ROUGH TRADE

Blair sat on the back step of the ambulance, still groggy and aching, but otherwise ... totally shaken. According to the bomb squad, it had been a state-of-the-art concussion grenade that had taken them down. It caused no damage to property; it didn't even make much sound outside of the immediate impact area. "It won't kill you," Joel Taggart had said. "But it will seriously rattle your cage."

Absolutely.

Blair took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly - just concentrating on getting the air in and getting the air out and not falling apart. The sun was blazing high in the sky now. It had burned off the last trace of morning fog. The street looked perfectly normal except for the black scar of skid marks. Van tracks. From the van that had taken Jim.

The police had secured the area, keeping the stream of foot traffic at bay. But civilians still surged forward, mingling with members of the press, anxious for information. Street noise battled with the static-chatter of police radios and roving officers. The constant drone ran together creating a grotesque backbeat to the pain throbbing through his head.

Blair Sandburg had been part of this scene a hundred times by now - more than a hundred - but as participant, not victim. At any minute, he expected Jim to show up, maybe striding out from behind the forensics van, ready to analyze the details and begin the job of solving/building the case.

Any minute.

Blair shut his eyes. His fingers curled into fists on the step. You've got to detach from it, Jim had told him that right after they'd first begun working together. It had been a bad case - missing children who, one by one, had been found. Mutilated. Dead.

I don't know how you can do it, Blair had told him. He hadn't been able to hold back the tears. That last find had been the worst. They'd come so close and still been too late. "Don't you care?" he knew better than to ask that question. But still....

You can't let this, Jim had pressed his hand to Blair's heart, take over this. He tapped his fingers lightly against his partner's temple. I let that happen with Danny Choi. I lost it. Almost lost the case, too.

Danny Choi was personal, Jim. The man was like your brother.

You don't think this isn't personal? Ellison had asked quietly.

A rhetorical question. As long as he lived, Blair would never forget the sight of that small form wrapped in the too-big body bag. He would always hear the tormented scream of the child's mother, the utter helplessness of that sound, the death of Hope.

And the vision of that loss reflected on the officers, men and women, who had surrounded the scene. They had all done their best. But the best just hadn't been good enough.

No one would feel that more than Detective James Ellison.

Now Jim would try again. And again if he had to. Blair didn't know if he could choose to set himself up for that kind of potential horror, day after day.

And yet, what choice did he have? What choice did either of them have?

Jim had laid his hand on Blair's back and steered him towards the truck, never losing contact as they left the scene together. The worse it is, the cooler you've got to be, Jim murmured. Stay frosty, chief, and we'll do the job. We'll get him. And when it's over, we will both get falling down, toilet hugging shit-faced. Okay?

Blair leaned forward from his seat on the ambulance, rocking gently against the dull, physical pain that permeated his body, against the wound that pierced his heart like a blade. When this is over, he promised himself. When Jim is back, I give you permission to have a Richter-scale panic attack. Total hysterics.

When Jim is back. When he's safe.

Blair opened his eyes, focusing in on Captain Simon Banks. Simon was still interviewing their neighbor, Jeannie LeClaire. Seventy-year old Jeannie had heard a noise heading to her window with the daily offering for the birds. She'd seen Blair and Jim on the street, seen the van pull up and the men who had taken Ellison away. Immediately she'd called 911. Ellison's address had brought out a platoon in response, including his C.O.

"Do you have any idea what kind of van they were driving?" Simon asked. Again. "You didn't get any part of the license plate?"

"I saw it was local," the elderly woman told him. Shoulders sagged on her small frame. "I really tried to get it, but my eyes, they're no good with the little details, not that far away. I'm not much help, am I?"

"You've been a big help, Mrs. LeClaire," Simon soothed, trying to mask his frustration. "We've got photos of the basic van styles down at the station. Perhaps you could have a look and point out the right body type —"

"We don't have time for that, Simon," Blair broke in. He flinched at the warning in Banks' face but kept talking regardless, pleading. "Jim doesn't have time. Look, Jeannie gave us good descriptions of the men who took him, she just doesn't know vans."

"That's why I'd like to get her down to the station," Simon said through clenched teeth.

"Wait-wait-wait." Blair leapt to his feet. Big mistake. Everything lurched radically to the right. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to correct the situation. Simon caught his arm, holding him up.

Jeannie moved towards him, too. "Maybe you better stay down, hon. You don't look so good."

"I'm fine," Blair told them. He removed himself from Simon, working harder to find his balance than he hoped either of them would guess. "What you saw, Jeannie, it's all still locked up here." He placed his fingers against her head. Gently. "You just have to see it again. And tell us what you see."

"Sandburg...." Simon cautioned.

"Close your eyes, Jeannie," Blair urged. "See the van. Now, what color is it?"

"Dark blue," Jeannie said helplessly, trying to oblige. "I already told you that."

"Right. Now is it a long shape or is it boxy like a UPS truck?"

"It's long. It's big and it's long."

"Look at the windshield now. Is it flat glass or curved?"

Jeannie frowned, concentrating. "Curved."

"Good, good." Blair took her hand in both of his. "You said it opened from the side. Are there any windows on the side of the van? In the back?"

"None on the sides. In the back, there's a sheet of glass across the top. I don't see a back door, though."

"That's very good. What about the tires? The hubcaps - are they smooth-finished? Do they have spokes or nuts or — "

"Spokes."

"What about a luggage rack?"

"Yes. But I don't see any luggage. It's shiny chrome. Like the hubcaps. Everything looks new."

"Fantastic." Blair took in a shaky breath. "Okay. Look at the back again, Jeannie. Some vans carry a spare back there. Do you see anything?"

"There is a spare." Surprise colored her voice. Jeannie opened her eyes wide. "With a cover. There's writing and a picture. 'Classic Coachworks - Cascade, Washington.' There's a logo of a carriage lamp."

"Yes! Jeannie LeClaire, I love you." Blair stepped forward, pulling her into a hug. "Simon, it's got to be a custom conversion job. Probably a rental — "

"I heard her, Sandburg," the Captain said. "I'll get someone on it right away. And an APB out on the vehicle. Mrs. LeClaire, we'd still like you to come down to the station and look through the mug shots."

Jeannie nodded. "Just let me tell mother." She paused before heading back to the condo, hooking frail arms around Blair's shoulders, holding him to her. "Helen said to tell you she picked up those reports off the lawn. She'll take them to the university if you want."

"They need to get to Hiram Hester in the anthropology department." Blair offered her a smile. "You think of everything, Jeannie."

Jeannie smiled softly. "Jim's going to be all right, honey. They'll find him."

Blair hugged her back, wordless. Let her go.

Simon looked at him as the old woman walked away. "Mother?"

"Yeah. Mable's ninety-three." Blair sighed. "She doesn't get around as well as Jeannie."

"Uh-huh." Simon looked at him harder, stabbed the air with his cigar. "I suppose you think you're going to assist on this case?"

Blair kept silent, waiting for his next cue. It was the best tactic for working with Simon.

"You ought to be in the hospital," Simon snapped out. "But if I send you there, you'll escape. If I leave you in protective custody here at home, you'll escape that, too, and start messing around this thing on your own."

"What can I say, Simon?" Blair tried a tentative smile. "You know me pretty well."

"That's right, Sandburg, I do know you. And my first instinct is to slam you into the basement holding cell until all this is over."

"You can't do that." Blair's ashen pallor slipped another shade. "You know I can help, Simon. I've got to help." Blue eyes flashed, determined. "If Jim were here, we wouldn't even be having this discussion, man. We'd just do the job. Well, that's what we need to do now. Find Jim. Do the job."

Eyes narrowed, Simon bathed him in a fury of silent regard. He jammed his cigar back between his lips. Took his time lighting it up. "Do the job," he grumbled under his breath. "All right. You're in. But you will follow orders to the letter. No side-trips to the Sandburg zone. No back talk — ever. The first sign of trouble from you and I will personally escort you to the basement, lock you in, and flush the key. Got it?"

"Absolutely." Blair nodded, relieved. Eager to please. "I got it. Thank you, Captain. I mean it."

"Right." Simon Banks turned on his heel, stalking towards his ride leaving Sandburg scrambling to keep up. He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. There was a serious lack of options here. Somebody was going to have to look out for the kid. Jim would expect that much. Hell, he owed Ellison that much. Besides, it wasn't as if Sandburg wasn't useful. He pulled his weight. The kid had heart; he worked hard.

Sometimes too hard, Simon thought. Sighed. God, don't let this be a move I'll regret for the rest of my life.

* * *

The first thing Jim Ellison thought of when he came to was, Where's Sandburg? He grimaced against the pain, forcing his body into a sitting position. Every muscle ached through to the bone. And his head ... his brain was threatening to throb right out of his skull. Jim struggled to dial the pain down to an acceptable level, using the technique Blair had taught him. It helped enough to keep him stable, helped him think. He lifted a hand to his face, faltered.

Blair's scent was on his hands. He could smell him on the front of his clothes from where he had lifted his partner, trying to hurl them away from the grenade. From where he had held him that morning. Kissed him. Blair's was the strongest scent in the room, the only scent other than his own.

Ellison staggered to his feet. Surveyed the room.

He was alone.

Relief surged through him. It was possible that whoever had done this was holding Blair in a different location but for the time being, he'd take hope in the fact that he was alone. But - alone where?

Jim checked his watch. Frowned. It had been nearly four hours since they'd left the loft. He wondered if he was still in Cascade but there was no way of knowing.

Ellison scanned the room again, a sterile, cell-like enclosure with no apparent door or window - a hidden light source ... and what else? No furniture obviously. Every surface was covered in flat, gray-flecked white. Totally neutral. Stare at a corner long enough and it dissolved into the wall. Stare at the ceiling or floor, and it began to extend infinitely. Other than that there was absolutely nothing. No sound or scent other than what he had brought in himself. It was as if someone had tried to construct their own version of a sensory depravation chamber.

A shiver of genuine unease snaked under Jim's skin. What better prison for a man with an abnormally acute sense of sight, hearing, touch, scent and taste?

Was this a prison or a research lab?

Ellison swallowed, opening up, searching for anything he could target in on. Only a handful of people knew about his sentinel abilities. Blair and Simon, of course. His ex, Carolyn, entertained her suspicions - and then headed down to San Francisco to begin a new career and a new life. But he had nothing to fear from Carolyn, they remained friends.

That left only one other. Lee Brackett. Rogue CIA agent, a game master in what the intelligence community still referred to as The Show. Brackett made a great suspect, except Brackett was locked away in a high security federal penitentiary — exactly where Jim and Blair had helped place him.

Wasn't he?

"Got it figured out yet, Ellison — or do you need more time?"

Jim cringed, nearly doubling over. The voice hit him like a fist, barreling out of the walls. It was like standing in the middle of a speaker system. He covered his ears, trying to tune it down. The sound of laughter chased him, shrinking in volume to a bearable level.

"That better?" the voice came at him in a normal volume this time.

"Lee Brackett...." Jim glared at the walls. "It is you."

"Bingo."

"What's going on?"

"A simple game this time, boy scout. A game of loyalties and boundaries."

"Right." Jim folded his arms over his chest. "Don't start gloating yet. We got you last time."

"Yes, but I didn't stay 'got,' did I?" Brackett's voice stabbed the room again. "I caught you completely unprepared. It seems to me you ought to forfeit a major merit badge for that." He paused before continuing in a too-casual voice. "You haven't asked me about Mr. Sandburg yet."

Ellison's jaw clenched. "Where is he?"

"Well, let's see if I remember." Brackett took in a deep breath. "He was just lying there ... I could have cut his throat. Maybe broken his neck. Or I could have made arrangements for someone to ship him off to white slavers in Rio."

"You better hope he's all right," Jim said softly.

"Why?"

"Because if he isn't, I'll kill you."

"You have no idea what I have in mind for you, Ellison." Brackett's voice went equally cold. "Planning to come back from the dead, are you?"

A smile locked onto Jim's face that would have looked perfect on an executioner. "If that's what it takes."

"This is what I've suspected all along." The humor returned to Brackett's voice. "You've got the strength and the balls. Mr. Sandburg has the brains and the heart. Together you make a whole person. You must be missing him right now."

"Cut to the chase," Ellison snapped. "Where is he?"

"At this moment, he's at the station with Captain Banks. Having lunch, I guess, if he's so inclined. It's almost that time of day."

"Okay." Jim let go of the breath he'd been holding. "So it's just you and me. What's the deal here? Revenge or what?"

"Revenge is for losers, Ellison. I play to win." Brackett's voice was acid with sarcasm. "And it's not just you and me. It never has been."

"Brackett?" Jim stepped forward, fists clenched. Then cut himself off. He wouldn't voice his concerns, the man already knew what scared him most. "Brackett!" Jim called out again. "Talk to me!"

Nothing.

Ellison swallowed the sharp-metal taste of fear. The son of a bitch was right. He'd stepped right into the trap Brackett had laid out for him, walked out of the loft and onto the razor's edge. And taken Blair with him.

Lee Brackett had been an integral part of the law enforcement system once. A Yale honors grad and varsity athlete, recruited by the CIA immediately after graduation. He had been a brilliant operative, fighting for the cause he believed in. He hadn't gone traitor over night. No. It had taken years of back room schemes and back stabbing treachery to turn him. Now Lee Brackett worked to defeat the government he had once served so well. If he destroyed its servants in the process, that was just an added perk.

God. There was nothing worse than a visionary gone sour. Unless it was a genius-level, sociopathic visionary with psychopathic tendencies and a working background in covert ops.

Jim sank down into a sitting position, his back against the wall. He crossed his arms over his knees, frustrated. Angry. Ready to fight, to take Brackett on, man to man. Except Brackett wouldn't fight until he was good and ready. Until he'd set the rest of his game pieces out on the board and worked them up to his advantage.

Like most cops and soldiers, Ellison was, by nature, a control freak. He made a rotten victim. Victims were stripped of control, made helpless and desperate by circumstance.

Desperate and dangerous.

Sky blue eyes gone to ice, Jim Ellison glared up at the ceiling and pictured Lee Brackett's face through a set of crosshairs.

* * *

At the station, Simon Banks lasered through a barrage of phone calls and impromptu meetings spearheading the Ellison Task Force. If the first 24 hours of any case were the most crucial, these first hours were even more so. And this time it was one of their own who had been assaulted and abducted at the steps of his own home. Whether they liked Jim or not, there wasn't a cop in the room who didn't take that personally. Detectives and technicians shifted into high gear tracking down every possible lead.

Simon completed another call and shoved up to his feet, striding out into the bull pen. He spotted Sandburg perched on Ellison's desk, hovering over Jeannie LeClaire who sat staring at the computer screen. The kid had ruled out the mug shot approach as too general. "Don't you think it's more probable that someone from Jim's past is responsible?" Sandburg had argued. "I've been compiling his old case files on disk. If Jeannie could start there — "

"Fine," Simon had agreed, cutting him off. "Get on it."

Blair looked up as Simon approached. He'd cleaned up since the morning's debacle, brushing mahogany curls away from his face, binding them at the back of his neck. Simon noted that he wore the clip Jim had given him for his birthday a year ago, a small, bronze bull's head. Opening the little box, the kid's eyes had gone big enough to drown in. Then narrowed as he turned the ornament about in his fingers, looking it over.

Jim...? Party forgotten, Cascade's answer to Indiana Jones was suddenly on the prowl. All that was missing was the hat and the whip. Blair had literally glowed with a mixture of awe and lust.

I think you're supposed to wear it, Sandburg. Simon had laughed. Not make love to it.

Blair ignored him. Jim, where did you get this?

My dad found it on one of his tours overseas, Ellison had answered. It's supposed to be some kind of a good luck piece. He told me it had saved his life. Said he'd tell me all about it one day, but he never took the time.

He found it overseas? Like where overseas?

Jim took a swallow of beer. I don't know.

Man, don't you know what this is? At least, what I think it is. I mean, it could be a fake - but then again.... They had all listened while Blair launched into one of his lectures, something about Minoans and three-to-four hundred B.C. and on and on. It was a little like watching some kind of odd exotic dance, Simon recalled. Blair had wandered the room, hitting various light sources, hands moving, totally animated. Then he returned to the table and tried to hand the piece back to his partner. Jim, I can't accept this.

Ellison frowned. Why not? Don't you like it?

Are you kidding? I love it - but —

It's yours, chief, Jim had concluded in that end-of-discussion voice they all knew so well. Then shrugged, embarrassed. It was just lying around in a drawer. I got it fixed up so you could use it.

But it belonged to your father. The words came out in total reverence ... even as his fingers had curled around the clip. I know you two didn't get along but —

Get over it, Sandburg, Jim had growled, obviously pleased. I'm sick and tired of finding those dorky rubberbands all over the apartment. Happy birthday. Don't talk about it anymore.

Obliging, Blair had stopped talking. He'd smiled at his partner, his hand closing around Jim's gift. Simon had quickly finished the rest of his beer to cover his reaction. No one had ever looked at him like that; Banks couldn't even imagine anyone looking at him like that. But Ellison accepted it, smiling back.

So, Simon reasoned, hard case loner James Ellison had succumbed to the Sandburg charm. It didn't look as though Jim's lost puppy would be moving out any time soon. If ever. The kicker here was that the little mongrel appeared to have become just as captivated himself.

Afterwards, taking the long way home, Simon wondered about it. Working through this Sentinel business had forced two very different men into an unlikely alliance. No doubt about it, Ellison and Sandburg were good for each other; they were good partners and good friends. Still, this was the kind of business that could make dog meat out of either one of them. It could all be over in less time than it took to draw breath. If one of them were lost, Simon wasn't sure how the other would survive it.

Trapped now in this latest crisis, the kid watched as Simon made his way to Jim's desk. Banks had to give him credit; whatever Sandburg was feeling, he kept it to himself. That was definitely one of the best poker face's he'd ever seen. He wondered, briefly, if the kid was any good at cards. And hoped - with the intensity of prayer - that he and Jim would have a chance to find out. Together.

"Brown and Carter just called in," Simon announced, curtly. "They talked to the manager at Classic Coachworks over on Hanover. He verified Mrs. LeClaire's descriptions. We're checking out the credit card information now. But it could be a dead end if it turns out to be phoney and, frankly, we expect that. Any luck with Jim's files?"

"Nothing on the short, red-haired man," Blair said. "I thought he'd be the easiest to pull up. We're looking for the other guy now."

"Tall, brunette, slim, strong." Simon nodded. "You've got an eye for detail, Mrs. LeClaire. How're you holding up?"

"I'm all right, thank you," the woman said with a little sigh. "Jim sure has worked on a lot of cases. I guess he's made a lot of enemies."

"We appreciate your help," Simon told her.

"I'm glad to do what I can. It's just ... frustrating. I thought I'd find those men by now."

"You're doing fine, Jeannie. We couldn't have gotten this far without you." Blair laid his hand on her shoulder and gave her a gentle squeeze. "If they're in there, I know you'll spot them."

She smiled weakly. Shivered. Stared at the screen and hit the keys the way Blair had taught her, bringing up another graphic. For the last hour, she'd gazed at photo after photo, faces of men who could haunt anyone's dream time.

"There's just so many." She shook her head.

"Do you need a break?" Blair asked.

"Maybe a trip to the restroom," Jeannie said. "All that tea, you know."

"Sure." Blair helped her up. "Down that hall, next to the stairs. There's a couch inside if you need to lie down."

"Thanks." She nodded. "I'll be right back."

The two men watched her walk away.

"The old girl's a trouper," Simon said after a minute.

"Yeah," Blair agreed, sliding into Jim's chair. "You've got to meet Mable sometime." Deft fingers moved like lightning over the keyboard. "I just don't get it. I set the parameters for possible live cases - convicts about to be paroled, criminals with friends or family on the outside - anyone who might hold a grudge. She's seen it all, man, and still nothing. The only thing left is the dead files." Blair answered Simon's unspoken question without looking up. "Criminals who were killed or slammed away so hard, they'll never get out."

"A little project for your spare time." Simon cocked his head. "Sandburg, do you ever sleep?"

"Sure. Yeah." Dark brows creased in concentration as he fed in another run of data. "Man, this totally sucks! This whole thing stinks of covert ops and I don't have any of that data. Jim won't give it up. It's the old 'what you don't know can't hurt you' bull. Well, it can and it does. Damn it." Blair fell back in Jim's chair, exasperated. "Maybe we should call Jack Kelso. He's still connected."

"I've thought about that. It's an option."

An admin assistant approached the desk. "Captain," she began, "we just received another call about Detective Ellison."

"Not the press again?" Simon grumbled.

"No sir. The caller gave details we haven't released. He said you should check your e-mail."

Simon started towards his office. "Get a tech crew on this. I want a trace."

"Yes sir," she said. "They're assembling now."

Blair bolted after Simon; he refused to be left behind. The good thing about being small was it was easy to get lost in a crowd. He found a corner in Simon's office where he could still view the monitor and keep out of the way. It pleased him to see how many people were working to find Jim. How much everyone cared. On the other hand, past experience reminded him that all their efforts could be for nothing. No matter how many people helped, hoped, and prayed, Jim's life was in the hands of some twisted individual, or individuals, who didn't play by the same rules as the rest of the tribe.

Simon waited for the techs to give him an okay, then signed onto his computer and brought up his mail. The image on the screen folded, then flashed into focus. Razor sharp.

Blair sucked in air so hard it hurt. He knew that face.

"I assume I need no introduction," Lee Bracket spoke from the computer screen. "Captain Banks ... Mr. Sandburg, good afternoon. I'd say it's a pleasure but you might feel differently."

"What are you doing out?" Simon demanded. "You're supposed to be locked up in a federal pen."

"'Supposed to be,' that's such an ambiguous phrase. As Mark Twain would have said, `The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.'"

"Where is Detective Ellison?"

"Safe enough for now. See for yourself." Brackett's image shrank to the upper right hand corner of the screen. Jim appeared on screen next, sitting on the floor of a gray-white room. "Ellison," Brackett announced. "Look sharp. You've got company."

Jim looked up. "What is it now?"

"Jim," Simon said. "Can you hear me? Are you all right?"

"Captain." Jim got to his feet. "I'm fine, sir. Where's Sandburg?"

"Here with me. Safe," Simon answered.

"I'm fine, Jim." Blair edged closer, drawn. A single fist of fear uncoiled in his stomach and drifted away. Jim was alive; he looked okay.

"We're all fine," Brackett broke in. "Right now."

"Okay," Simon agreed. "What's the deal, Brackett?"

"No deal, Captain, a new game. A trade - Detective Ellison for Mr. Sandburg."

"Why?"

"That's for me to know and you to figure out." Brackett smiled, a friendly-neighbor expression, except for the freezer burn in his eyes.

"You had your chance to take him this morning," Simon said, glancing at the tech team working to trace the signal.

"That's right. But I didn't want him this morning, I want him now. Look, I calculate the moves here."

"No!" Jim snapped. "No deal. You leave Sandburg out of it."

"Excuse me, did I give you permission to speak?" Brackett snapped. "I'm talking with Captain Banks. You're nothing but a captured pawn, Ellison. I'd advise you to shut up."

"The answer's still the same, Brackett. No deal," Simon broke in. "We don't bargain with terrorists."

"That's what you said before when I threatened to take out Cascade with the Ebola virus. You know, in the end you had to work with me. You had to play. The odds are much more modest here. More personal, that much I'll grant you. As I told Jim - it's a simple game this time." Brackett laughed softly. "You don't think I'll let you ignore me?"

"Ignore this, you son of a bitch!" Jim landed a kick against the side of the wall. A seam appeared in the smooth surface, the outline of a doorway.

"Nice move," Brackett said. "But I told you - no talking."

An electronic pulse began to shriek from the sound system, gathering in ferocity. Solid enough to feel. Blair winced, stepping back. Immediately, the volume decreased in Simon's office.

But trapped in his cell, the intensity swelled to grotesque proportions. Pain slammed into Ellison's head with the force of a pick ax, sharp enough to bring tears to his eyes. The shock of it took his breath away. He tried to kick the wall again and the volume doubled. He covered his ears with his hands, dropped to his knees. Nausea crawled up the back of his throat; he swallowed it down.

"As you see," Brackett said. "I control both the vertical and the horizontal. Want to see another trick?"

Before Simon could answer, blinding light began to strobe Jim's cell, the white-flash so powerful it dissolved the broadcast image. What flickered between bursts was a nightmare. New pain shot up along Jim's nerve-endings. Burning. Forcing its way out of his throat in a scream. He tried to shield his face with his hands, rolling in on himself in a tight, shuddering ball.

"Stop it!" Blair had forced himself to the front of Simon's desk. "Let him go!"

"Sandburg, get back," Simon snarled. His hand fastened on Blair's arm.

"No!" Blair tore himself away. His fists locked down on Simon's desk, anchoring himself. "Don't you see what he's doing? It won't kill him, it'll fry him!"

"Actually, it will kill him," Brackett corrected. "It'll take a while, yes. Visual and audio nerves will go first, then his brain will turn to mush, but, eventually, it will kill him. Let me remind you, we're only working on two of the five senses here. I have the ability to accelerate the program or slow it down. Drag it out for days. This room has amazing capabilities. You know I've had time to plan it out. I thought of very little else over the past year."

Simon closed his eyes. This couldn't be happening. Blair seemed about to dive into the monitor. His hand closed on the kid's shoulder, holding him back. Under his grip, the kid was shaking like a wounded animal. Desperately, Banks looked towards the tracer-techs. The lead man looked up, shook his head and whispered, "The trail's bounced to Hong Kong now. We need more time."

"Brackett," Simon began. "Let Ellison go, give us his location, we'll work something out. But we can't trade one man for another. You know that."

"Well ... that's disappointing. All the way around, I imagine. But," Brackett's voice brightened. "The game's not over yet. Why don't you take some time and think about it? I'll call back in a few. We're not going anywhere."

"Turn it off," Blair broke in. "The light, the sound — turn it off first. Don't leave him like that."

"Sorry, Mr. Sandburg. No can do. Once the game begins, there's no going back. And by my calculations, it's your move." A Rogues's grin dimpled Brackett's features. He was a handsome man, the expression flattered. And he knew it. "Ciao, baby."

The screen went blank.