening just to confound any miscreants with designs on my person." He gave Chris a rueful smile. "It would be a relief of no small magnitude if we could forego the pleasure of meeting D'Amico."

"I'll do my best, Ezra."

Then JD was packed up, and he and Buck were ready to leave. Nathan called Rain to tell her he was on his way home, and Josiah followed them out the door, pausing for a moment to draw a deep breath of evening air before he, too, said good night.

Chris locked the door and returned to the den. Vin was out of the rocking chair and lying down on the sofa. Chris stood over him. "Don't get comfortable, Tanner."

Vin yawned. "I know. Go to bed." He sat up, slowly unfolded his body. Stretched until his spine cracked. "G'night, Chris."

"You too, partner." He watched Vin make a slow progress down the hall towards the bathroom. Briefly, he considered a drink and then decided it wasn't worth the havoc it would wreak on his stomach and head. He threaded a garland of mugs through his fingers and carried them to the kitchen. Then he turned off the lights and headed to his bedroom, and sleep.

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

True to form, he slept only long enough to take the rough edges off physical exhaustion. Restless, unremembered dreams and an overactive mind roused him while it was still dark. Cursing, knowing sleep was a mirage on the horizon, he pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. He went out to the den, and then, wanting a smoke, he took a cheroot from the humidor on his desk and went out on the deck. It was cool, not really cold. He struck a match and puffed on the cigar until it drew. He was trying to break the habit, but sometimes weakness just won out. He didn't know if it was the smoke itself, or the ritual that he found comforting, but at least it occupied his nervous hands and overworked mind.

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

The smell of tobacco drifting through his open window teased Vin awake. He knew that scent. Larabee. Tired and needing sleep, he still swung his legs around and reached for the clothes he had set at the foot of the bed. He padded through the silent house to the den. It was in darkness, but the lighter draperies at the sliding door to the deck stirred with a breeze. Vin coughed quietly to alert Chris to his presence, then slid the door wider to get his body through.

"Go back to bed," Chris said. He didn't turn around, just stared out into the darkness in front of him.

"Kinda hard to sleep with that tobacco smoke coming through my window. No - don't put it out! Jesus, Chris. If I was set on sleepin', I'd do it."

Chris still stubbed out the butt. "Lost its flavor."

Vin stood next to him, leaning his forearms on the rail and looking out over the dark landscape. The night was cloudy and the air smelled like rain. He could feel Chris radiating tension and another emotion that he wasn't quite sure he could identify. Whatever it was, it had Larabee tied in knots. He took a breath and made a cautious foray into the treacherous territory of Chris's moods.

"It ain't the same," he said, low and quiet, almost a whisper.

"As what?"

"Sarah and Adam. That's what yer thinkin' - thinkin' that this is jist a replay of something ya couldn't control, couldn't foresee, and I'm tellin' you it ain't the same."

A shaft of moonlight stabbed down through the clouds, falling on Larabee's pale hair. His head was bent down and Vin couldn't see his expression, but his shoulders were hunched and taut beneath the bulk of the sweatshirt. No reaction, no shift in that stance. Vin sighed. "D'Amico ain't gonna do anything tomorrow, Chris. He wants ... he needs me alive. I ain't no good to him dead. So let it go. It'll be all right."

Chris did straighten then, and even in the dim light, his eyes were glittering. "There is nothing all right about this. Nothing. And tonight, with this going back to when Sarah and Adam ..." His voice choked in his throat. "God, Vin. What am I supposed to feel?"

"Y'ain't supposed to feel anything. You feel what ya feel. But I'm jist sayin' you don't have to wear yerself out worryin' about me and Ezra. Not tomorrow. I'll tell ya when t'start worryin'," he said, laughing a little.

"Thanks," Chris's wry voice held a twist of a smile in it, and Vin saw the tension slowly leave his shoulders. He straightened, took a breath. "Think you'll sleep?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"That's something, then."

"Y'oughtta try it sometime."

Chris gave a breath of laughter. "I will. C'mon in. It feels like rain." He waited for Vin to go inside, shut the door and latched it. He watched him vanish into the darkness of the long hall. He truly hoped Vin would sleep. He wasn't so sure about himself. He returned to the den and poured a finger of whiskey over ice. He drank it down, knowing he was asking for trouble, and ignoring the warnings he imagined Rain would heap on his head if she had known what he was doing. He poured a second drink, watering this one down to a less lethal concentration, and carried it to his bedroom. He lay on the bed, propped up against the headboard, drinking in the dark and waiting for sleep to claim him.

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

Chris dropped Vin off at his apartment early the next morning. Vin checked for messages and was relieved when there were none. Not that his number was common knowledge, but he was not so naive to think that D'Amico wouldn't have the resources to find it. Hell, if Williams was the source of the leak, he had access to all of Vin's personal information. That was enough to make him shiver.

Seeking to dispel the chill, he brewed a pot of coffee, poured a mug, and added milk and sugar. He drank it slowly, waiting for the sugar and the caffeine to work their way through his veins. He took a shower, washed his hair, and dressed in chinos and a dark green tee shirt. He added a lightweight suede bomber jacket that Ezra had loaned him for one of their undercover assignments, and had let him keep after he had bled on the lining. Still looked good, though. Good enough for a meeting with D'Amico. And his cleaner had gotten the stain out, mostly.

When Ezra called to tell him he was on his way over, Vin was ready. Ready right down to the Sig strapped on his ankle. Undoubtedly D'Amico would confiscate it before the meeting, but it sent the message that Vin had no illusions regarding the nature of their relationship. He waited fifteen minutes, then went to wait for Ezra downstairs.

The BMW glided to a stop in front of the building. Vin was at the curb before Standish had time to parallel park. Ezra looked relieved when Vin slid in and shut the door. He grinned at the skittish expression on the southerner's face. "Nervous, Ez?"

"As a sheep driven to the wolf's lair."

"Trade in the Beemer fer a truck and ya won't hafta worry."

"And I suppose *that* is why Mr. Larabee's Ram is outfitted with an alarm that makes Fort Knox look like an easy target?" Ezra asked in a sarcastic drawl. He pulled out into traffic. "I have no idea what will transpire at this meeting."

"Reckon we'll find out soon enough."

"Were you able to allay Mr. Larabee's anxieties?"

"Told him that we'd be all right as long as D'Amico needed us."

"A logical assumption."

"Sure hope we ain't suddenly expendable." Vin's phone rang. He dug it out of his inner jacket pocket and flipped it open. "Yeah?"

"Hey, cowboy." He caught the flash of Ezra's gold tooth as he smiled at the familiar greeting. "Me and Ezra are on the way to the meeting."

He heard Chris's breath draw in a bit. "I figured that much. Vin?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

Vin sighed. "You talk to Orrin yet?"

"I've sent the report. I've got an appointment with him at eleven."

"You know where me and Ez'll be then. Good luck, Chris."

"Thanks, partner. Call me ASAP, okay?"

"You got it. Watch your back."

"You too."

And then the tenuous link was broken. Vin closed his phone. "We almost there?"

"Five minutes."

Vin sat in silence as Ezra pulled into a parking garage between two of Denver's premiere office developments. Vin hated parking garages. He always felt like the concrete floors above and below him were threatening to collapse from the combined weight of the vehicles parked there, sandwiching him in the middle. He pressed his hand flat against his chest as if to remind himself to breathe. Ezra caught the gesture, and quickly looked away, understanding it.

The elevator to the penthouse floor wasn't any better. Vin stood rigidly staring at the glowing buttons as they made the crawl up the panel. This was pretty much his idea of Hell, and when the doors finally opened, he was almost relieved to be at D'Amico's office. He restrained himself from bolting out and drawing deep breaths, just stood for a moment with his eyes closed, waiting for his galloping heart to settle down.

Ezra had the grace to allow him that much time. He didn't know if there were any deep psychological reasons for Vin's claustrophobia, or if it were a genetic trait like his blue eyes and wavy hair. Either way, the man had a right to his fears. When Vin's shoulders dropped to an easier posture, he cast Ezra a slightly apologetic glance before they stepped from the narrow hall into the main office area.

"Set for this?" Vin asked.

"Lead the way, Mr. Tanner. Lead the way."

The carpet beneath Vin's feet was thick enough to set him slightly off-balance, and was the color of aspen leaves in autumn; a rich, shimmering gold. The paneling on the walls was pale wood, with some sort of a gold-grey wash over it. The furniture in the lobby was modern and angular, upholstered in a fabric that looked gold in some lights, grey in others, iridescent and changeable as a butterfly's wing. The far wall was entirely glass, offerng a view that was more valuable than the office space itself.

The surroundings were impressive and meant to intimidate the casual visitor. Vin sensed that, felt it like an itch between his shoulder blades. He was on alert, trying not to look like he was scoping the place out, even though that was exactly what he was doing. He stepped aside to let Ezra do the schmoozing with the receptionist, who was as decorative as her surroundings. Blonde, wearing a grey suit and a gold blouse. Vin wondered how many variations on that outfit she had in her closet. She was good, flirting with Ezra and still managing to be professional. She wasn't paying much attention to him.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and pretended to admire the view. He found two cameras not meant to be camouflaged. He was sure there were others hidden in the recessed ceiling fixtures. The room itself was a long rectangle, no blind corners or alcoves. No place to hide. There was music playing in the background, classical and vaguely familiar.

Tosca.

He heard Ezra thank the receptionist and a moment later, come to stand at Vin's side. "We have a few minutes to wait. It seems Troy has been delayed by an important business call."

"He's playing a game, Ezra. Listen to the music."

Standish cocked his head for a moment. "Your ear is impeccable, Mr. Tanner."

"Ain't somethin' either of us is likely to fergit. And he knows it. He's got surveillance cameras, too. Some hidden, some not."

"I am so glad I dressed for the occasion," Ezra drawled.

"Mr. Standish?" The receptionist smiled at Ezra. "You and your associate may go in now."

"May joy reign unconfined. Shall we?" He lifted a brow and Vin gave him a grim smile.

The receptionist pushed a button on her desk, and a section of paneling swung open to reveal another office. The room was as subtle in its way as the public reception area; darker shades of grey and gold and a lush oriental rug with a deep crimson field and a muted pattern that Ezra could have identified as Tabriz. Probably antique, and horrendously expensive.

The secretary, Margaret, was seated at an ebony desk. A titanium laptop computer and a telephone console occupied the gleaming surface. The woman sitting behind the desk was as sleek and sharp as her surroundings. Not pretty, not beautiful, but attractive and intelligent-looking. Vin put her age at mid-forties. She was wearing a black suit, and her dark hair was pulled back in a knot. Small gold and diamond earrings were her only jewelry. She looked at Vin like he had crawled out of particularly loathsome hole in the ground.

He figured she knew he had shot the old man and wouldn't put it beneath her to use the lethal letter opener on her desk to cut his heart out given half a chance.

But not today, it seemed. She pushed a button on the console and a moment later, one of D'Amico's bodyguards came out of the inner office. He conducted a thorough, but generally polite search of both Vin and Ezra, discovering the Sig on Vin's ankle and removing it for him. It was a professional weapon, and he treated it and Vin with deference.

Ezra was unarmed, and the guard patted him down and nodded to Margaret. "They're clean."

D'Amico's disembodied voice floated through hidden speakers. "Send them in Margaret."

There were mikes, Vin thought. No surprise there, either.

They were ushered into the inner sanctum. Later, Vin was able to recall very little about the physical details of the office - luxurious, certainly. Dark woodwork and dark walls, some sort of silvery and dark green fabric framing the windows and the view over the city. A fleeting thought that it was almost direct line of sight to Purgatorio. Those impressions and one that was not physical, but defined nonetheless.

Power.

Vin stayed quiet. His gaze ghosted around the room before settling on Troy D'Amico. He was standing behind a mahogany partners desk with the surface area roughly the size of a small country. Nice. He sneaked a glance at Ezra. The southerner was watching D'Amico warily, waiting for the rattler to strike. The rattler just smiled.

"Please, gentlemen. Sit down. We have business to discuss."

So civilized. Three men making deals. It happened all the time.

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

Chris met with Orrin Travis in the much less lavish surroundings of the assistant director's utilitarian office of the Denver Federal Center. About the only thing it had in common with D'Amico's was the view it had over the city, but all of Chris's attention was focused on the manila file folder on Travis's desk. It held JD's and Buck's meticulous report on what they had discovered about Ed Williams and his connection to the D'Amico syndicate.

Travis poured some coffee for himself and held up a mug to Chris. "You want some of this?"

His stomach already felt like it was churning out battery acid. He shook his head, declining the offer. He waited for Travis to be seated at his desk before he asked, "Have you read it?"

"Yes."

Chris didn't like the measured, hesitant tone of the AD's voice. "What are you going to do about it?"

"Chris, I can't use this to make unfounded accusations -"

"Unfounded?" Rising tension roughened Chris's voice and his eyes came up to meet Travis's.

"Bad choice of words. Unproven, if you must. Half-investigated."

"Buck and JD don't leave things half finished, Orrin. Everything in that report is true, and verifiable. Hell, it's in Williams's own records!"

"His records say he's clean, Chris! Yes, there was some trouble. Yes, it was serious, but since he's transferred to this office, his records are unblemished. A man deserves a second chance. Look at your team." When Larabee's eyes flashed with quick anger, Travis held up a conciliatory hand. "Be realistic about this. Vin Tanner - insubordination. Ezra Standish - suspicion of taking bribes, gambling addiction. Buck Wilmington - insubordination and questionable judgment. Josiah Sanchez - borderline alcoholic. Yourself - depression and unresolved personal problems. Nathan and JD are the only ones who came to you clean."

"And that makes Vin and Ezra more expendable than a prick like Ed Williams?" Chris shot back.

"No! God, no." Travis leaned forward, peering intently at Larabee. "I'm not fighting against you, Chris," he sighed.

"That's not what it feels like."

"Let me do my job," Travis said, sharply. "And you do yours."

"I thought I was."

"You're thinking with your heart and not your head, Chris. And I understand that -"

Chris's anger slipped his control and his words were as cold and as hard as his eyes. "This is what I understand. Vin and Ezra are meeting with D'Amico. Vin's fairly certain that D'Amico wants him to kill somebody - somebody important, because if it were one of his old enemies, then he'd farm the job out to one of his goons. He *needs* a shooter with Vin's qualifications - you don't need me to tell you what those are. And if Vin refuses? He's dead, and Ezra right along with him. So you *do* your job, Orrin. But don't tell me how to think, or what to feel. Because if something happens to Vin, you'll lose a hell of a lot more than the best sniper in the ATF."

Angry, spitting nails, worried beyond caution, he jerked upright from the chair and whirled towards the door.

"Agent Larabee!" Travis's voice snapped out, and startled, Chris halted and turned back towards the AD.

"Yes, sir?" Standing there, stiffly.

His suddenly still posture revealed too clearly the toll this case was taking on him, and Travis's outrage faded to quick concern. Larabee looked like shit; too thin even for his lanky frame. Green eyes dark-circled. Pale. Lord, too pale. "Chris, are you all right?" The concern in Travis's voice was genuine.

Chris looked at him. "I'm fine." The tersely worded reply offered no reassurance to the Assistant Director.

"You don't look it."

"I haven't been drinking."

"Chris - I didn't mean it that way." But he had been thinking it, and cursed himself for letting it show.

One blond brow lifted skeptically, and then he smiled. "Sure you did."

Just a soft reply, but Travis felt it like a blow. "You're more than an SAC, Chris. I consider you a friend. And I worry about my friends."

"You know what, Orrin? So do I," Chris replied softly. "I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I hear from Vin and Ezra."

When he had gone, Travis sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He placed a call to the deputy director of the Phoenix office, an old friend who owed him a favor. If Chris was right and there was dirt to be had on Ed Williams, he was the one man Travis trusted to tell him the truth.

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

Vin's grandfather had been a plainspoken, straight-shooting man who, in the few years they'd had together, taught him pretty much everything he knew about shooting, life, and other folks. Even now, Vin tended to gauge others by that moral yardstick, and Troy D'Amico had been measured and found wanting on that scale. His blue eyes rested on the man behind the desk, and there was not a hint of respect, fear, or awe in their depths. They were as unreadable in Vin's way, as Ezra's were in his. Or as D'Amico's.

Like a shark, Vin thought. Cold and inhuman. Predatory, but without lust. Sharks were never still, constantly on the prowl for prey, for weakness. Vin suppressed a shudder. He couldn't risk a glance at Ezra.

D'Amico steepled his fingers, looked at Vin and Ezra over the tips, hiding the line of his mouth - not to show those shark teeth of his - Vin thought. He sat back a little, seeming to relax. "You got something to discuss, or did you just want to see if we were impressed with your digs?" Vin asked, tired of being the bait on the hook.

"Are you impressed?"

"Your view is ... incomparable," Ezra said.

"Ain't that much different than mine, Ez." Vin said easily. "The surroundings are a mite fancier. And I'll bet there ain't no roaches in here." He scanned the room. "Could be wrong about that, though." He set his ankle across his knee, showing the leather holster beneath the cuff of his slacks. No gun there, but the intent was clear, and D'Amico noticed.

Just a slight shift in his chair before he spoke. "Could I offer you gentleman some refreshment? Some wine? A drink?" He spoke to Ezra, ignored Vin for a long, intentional moment before he spoke to him. "Water?" Just a hint of a sneer.

"Wouldn't want to put you through any trouble."

D'Amico pushed a button on his console. "Margaret. Bring water, ice." He cocked a brow at Ezra. "Mr. Standish?"

"Scotch."

"And Scotch."

They sat uneasily until the door opened on silent hinges. Margaret wheeled in a small glass and brushed chrome cart with their beverages on it. She very precisely placed ice cubes in three glasses, splashed Scotch in two of them, and filled the other with water and a twist of lemon. Then left as silently and as efficiently as she had entered.

Vin thought this was all very civilized, but had no idea where it was leading. He sipped the water that tasted faintly of bitter lemon oil. He wondered why the normally loquacious Ezra Standish was nearly silent. He didn't much care for being pressed into taking the initiative. He risked a sidelong glance at Standish. The southerner's handsome face wore an expression of detached interest, but his eyes held a bright and hard intelligence; the look Vin recognized from the cut-throat poker games he had seen Ezra playing in the back rooms of Las Vegas. Obviously, he considered Vin and D'Amico to be the opponents to watch, and maybe they were.

He took another swallow of the water and set his glass down. "You got somethin' ya want t'say, then say it. You an' I both know this ain't a social call."

"Of course it isn't. But there is no reason why we can't meet without animosity. You apparently found Ronnie Fazio's presence an irritation, so I've arranged this meeting without him."

"Well, that's mighty thoughtful of you, Mr. D'Amico, but maybe it wasn't just Ronnie I found offensive," Vin drawled, seeing the hot flare of anger in D'Amico's eyes. "Maybe it was th'idea that you wanted to me say I'd kill a man fer no reason other than you were askin' me to do it."

"You disappoint me. I thought you were a professional."

"You've never dealt with me like I was," Vin said quietly, level and calm. "The sorta shooting you want me t'do isn't a game. I don't show up, take aim, shoot, and leave. There's angles and light, vantage point, line of sight. Elevation, wind. A hundred variables I gotta take into account."

"Then you will do it?" Avaricious light gleamed in those soulless eyes.

"Why should I offer a commitment when you won't?" Vin said. "I ain't so foolish t'go into any deal with you blind."

"But you will make that commitment?"

"I don't know. When you're ready to talk - really talk - not this shitfaced pussy-footin' around, let me know." He stood up. "C'mon, Ezra. I need some air."

D'Amico's voice whipped out." You don't walk out on me, Tanner!"

Vin turned his head. "You gonna stop me?" The challenge sent color shooting onto D'Amico's high cheekbones. Vin lifted his chin, met those angry eyes. "Didn't think so."

Ezra reached out a hand, looked at D'Amico and then to Vin's back. Seemingly apologetic; hiding both pride and high amusement that Troy D'Amico had been trumped by the unprepossessing Texas sharpshooter. He was more cautious than Vin in his leaving, and wanting to keep his eyes on any tricks D'Amico might have up his sleeve, he backed out of the office, still looking like he had every intention of making Vin see the error of his ways in dealing with Troy.

But D'Amico didn't move from behind he desk. He pushed the intercom button. "Margaret, let them leave. Tell Ted that he may return Mr. Tanner's weapon." He punched in a phone number and waited for an answer. "Ronnie? Good. Have you arranged that meeting we discussed? Then do it. *Now.* No, no tail on Tanner and Standish. They aren't going anywhere I don't know about." He hung up the phone, drank the rest of his Scotch, and then leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced behind his head. It was a slow business, this plan of his, but it was fitting together. And when it was complete, he would be free of the tiresome ATF agents who had threatened to destroy the foundations of his empire.

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

Vin's walking pace picked up speed the closer he got to the garage. He hadn't said a word during the elevator ride, just stood there trip-wire tense watching the progression of indicator lights down the panel. There was a hard knot of muscle at the angle of his jaw, and the white patches at the corners of his mouth showed how pulled tight and tense he was. Ezra had a feeling he was one of the causes of that tension, but wasn't stupid enough to take up the issue with a man who had an automatic pistol strapped to his ankle. He'd had his own reasons for playing the scene like he had, and when Vin was less wound up, he'd explain.

When the elevator car reached the garage level, Vin finally spoke. He held out his hand. "Give me the keys."

"W-what?"

"You got insurance?"

"Yes, but -"

"Then give me the fuckin' keys, and let me drive."

"I am not so sure that is a good idea in your current state of mind."

"Good, ya really *can* talk. I's beginnin' t'think ya'd gone dumb on me."

"Now wait a second!"

"Second's up. Give me the keys!" Ezra took one look at those blue eyes, and handed over the keys. If Vin Tanner wrecked the car, he'd have to pay the premiums for the rest of his life ... if Ezra let him live.

Vin jerked the door open, impatiently fiddled with the seat adjustment to accommodate his longer legs, and started the engine. He wheeled out of the garage, smooth and faster than he should have been going, but in control. He shifted and took off down the side streets he knew like the back of his hand, avoiding the traffic that snarled Denver's streets. He found an entrance to the freeway and hit the ramp, easing into the high speed lane and accelerated. He didn't often do this, but he needed to expend some of the pent-up tension and emotional anger that had him tied in knots, and the powerful engine of the BMW responded to his needs. When they were out of the city congestion, Vin increased his speed and rolled the window down. He breathed the cool air, felt it tangle his hair. His tension eased off a bit and he turned to look at Ezra.

Standish was warily tucked into the corner of the leather seat, only slightly white-knuckled, but clearly apprehensive.

"You mind tellin' me why you had a sudden attack of the silents up in D'Amico's office?"

"You noticed?"

"Hell, Ez. Anytime you ain't talkin', the silence gets downright deafening."

Ezra relaxed a bit more, releasing the grip he had on the edge of the seat as Vin's tension eased up. "I thought you were doing an admirable job of handling Mr. D'Amico without my interference."

"Yeah, right. He could 'a pulled a gun on me, Ez. Shot me in the back."

"I had my reasons, Mr. Tanner."

"You mind sharin'?"

"It seemed to me that you were particularly bent on aggravating our adversary from the beginning, so in order to maintain an avenue of communication, I chose to observe rather than participate. That way, when you so eloquently stormed out of the office, I was able to present a wounded and apologetic mien to Mr. D'Amico, and watch your back."

Vin gave a snort of laughter. "Damn, Ezra. Took ya fifty words t'say you were playing the good cop."

"Blame it on my mother. Maud taught me to never use one word, when ten will make a much better impression."

"Grandpa always said why use ten words when one made your point clear."

"Ah, there is the difference. Why be clear when obfuscation is so much more advantageous?" He saw the smile curve Vin's mouth, and had to smile back. "Do you have any idea where you are going?"

"Jist takin' the long way home in case D'Amico decides to keep tabs on us."

"You think he's not?" Ezra asked.

"Hopin' they ain't the kind of tabs with big muscles and guns, is all. Give Buck a call. Have him get the guys together for lunch at Inez's. Tell him we'll meet 'em there around one."

"That's an hour yet."

"Yeah, but since I got my hands on this Beemer, I figure to enjoy it while I can." He flashed Ezra a grin of pure joy and floored it.

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

The cool, dark cavern of Inez's bar was a welcome refuge from the glare and noise of downtown Denver at lunch hour. Head down and eyes averted from the too bright sun reflecting off concrete, Chris ducked inside, followed by Buck and the other members of his team. They came here often enough not to arouse suspicion if they were being watched. Chris was fairly certain that Vin would make use of Inez's inconspicuous back entrance and not risk coming through the front of the restaurant.

Inez greeted them when they came through the doors. "Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"Inez." Chris managed a smile for the petite brunette. She gave him a worried look, seeing more than he thought he was revealing. The others, too, were unusually somber, even JD's youthful ebullience quelled by the same concerns that had subdued his fellow agents. Vin and Ezra weren't with them, and she felt their absence from that company as acutely if she were a member of Team Seven.

"I have a room set up for you. I thought you might like someplace quiet." She led the way to one of her two private dining rooms. A round table had been set up with seven chairs. A pitcher of ice water sweated in the center of the table, and a basket of fresh bread perfumed the air with a buttery, yeasty aroma. Chris let the others enter first and waited for Inez at the doorway.

After she had handed out menus, she came up to him, looking at him with dark, worried eyes. Impulsively, she reached up and laid a cool hand on his forehead. The gesture startled him, but he didn't move away from her touch. "I'm not sick, Inez."

"Hmm." She stood with her hands on her hips. "I could argue with that."

"Do me a favor and don't," Chris growled. "Did Vin call?"

"He and Ezra should be here by one."

"He sound all right?"

"I only spoke to Ezra. He seemed to be a little tense, but he said he and Vin were all right, and they were on their way." She pulled out a chair. "So stop worrying and sit down."

He sat down. The worry wouldn't go away just because Inez was standing there with her hands on her hips matching him glare for glare. Satisfied, Inez took their drink orders; sodas or iced tea since they were on duty. When she returned, she set a tall glass filled with a white beverage in front of Chris. He looked at it suspiciously. "What is this?"

Inez smiled. "Horchata. Rice, milk, vanilla, sugar, cinnamon. It will soothe your stomach."

"How did -"

"You have two vertical lines between your eyes." She patted him lightly on the shoulder, making Buck chuckle.

"She's got yer number, pard."

"Yeah, and you wish it was yours," Chris's voice was sharp, but there was a welcome smile on his lips. He took an experimental sip of the horchata. It was cool, sweet; he wasn't sure he liked it, but it went down easily enough. He was willing to give it a shot. Modern pharmaceuticals weren't doing much for him.

Josiah was the first to ask Chris about the meeting with Travis. Chris rubbed his forehead tiredly. "It wasn't what I had hoped for."

"Did he look at what Buck and I put together?" JD asked.

"He looked. He needs more evidence."

"We did our best!"

"I know you did, JD. And it was good enough for him to investigate further. But he can't take action on his own."

"Not even to save Vin and Ezra?"

Josiah set his hand on JD's shoulder. "Easy, son. It ain't come to that, yet."

"But -" JD's protest was broken off when he looked up and saw Vin and Ezra in the doorway. "Hey, Vin!"

Vin grinned, tossed a set of keys back to Ezra and slid into a chair next to Chris. "Hey, JD. Chris." His eyes glinted in the dim illumination, and Chris felt the vibration of reckless tension leap the physical gap between them; a wordless communication that sent apprehension shooting through Chris's stomach. That Tanner's stillness was so stirred up by whatever he and Ezra had gotten into with D'Amico wasn't a good sign. Vin didn't rile easily, and that had Chris worried.

"You all right?" he asked.

"Sure. Jist had a little talk with Troy D'Amico. Real civil-like."

Chris heard Ezra's faint, derogatory snort. "How civil?"

"I'm sittin' here, ain't I?" But the high color staining his cheekbones betrayed him, and Chris swore he could feel his own pulse quickening to match Tanner's. The slight, defiant tilt to the Texan's chin didn't do a thing to reassure him. "What'd you find out from Orrin?" Vin asked.

So Tanner wasn't talking. Chris knew that if he had something to say to the team, he'd tell them right away. There was nothing new, then, that would affect the case, but something had set Vin on that sharp edge of nerve that Chris sensed like an electric current. He'd talk to him later, get him to open up. Meanwhile, Inez was bringing in dishes of food they could serve family style with enough of a choice to suit everybody, even Chris's touchy stomach.

They didn't talk much about anything but how good the food was and how hungry they all were. They ate quickly, and when the dishes were cleared, they settled back, waiting for Chris to speak.

Vin slouched down in his seat, deceptively relaxed. "Well, what about Travis?"

"I didn't get much from him," Chris said, reluctant to make that admission.

Buck leaned forward. "Never thought I'd see the day Travis wouldn't give ya one hundred percent support. Makes me wonder what the hell is goin' on here."

Even if he had agreed, Chris couldn't admit his own doubts. Travis was his boss, his friend, and he had never given Chris any reason to question his loyalty or his commitment to the disparate group of renegades Chris had formed into Team Seven. "We owe him, Buck. Big time."

"You ever think who *he* might owe? We put that folder on his desk, what more can he want? Our blood? Hell, if he waits long enough, he just might get that, too."

"He just needs a few hours to solidify the case, Buck. I promised him that much."

"I hate t'tell you this, ol' pard. Time's a wastin'." Buck's pager beeped, and he cursed at the number. "It's Williams. Guess I'd better go and *liaise*." A faint sneer curved his mouth.

"Keep your cards close to your vest, my friend," Ezra said softly. "And watch your tells."

Buck grinned at that. "Advice from a gambler?"

"Advice from a friend." There was no laughter in that quiet voice, and Ezra's green eyes were serious. Buck found himself oddly moved by that concern, a concern he saw reflected in the faces of the other men around the table, even Chris's.

"Don't worry about this ol' son." Buck winked at them. "I got it covered. See ya at the office, Chris?"

"I'll be there." His gaze was thoughtful as he watched Buck leave. He looked at the others. "Guess we'd better get outta here. Vin, you need a ride home?"

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. It wasn't a question, not really. He'd been waiting for Chris to find an opportunity to talk to him. "Sure. Now that I've given Ezra back his keys. Y'all notice the grey hairs sproutin' on him?"

Ezra showed his teeth. "Wait until our next poker game, Mr. Tanner. Revenge will be mine."

"Yeah, you jist keep thinkin' that, Ez." He stood up, stretched out his back. His side ached dully, but it was healing and it wouldn't slow him down. He caught Nathan watching him and gave him a wry smile. "You c'n stop glarin' at me, Nate. I'm good."

"Stay that way."

"I'll do m'best. Ready, Chris?"

They settled the bill with Inez and left. Outside, the heat of the day had given way to clouds, and a darker rim over the mountains presaged more rain for the evening. There wasn't a breath of air stirring, not even the currents that usually swirled around the tall buildings downtown. The atmospheric pressure was a physical force throbbing in Chris's temples. He and Vin walked quickly to the lot where he had parked the Ram. Not talking, because what was waiting to be said was as weighted as the storm-laden air.

Vin's apartment was only a mile and a half from Inez's place, but worlds away in ambience, as urban areas so often are. Chris wheeled the truck into his usual space next to Vin's jeep, armed the security system, and followed the silent Texan up the four flights of stairs.

Vin opened the door and slapped on the light. "Make yerself at home. I'm gonna get out of these duds."

"You're avoiding the issue, here, pard."

"Hell, I jist want ta feel more like myself. Cain't do that wearing Ezra's hand-me-downs." He gave Chris an uneasy grin, knowing that he was avoiding talking about D'Amico. Wondering if he'd handled it badly, if he'd screwed things up past fixing. "Soda's in the fridge," he said instead and vanished into the bedroom.

He stripped off the clothes he had worn and put on jeans and a dark blue tee shirt. It was too hot for long sleeves. Sometimes he wondered if the folks going on about global warming were right - seemed the weather wasn't the same two days running. Or maybe he was just losing track of it, losing part of himself that needed some sort of peace and solace to reconnect with the places he had always found his inner balance. When this was over, he'd go off for a couple weeks - hunt, fish, sleep. Find a spot as far from the city and Purgatorio as he could get.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, seeing a taut, hard-faced man he didn't recognize. The features were the same, but he was seeing a stranger in his own skin. He was losing himself. God ...

"Vin? You all right?" Chris's concerned voice made him startle.

"Yeah. Yeah - I'll be right out." How long had he been staring in the mirror? Jesus, he *was* losin' it.

He went into the kitchen and got a Coke from the refrigerator. Chris was sitting on the couch, his head tipped against the back of the cushions, legs stretched out. He sat up when he felt the cushions give under Vin's weight.

"Give," he said. "Everything."

"Hell, it wasn't like that, Chris,"

"Well, it sure fucked you up." He saw anger knot at the angle of Vin's jaw. "I've known you for a while now, and I've *never* seen you like this, Vin. Something's set you off."

"Nearly dyin' does that to ya, pard."

"Tell me what went down. Word for word. Action for action. I'll know if you leave anything out."

Vin laughed softly. "Yeah, I reckon you would." He drank down a deep swallow of Coke, and leaned back. He closed his eyes, trying to put his thoughts in order. "Nothin' happened, not really. Ezra and me went to D'Amico's office. Shit, Chris. You should see that place. All gold and silvery-grey - even got a pretty blond receptionist to match - but cold. Windows lookin' out over the mountains ... Troy could charge admission fer folks to take in that view. But he's got cameras and mikes all over the place. Ya cain't hardly breathe without him watchin' and hearin' everything. That's when ya git the chills."

He turned wide eyes to Chris. "Music, too. He was playin' Tosca. He knew me and Ez would recognize it. Made me angry."

"Angry?"

"I don't much like bein' treated like dirt, bein' threatened. He wanted me t'be so cowed by his money, and his power, and my own damn fear, that I'd do 'xactly what he wanted."

"I thought that was the whole point of the meeting?"

"He wasn't gonna tell us anything. Wants me t'jist show up wherever, and kill whoever he wants. I told him I couldn't do it. And I walked out."

"You walked out?"

"Yeah." Vin gave him a sidelong look and a smile. "Ezra stayed right with me, right at my back. Kinda like you. Takes balls t' do that with D'Amico's snake eyes on ya."

"Well, Ezra may be many things, but he's not a fool and he's not a coward." He turned slightly, facing Vin. "You took a risk there, partner."

Vin sighed, looked away, as if he didn't want Chris to see his thoughts. "Chris ... th'whole damn job is a risk. You took a risk hirin' me on. Ya take a risk every time ya go out on the streets."

"I've paid for taking those risks, Vin. I don't want to pay again. And I don't want any of you going through what I've been through - not for the job." He stood up restlessly and paced to the window, standing there like a narrow shadow against the fading afternoon light. "It's not worth it."

"We don't do it for the job. Y'ought ta know that."

Chris turned back to Vin, his eyes luminous. "I know it."

"Just so you're straight with that." Vin lifted his Coke. "Here's to the job."

Chris shifted his shoulders and walked away from the window. He gave Vin a wry smile as he raised his glass. "Yeah. To the job." His cell phone rang before he could touch the rim to Vin's. "Shit." Whoever was on the other end didn't even give him a chance to bark out his name. "You sure? Okay, we're on the way." He closed his phone, looked at Vin. "We've got a problem."

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

Buck returned to the office, fuming over his recall, ready to throttle Williams if he didn't have a damn good reason for interrupting his meal. He strode down the hall to Williams's office, knocked perfunctorily, and pushed the door open without waiting for official permission to enter. "This had better be good ..." he started, then realized that Williams wasn't there. "Shit!" He stormed out and went two offices down to the Treasury Department. Three other agents were sitting at their desks.

"Where's Ed Williams?" Buck demanded.

"Don't know." One of the Treasury guys responded with a shrug.

"What the hell does that mean? I get a call to meet him here and he vanishes into thin air?"

"He said he got a call from an informant and that he'd be back. Take a number and sit down."

"He say anything about who this informant is? Where they might meet?"

"Hey, he's the boss. He runs his own stable of sources, and he doesn't share every tidbit of info with us, hard as that may be to believe." He sounded bitter about that, and Buck thought about Chris, who might jealously guard his emotions, but was unfailingly generous with his time and information.

"Well, when he decides to grace your presence, send him down to the ATF. I'll be waiting," Buck scowled. He returned to Team Seven's offices and dropped his big frame into his chair. There was a three-inch stack of paperwork on his desk at his elbow, and five or six pink "while you were out" slips stuck on the spike on his desktop. Buck pulled them off and flipped through them. Nothing that couldn't wait. He opened his e-mail. Nothing new. Bored and still seething at Williams, he flipped on the police scanner and leaned back, his long legs propped on his desk. He listened to the flat tones of the dispatcher and beat cops as they made their reports. He had just achieved a slightly glazed look of total and utter detachment when the tone of the voices on the radio suddenly changed. Buck sat up, listening intently. A body had been found in Purgatorio, near a bar called Angel's.

Feeling like his breath had been sucked out of his lungs, Buck got to his feet. Before he could move from his desk, his phone rang.

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

The skies over Denver darkened as the storm clouds rolled down the range of the Rocky Mountains, the first inky streamers reaching towards the city like clutching fingers. The wind tugged at Vin's hair and clothing, sent swirls of rubbish dancing across the pavement, and the moisture laden air was a humid breath on his cheek. Lightning pulsed on the horizon and the thunder seemed to vibrate from the sky to the ground to shudder in his breast. He and Chris reached the Ram as the first heavy drops struck the windshield like small stones.

Three blocks, and if it hadn't been for the storm, they could have run it in the amount of time it took to start the truck, drive over, and park it. The rain was unrelenting, a steady, wind-driven downpour that didn't look like it would let up anytime soon. As they turned the corner the flash of red and blue lights provided a steady counterpoint to the intermittent flare of lightning.

It wasn't the usual crew for a homicide in Purgatorio. In addition to the expected black and whites, and EMS units, a number of dark sedans with government plates were parked curbside. Uniformed cops, plainclothes homicide detectives, forensics experts. And federal agents. Including a tall, rawboned ATF agent in a cowboy hat.

Buck looked up and saw them coming through the lashing rain. His face was white, set. He started to say something, then shook his head and looked away for a moment. "S'bad, Chris. He was found 'bout an hour ago by Ramirez's bartender, comin' out t'dump the trash. Shot once, back of the head, execution style. Hands bound behind his back with duct tape. Eyes, too. Ed Williams was a goddamned bastard, but he didn't deserve to go out like this."

Vin shivered and stuck his hands in his pockets. The rain ran in rivulets down his hair and his face. "Wouldn't feel too sorry fer him, Bucklin. Ya hang around with trash 'n sooner 'r later yer gonna git swept up right along with the rest of the garbage." But his eyes were sad as he spoke, his voice just a quiet rasp, scarcely audible over the falling rain. "I'm gonna talk t'Ramirez."

Ramirez was being questioned by a uniformed cop who looked fresh out of the academy. He had taken a belligerent stance, obviously irritated by the cop's questions, sullen and uncooperative. Vin tapped the cop on the shoulder and flipped his badge. "Y'ain't getting' anywhere, kid. Take a break."

Ramirez reached for a cigarette and lit it. He was sheltered from the rain just enough to protect the flame. He drew in the smoke, blew it out. "Thanks. He's like a little dog, ya know? Won't let go. Jest keeps shakin' an' shakin'." He grinned. "Hell of a day."

"Ya got a dead federal agent in yer alley, Angel. Don't see anything funny in that."

"Fuck."

Vin moved a step closer. "Yeah, yer fucked all right. But unless ya can come up with a damn good explanation, you c'n kiss this place goodbye and say howdy to all yer friends in Florence."

Ramirez looked like he was about to choke on his smoke. "I didn't have a fuckin' thing t'do with this!"

"You see Ronnie Fazio around here t'day?"

"No!"

"The dead guy - was he the feller Fazio met up with here?"

Ramirez hesitated. "Maybe ... I dunno. Hard t'tell with his face blown off."

"Ya don't make an identification by the face, Angel. Ya look at fingers, ears, things that are hard t'change. Was he the guy?"

Ramirez's eyes took on a thoughtful expression. "Yeah, he was. Far as I can tell."

"He come inside at all today?"

"Nah. First I knew was when my bartender said he heard somethin' in the alley and came runnin' in yellin' at me t'call the cops."

"Thanks, amigo. You tell that to the cops, and they'll leave ya alone."

"Gracias."

Vin nodded and sent the cop back to Ramirez. The ME had arrived to bag the body, and Vin watched as they raised the tarp. The rain came down, washing blood from the shattered skull. Duct tape showed through the strands of dark, wet hair. A black baseball cap lay on the pavement as if Williams had carelessly tossed it aside. A tech came through with a body bag, and they all moved aside. Vin caught his arm. "Can the ATF get a copy of the report?"

"Don't see why not. Call tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Orrin Travis arrived at the same time as his daughter-in-law and the media. Vin took refuge in the recessed doorway of the bar, watching as Chris, Travis, and a representative from the Treasury office gave an interview to Mary. Vin wondered what was being said. Words along the line of: "A tragic loss. Killed in the line of duty. The victim of a heinous crime. A hero." A hero who'd been selling out his fellow agents, covering for the worst sort of scum, dealing in illegal weapons. The press would never hear the truth about Ed Williams. And Vin wasn't so sure that any purpose would be served if they did.

A cool wind picked up. The rain slowed to a drizzle as the twilight deepened. The ME took the body from the scene, the squad cars pulled away. Angel turned on his sign, but something told Vin that he wouldn't have many customers tonight. Mary, her blond hair protected by an umbrella, finished her report from the scene. She said something to Chris, kissed him on the cheek, gave Orrin a hug, and hurried off.

Buck strolled over to Vin. "Shitty night," he sighed.

"Ain't hardly night, Buck."

"Hell, it was night at three o'clock this afternoon. You okay, Junior?"

"No." He pulled his jacket closer. "Cold, tired."

"I'll take ya home if you want."

"Thanks, Buck, but I'll wait fer Chris. I wanna tell him what Angel said. Fill ya in in the morning." Buck nodded and ambled off, the slump of his broad shoulders betraying his weariness.

Chris finally finished talking to Orrin. He took one look at Vin, pale and shivering in the dark entrance to Angel's, and dragged him inside the bar. "Two coffees. Put a shot of whiskey in 'em."

"I shouldn't be drinkin' - "

"You need it, Tanner. And so do I. No arguments."

Vin subsided. He figured what Dr. Stone didn't know wouldn't hurt her. And it wasn't like he'd have more than that one small shot. Just enough to chase the chill and give him the strength to get home. Lord, he needed strength ...

The coffee came, hot and fragrant with whiskey. The heat was welcome to his fingers when he held the mug, to his throat and belly when swallowed. His chills subsided. Chris looked better, too. Not so pale, but his eyes were still shadowed. He took another swallow and turned to Vin.

"You have any thoughts on this?"

"A few. Might not be worth much."

Chris dug in his jeans pocket and set three pennies on the bar. "Pay you for 'em."

"Hell, that's inflation for ya."

"Tell me."

"Run a ballistics test on the bullets. Compare 'em with the ones from the night I's shot. Don't think Ronnie was there, but if ya can tie him to both shootings, it'll be a better case for ya."

"For us."

Vin sighed. "Yeah." He drank his coffee, but the beverage had lost some of its power to comfort. He slid off the barstool. "I've gotta go, Chris."

"Sure. Let me finish -"

"Don't. It'd be better if we split. Don't want D'Amico gettin' ideas."

Chris bit back the instinctive objection. He knew Vin was right. And as painful as it was, he had to acknowledge that his probing of Williams's background might have been the catalyst to his murder. He reached for Vin's arm, clasped it, and felt his own clasped warmly in return. "Keep in touch, Vin. Anytime."

"You got it. Don't go blamin' yerself, Chris. Williams knew what he was doing, knew what he'd done. The writin' was on the wall, and he should'a read it like a warning."

"He outlived his usefulness."

"And I ain't, so don't worry on it, Chris." He released Larabee's arm. "Talk to ya later."

Chris watched Vin out the door.. He finished his now cool coffee and left a five on the bar. He walked quickly to the Ram, started it, and eased it onto the rain-wet streets. He drove slowly until he spotted Tanner's lithe, easy figure striding down the block towards his apartment. He held back, ignoring the impatient drivers around him, shadowing Vin until he saw him enter the door of his building. He parked on the street, waiting for the lights to go on in Vin's apartment, and when they did, he still lingered for a few minutes, looking up, half-expecting trouble, but there was none, just Vin's shadow as he crossed the window, paused long enough to open it a few inches, and then closed the blinds.

Chris pulled out into traffic, headed towards downtown and the Federal Building. It was going to be a long night.