ROUGH TRADE

The silence that slammed into Simon Banks' office after Brackett logged off was deafening. Air conditioning bathed them all with its false arctic gale. It didn't help. Sweating, Simon removed his glasses and closed his eyes.

No good. Banks could still see it — Jim, on the floor, agonized; he could still hear the pain ripping loose from his friend's throat. Simon ran a hand over his face. A phone began to ring out in the bull pen. Kept ringing.

"Somebody get that." Simon snapped back to the present. He slammed his fist against his desk, then wheeled to face the lead tech. "What did you get?"

"A world tour," the man answered, grim. "Brackett's signal bounced us over six continents. We didn't even get close."

"Damn it." Thunderheads gathered, threatening to spill. "We have technology available to crack that system, don't we?"

"Well, we just got some new software from —"

"You get it loaded and ready to go online. I am not going to be caught with my pants down around my ankles when that psycho calls back."

The crew moved out to follow their captain's orders. Others who had gathered in the office retreated as well. Everyone scattered, Simon noted. Everyone except Sandburg. The kid had wedged himself in a corner, arms wrapped around himself, standing as still as stone. Simon scowled. He had never seen anyone that pale who hadn't experienced severe blood loss. Understandable. He was feeling a little white himself at the moment.

Simon let out a breath, trying without success to force the tension from his shoulders. "How you holding up, kid?" he asked.

"Me?" Blair stared at him with incredulous, pain bruised eyes. "I'm just peachy, Captain."

"It's going to be okay." Simon's response was automatic. It was what he was trained to do, but this time he needed to hear the words as well. "We'll find him."

"No you won't. Not in time."

Simon frowned. "Don't even start," he warned.

"Whatever we try to do here," Blair said slowly - deliberately - "it's going to be too late. We can't help him."

"So you're proposing we play Brackett's game? Instead of losing one man, we lose two?"

"Jim's not lost yet." Anger flashed in blue eyes. "He'll be okay if we can get him out in time. And then he can find me."

"Sandburg, do you hear yourself? What kind of logic are you using here?"

"The only logic we've got, man. If he's free, Jim will find me."

"His hearing is gone. His sight is gone. And you're recommending I turn his partner over to the man who did it." Simon almost laughed. Almost. "Now, there's a plan."

"Brackett won't kill me. Not right away."

"Of course not. He's probably got some torture execution rite in mind for you. Something where Jim can find little pieces of you all up and down the west coast." Simon's voice was harsh with sarcasm. "He hasn't done anything to Ellison's sense of smell yet. That should be working fine."

"Don't patronize me." Blair forced words out through clenched teeth. "You know Jim's special. He can do this. I can do this. I know it — If. We're. In. Time."

"I know you need to get him out of there," Simon countered gently. "So do I. But not this way. I won't trade you for Jim. It's out of the question."

"No! Son of a — Man, if that was Daryl in there, you'd be out of here in a minute. In a second! We'd be eating your dust."

"That's right," Simon agreed. "Daryl's my son; he's still a boy - and a civilian. Jim is a professional. You're supposed to be a pro, too."

"Jim's your friend," Blair accused, blazing. "He risked his life to get you and Daryl out of Peru. He puts his life on the line for you every day. And now you're just going to let Brackett eat him alive? Thanks a lot, man. Thanks for nothing!"

Simon raised his fist, leveled a finger at Blair's face. Too close. "Don't," he warned.

Sandburg's fury collapsed under the outrage in Simon's face. Tears thickened dark lashes. He spread his hands, pleading. "Captain ... Simon, do you really think I want to go?" his voice hitched, as he struggled to finish. "Man, I am so scared."

Simon fought the urge to put his arms around him and gather him up the way he'd hold Daryl if his own son were hurting that badly. No one should have to be hurt that badly.

Except Lee Brackett.

"There's no point in discussing this any further." Banks aimed for a professional tone, for the distance needed to keep them both in line. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Why don't you find Mrs. LeClaire and see how she's doing?" An order, not a suggestion. "Show her a picture of Brackett, see if she'll verify it. You can resume the computer search for his accomplice if she's up to it."

Blair stared at him, stricken. "You really mean it, don't you? You won't let me go."

"Sandburg," Simon said firmly. "If I gave you over to Lee Brackett, Jim would tear my heart out and eat it raw. And I would have to let him."

It didn't help. Blair shot him one final glare as he made his way towards the door. Frustrated. Angry. Hurting. The weight of the last few hours bore down on him like a club. Simon watched him make his way across the bull pen to Jim's desk where he sank down in Ellison's chair, hunching in on himself. Blair had never looked so small before. The room seemed to engulf him.

That sense of helplessness wouldn't last. Simon knew that. Sandburg would feel he had to do something. Then the trouble would start. Daryl followed a similar pattern; buried under the burden of "you don't understand-this is so unfair" just before he went shooting off into some piece of wildness guaranteed to send his father into cardiac arrest. Briefly, Simon thought with longing about the holding cell in the basement. Shook it off. The cell provided a practical solution but it was far too cruel to implement. He couldn't do that.

Not now at any rate.

"Wingfield." The captain motioned one of his officers to him.

Lyndon Wingfield followed quickly, hovering just inside the door, blocking Simon's view of the bull pen. Wing was nearly as big as a small Clydesdale. He stood as tall as Brown and heavier than Taggart. Years ago, he'd begun a career in pro ball before an injury had caused him to choose a new vocation.

"Yes sir," Wing said.

"Keep an eye on Sandburg," Banks snapped. "You're going to be his new shadow."

"Yes sir," Wing said again. "I understand."

Simon Banks glared at him as he settled behind his desk. "Make sure you do."

* * *

Blair peered up over the top of his glasses, watching Wingfield walk towards him. His fingers tightened on the note pad in his hand. "I really blew it, didn't I?"

"Oh, little bro ... you stomped in with both feet where most others fear to tiptoe." Wingfield drew up another chair, turned it and sat down, his arms folded over the back. "Going head to head with Captain Banks? It's a suicide trip. The man will chew you up and spit you out - then use your bones to pick his teeth."

"Yeah." Blair picked up a pen, scribbled out a message. "I am feeling a little chewed on."

"Imagine so." Wing nodded. "That took real guts offering to go in for Ellison."

"Or real stupidity."

"Either way. Brackett's an animal."

"Watch it, Wing." Blair tore off the top sheet, folded it in half. A second time. And again. "Some animal might overhear you and sue for character assassination."

Wing offered him a smile but Blair wasn't buying. Normally, the kid was unflappable. He'd earned his place in Major Crimes and not just by virtue of being Ellison's partner. Sandburg was clever, as capable as anyone else on the squad. Reliable, too. Blair could hold his own; he gave as good as he got as anyone who tried to take him on quickly found out. Still, good natured, the kid usually left his casualties smiling.

Now blue eyes were bleak with worry. Lines of strain etched deep into his skin. This just wasn't right. A wave of anger flared through him. Wingfield struggled to suppress it. "Don't worry," he said firmly. "We'll find Jim."

Blair removed his glasses and put them away. He crumpled the paper he'd been folding in his fist. "We're wasting time here."

"Captain's doing all he can."

"I know that. I know Simon cares, he really does. I'm sorry I yelled at him. That was a lousy thing to do."

"Yeah, well, he'll recover." Wing tried another smile. "Feel like some coffee?"

"No ... no, man. Actually, right now," Blair paused. Swallowed. "Actually, I feel kind of sick."

"Right." Wing got to his feet, reaching out to snag Blair's arm as he did. "Let's go, brother-man."

Blair allowed himself to be hastened down the hall towards the men's room. There was a certain sense of freedom in surrender, letting someone else take control. Take care of him if only for this brief interval. He closed his eyes and let himself think of Jim.

Mistake. The tears came then, hot and scalding, bleeding out from behind his eyelids as Wing pushed him into a stall. Man, he had to get control of this. Fast.

But he couldn't — not just now. Blindly, he shoved Wing away, slamming the door closed behind him. Fell against it. He had to be sick. Had to. The nausea was not an act.

Blair dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and retched. On the third attempt, what was left of breakfast came up. Afterwards, clutching the bowl, he dropped his head on his forearm and closed his eyes. Tried to focus.

He was aware of Wing going to the sink and wetting down some paper towels. He was aware of the restroom door opening again and someone slipping inside. Shaking, Blair lurched to his feet still clutching the note in his fist — the message Brackett had managed to get onto Jim's desk: "Looking for your partner? Try the men's room. Five minutes. L.B." Blair still couldn't believe the man's audacity. He didn't know what to expect. There hadn't even been time to think, just act. Now Wing was involved and, God, he felt like such a shit. He was going to owe big karma for this.

The newcomer was a street cop. Short and stocky, a thatch of bright red curls covered his head. Blair gaped, confronted with the physical embodiment of Jeannie LeClaire's description. Brackett had played this hand well. Obviously, Freddie Terassa hadn't been wearing his uniform when he'd helped Lee Brackett earlier that morning otherwise any witness would have surely noticed the outfit. And without that clue, who would've suspected Brackett's accomplice was a cop?

"Hey," Freddie said. "What's the problem, Wing?"

"Nothing," Wingfield answered, holding a mass of sodden towels, turning back towards Sandburg. "Everything's under control. Why don't you just give us some space here?"

"No problem."

Terassa pulled a stun gun from his pocket and stepped up behind Wing to press it to the back of his neck. But Wingfield was much taller; Terassa nailed his shoulder instead. Still, sixty-thousand volts shot into the big man, felling him like a bull.

"God!" Blair rushed forward, reaching out. He was carried to the floor by Wing's weight. "You've killed him!"

"He'll be okay," Terassa growled. "Which is more than I can say for your partner unless you get a move on. Now."

"You son of a bitch." Blair pressed his fingers to Wing's throat. The pulse raced beneath his touch. He glared up at Terassa. "You're supposed to be a cop."

"Yeah. Right. Let's just say I went with a better pension plan." Freddie grabbed him up by the back of his shirt, shoved him forward. "Now move."

Blair moved. He stumbled forward and opened the door, peered out into the hall. Everyone was still clustered in the bull pen, intent on their own business. He stepped outside, Terassa just behind him

"Stairway," Freddie hissed in his ear. He gave him another shove.

"I got the message," Blair snapped. "Stop pushing, man."

"Shut up and go." Sweating again, Freddie thrust open the stairwell door. He chased up behind Blair and drove him ahead, moving as fast as he could.

Behind them, Jeannie LeClaire watched them disappear, peering out from the opening of the lady's room door. As the stairwell door slid shut, she gathered what was left of her nerve and her strength and began to make her way back towards the bull pen and Simon Banks' office.

* * *

They were nearly running by the time they reached the station parking garage. Terassa's hand tightened on Blair's collar, forcing him to a slower, less attention-provoking pace, totally at odds with Blair's need for speed.

Just remember - the worst day of your life is still only twenty-four hours long, Blair cautioned himself, stumbling in Terassa's grasp. You can do this.

A dark green Jeep Cherokee pulled up in the garage entrance. Instantly, Blair recognized the driver just as every alarm in the building went off at once.

"Mr. Sandburg...." Lee Brackett opened the passenger door. "I see you got my invitation."

"Yeah. I got it." Blair climbed inside the vehicle. "Right on top of Jim's desk where Terassa left it for me. I guess you think you're pretty clever."

"You wound me. I try not to guess about things like that." As Terassa made for the back door, Brackett punched the locks down. "Sorry, Freddie."

"Hey - what the hell?" Terassa yelled. He smashed his fist against the window. "Brackett, open up."

"Greed is a terrific motivator, Freddie. But it's too easy to let yourself get swamped in it." Brackett pulled his gun from a shoulder holster. Aimed. "I can't take you with me and I can't trust you not to talk. Sorry."

Eyes wide, Blair pressed himself back against his seat. The gun went off with a harsh cough leaving the rank odor of cordite. Smooth. Fast. Deadly.

Terassa staggered back, surprise and disbelief blossoming over his face as stark as the stain that spread across his chest.

Brackett nodded, holstered his weapon. Slammed the jeep into gear. "Catch you in the next life, Freddie," he promised. "Maybe I'll make it up to you. Then again...."

Clutching the armrest, Blair stared at the body that had dropped to the pavement. Beyond, the elevator and stairwell doors opened. Cops began to pour out into the garage. Brackett floored the accelerator, backing out into traffic like a beast on the rampage. Other drivers skidded to avoid him, cursing, horns blaring. An ancient Cadillac roared up on the sidewalk, slamming into the garage entrance creating an effective barrier. Brackett thrust the jeep into second, cut a 180 onto the street and floored it. Within seconds, the wail of alarms and sirens were suddenly very far behind.

Blair twisted in his seat to face Brackett. "Okay," he said. "I'm here. Call Captain Banks. Tell him where to find Jim."

"Give me a minute," Brackett told him. "We've only just said hello."

They shot through another intersection, the light still red. Brackett twisted around a pickup and a Toyota, sending a delivery truck into a storefront. He slammed the brakes, skidding into a turn and onto a side street.

"Call Simon now!" Blair reached behind him and pulled a .38 from the waist of his jeans. He leveled it at Brackett's head. "You pull over and call him!"

"Where did you get that?"

"Jim's desk. It's his back up gun."

"You don't trust me."

"Are you kidding, man? You've got about as much integrity as a Whitney Houston cover of 'Whole Lotta Love.' No. I do not trust you."

"I knew you were the smart one." Brackett laughed. "So what are you going to do, professor, shoot me?"

"I don't have to kill you to hurt you. Stop the damn jeep!"

"Can't do that." Brackett shook his head, concentrating on the road. "It's not part of my game plan."

"Fuck you!" Blair fired the gun. It roared through the enclosed space like a crash of thunder and blew out the driver's window. "Pull over!"

"Damn." Brackett let up on the gas and touched the brake. Then swerved into a sharp, left hand turn, throwing Blair up against the door. His fist shot out, locking onto Blair's grip, forcing his arms up. The .38 went off again, exploding into the roof.

Brackett braced himself, smashing the brakes to the floor. The jeep screamed to a stop. Unbalanced, Blair couldn't keep from flying forward against the dashboard. In the next instant, Brackett twisted Jim's gun out of his hands.

"Don't you know anything?" Lee Brackett placed the .38 in his coat pocket. "You should always, always, always wear your seatbelt when riding with outlaws on the run. Are you all right?"

Blair glared at him, stunned, shaking. Furious. He held his hand to his chest, massaging bruised flesh.

Brackett reached over and caught his chin in his hand. "I said, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Blair snapped, jerking his head away.

"Good." He pointed towards the side panel. "Seatbelt, please. I don't want any more trouble."

Blair fastened his seatbelt as Brackett slid the jeep back into first and onto the street again. He blended into traffic at a much saner pace following the side streets.

"That was a good move," Brackett told him, conversationally. "I didn't expect it knowing how you feel about guns. Ellison must have trained you." He grinned, eyes flashing with humor. "Listen, you don't want to go shooting out windows. It might work on some ordinary street thug but it won't scare someone like me or your partner. You'll just waste time and ammunition. And give me a chance to get the drop on you. You should have followed through on your original threat. Shoot me in the shoulder or the leg, some non-vital but painful area. That would've forced me to weigh my pain and the possibility of bleeding to death against your demands. You still might not have won the hand, but you'd have had a better shot at it." The grin deepened. "Get it? 'Better shot'?"

"I get it." Blair said shortly, appalled. "I just don't think that way, man."

"No, but you learn fast."

"Yeah. I do."

Brackett nodded, reaching inside his coat. He pulled out a cell phone and handed it over. "Maybe you'd like to do the honors?"

Blair snatched it up and punched in Simon's code. The Captain answered on the first ring, shouting into the receiver, "Banks."

"Simon?" Blair gasped, breathless. "It's me."

"Sandburg! Where the hell are you?"

"I'm with Brackett." He sucked in a quick breath. "Did you find Wingfield? Is he okay?"

"We found him. Alive. He'll be okay. Are you all right?"

Brackett took the phone. "He's just fine. For the moment."

Simon's voice snarled over the receiver. "Brackett, if anything happens to that kid —"

"You'll do what? I hold all the cards here, Captain, the best hand so far."

"Absolutely," Blair broke in, quickly, loud enough for Simon to hear, too. "It's your game, man. Your move. And now you're supposed to tell Simon where to find Jim."

Brackett smiled. "What if I don't? What if this was just a bluff to get you here?"

Panic hit him like a fist. Blair forced himself around it. "Then it's not a game anymore," he said harshly. "You have no structure, man. This is just an exercise in sadism. Or an infantile diversion. That would make you a cheat and a bully."

"That's the spirit, professor," Brackett approved. "I knew I could count on you. Listen up, Banks. I'm only going to give you this once...."

Blair fell back against the seat and closed his eyes listening to Brackett give the directions to Jim's location, instructions for dismantling the sensory overload panel. Soon Jim would be free; his partner would be okay.

And then it would be Jim's move. Lee Brackett would expect it, count on it.

So did Blair Sandburg.