ROUGH TRADE

Midnight moonlight was such a tease; that soft glow seemed to make anything possible. Even escape. Blair hesitated, gazing through the glass of the front door. Five minutes ... the Guide counted the time in his head. Another skill he'd developed once it had become plain that he and traditional timekeepers would never bond.

None of that mattered now. Lee Brackett had left him alone for five whole minutes. When he listened - and Blair always listened - he could hear Brackett moving in the next room. It was good to know that. Good to know where he was. Which was not right here right now.

Could he chance a run for it?

Blair focused on the wide and extremely open clearing between the lodge and the woods. He knew how to lose himself in a crowd. Definitely knew how to lose himself in a forest or jungle ... although, to date, that usually happened more by accident than design. And what if he really did get lost? Would that be better than playing one-on-one with a psychotic sociopath?

Answer that with a great big YES.

Blair calculated possibilities. That was a fifty-to-seventy yard field out there, maybe more. Could his short legs carry him to cover before Lee Brackett caught up with him? Could the Road Runner outdistance Wile E. Coyote? Sandburg allowed himself a quick grin. Just keep that image in mind, he told himself. You can do it.

Blair tore open the door and ran.

He felt and heard the change in texture beneath his feet - the boards of the porch, stone steps, the hard-packed surface of the clearing. All he saw was the line of trees. Brackett yelled something behind him clattering out to the porch. Blair shuddered; he was so exposed running through the open field. If Brackett decided to use his rifle, it would all be over in the second he took to pull the trigger. Sandburg ducked his head and ran harder. Soon all he could hear were the sounds of his own breathing and the crash of leaves as he soared into the forest.

It was like falling into another world. Blair turned off the path leading from the lodge as soon as he could. Moonlight glistened through the trees, a hundred laser-intense spotlights. He was surrounded by hardwoods, thick clusters of oak and maple with evergreens rising up between. White birch glimmered here and there like the ghosts of Brackett's past victims. The ground was snarled with roots, fallen branches and creeping vines. Most of the vines had thorns that would clutch as well as trip, challenging every foot of progress. And, of course, everything was wet and slick from the continual drizzle that permeated Cascade's seasons, spring through winter.

Breathing hard, Blair stopped long enough to survey his surroundings and check behind him. Nothing. The woods had grown so dense here, it choked off the moonlight. The darkness was nearly impenetrable and reminded him of the dream he'd had when Brackett had brought him in ... blackness like a living thing, tearing him away from Jim, hunting him. Hurting him.

He couldn't think about that now. Blair pushed on, moving as fast as he could, longing for distance, flinching at every sound. Brackett had to be nearby. Just because he couldn't hear him, didn't mean he wasn't close. The Rogue knew how to move in the woods. Just like Jim. Blair felt like a bull in a china shop. Every snap and crash felt like a beacon yelling, "Catch me here!" But he buried the panic and kept moving.

Until he floundered into a giant oak that had toppled over, blocking him. The bark was too slick and rotten to climb over. The only way forward was around.

Except the darkness was with him again, stronger than before. Shivering with cold and confusion, Blair froze in place. "Idiot," he hissed under his breath. "You've got to keep moving. God. Where's Jungle Jim when you need him?" He released a shaky breath. Stepped forward....

And fell.

A canopy of leaves and vines collapsed beneath his feet revealing a pit some eight feet deep and six feet wide. The scientist in him took it all in seconds before he landed, face first in the mud. The resulting bone-jarring thud knocked the wind out of him. Blair struggled to breathe, sucking in equal parts air and slime. Strangled. Choked.

Coughing and cursing, Blair heaved himself to his knees, then to his feet. He rallied his strength and tried a jump for the edge of the pit. His hands only clawed into mud. Blair fell back under a shower of rain-soaked earth and rock. Desperate, he labored up. Tried again. He was still hurling himself at the sides of the pit when Lee Brackett appeared, gazing down over the edge. Immediately, Blair fell back to the far wall.

"Hey, professor," the Rogue called down. "What's your game plan? Trying to become your own archeological find? Keep doing that and the sides will collapse."

Lungs burning, Blair squinted up, swiping a muddy arm over his face. Brackett wasn't even breathing hard. Damn it.

The Rogue threw a rope over the side of the pit. "Loop the noose under your arms," he instructed. "Don't try to climb. Just let me pull you up."

Wordless, Blair did as he was told. It was even uglier going back up than it had been going down. More humiliating as well.

"Mr. Sandburg, I'm crushed." Brackett reached for him, helping him to stand. "You didn't even stop to say good-bye. And here I thought I was making progress, maybe winning you over. Just a little."

"Guess again, asshole," Blair coughed out. He jerked away. Slipped and went sprawling. Then pushed himself up and staggered forward, determined. If they were going back to the cabin, he would get there without help from Lee Brackett.

"Hold on, professor." Brackett grabbed him again and held him still. "Check it out."

Brackett picked up a broken branch as thick as his wrist and jammed it into the ground at Blair's feet. There was a loud metallic snap followed by a sickening crunch as shark-edged steel teeth closed into the wood.

"Have you ever seen a man caught in a bear trap?" Brackett asked. "Most times, once the pain sets in, he can't get it open. He'll scream himself raw trying to get free, then eventually die of exposure and shock. It takes a while though ... if the local scavengers, the wolves and the buzzards, don't take him out first. Not that they're especially quick about it either." He paused, reflecting as if he were sharpening memory's edge. "Sometimes, if he's got a knife, he'll cut off his foot to get out. If not ... well, if the poor sap's got a gun, he can finish the job faster. If he remembers to save a bullet for himself."

"That wasn't here before," Blair said in a small voice, shaken but still angry. His face was birch-pale under the mud. "You brought it with you. You're trying to scare me."

"Maybe," Brackett agreed. "But you can't be sure, can you? I didn't bring the pit with me, did I?"

Blair went quiet, eyes wide and solemn. He tried to look away from the bear trap. Couldn't.

"These woods are full of surprises," Brackett continued. "It's like I said - I've had time to work on this. Remember that the next time you decide to take a little walk, okay?"

"Man, you're laying it on pretty thick, aren't you?"

"And here you've left your hip waders at home." The Rogue laughed, a chilling, soulless sound. He nudged the trap with his foot. "Try not to worry. Ellison is about as good as they get. He'll make it through most of this. Not all. Not in the shape he's in now. But he's a smart one, professor. Jim will know enough to save a bullet."

"Shut up!" Blair turned on him, lashing out with his fists. "Just shut up. Stop it!"

"Or what?" Brackett dodged him easily. "What are you going to do about it?"

Well, that was the $64,000 question, wasn't it? Blair stared at him in hopeless fury, hands curled into fists.

Brackett shrugged, moving on. "Let's get you back to the cabin," he said. "Get you cleaned up. Maybe you'll think of something by then."

Blair stumbled along under Brackett's guidance, his mind a blank except for the vision of those steel jaws snarling up from the forest floor. He couldn't get beyond that ... couldn't think beyond that. Not even when he lurched back inside the lodge and then into the bathroom. Not when he peeled himself out of his clothes and got under the shower. You didn't need to be a genius to know what Brackett wanted. The man was a Rogue Sentinel; he needed a Guide.

A fully functioning, cognizant and willing Guide. Someone to open the connection and bring the Sentinel gift to fruition. Nurture it. Train it. Blair scrubbed at himself blindly, gagged and spit more mud into the drain. There had to be a way out. If he wasn't so tired ... so scared, he acknowledged ... he could find it. But in the mean time, he could only see that steel trap. Something monstrous screaming up from the forest floor, earth's sacred space. Violated.

Blair shivered under the hot spray. That's what it would be if he helped Lee Brackett develop his gift, a violation of sacred trust. He wouldn't just destroy the personal bond he shared with Jim, all sorts of universal laws and codes would be shattered. What it boiled down to was Really Bad Karma. Like forever.

Blair almost laughed picturing Jim's expression if he tried to explain this. Ellison's gifts and mentality kept him firmly locked on the physical plane. The metaphysical jungle remained Sandburg's territory.

And, man, was he ever botching it.

The last of his strength seemed to have washed down the drain with the mud. Exhausted, Blair turned off the shower and reached for a towel. Everything seemed to be moving in very slow motion. He didn't even stop to register that Brackett had left him alone again until the man reappeared, setting a bundle of clothes on the toilet seat.

"These need to be cleaned, then burned." Brackett picked up the pile of muddy rags. He turned the pockets, rescuing glasses, wallet, change. A bronze bulls' head hair clip. He gave a low whistle, turning the ornament in his hands. "This is nice. An authentic piece?"

"Give it to me!"

Everything speeded back to real time again. Blair snatched the bronze out of Brackett's hand and clutched it against him.

"I see there's some sentimental value attached." Brackett offered him a smile.

Blair shuddered. "My mother gave it to me," he lied, looking him straight in the face. "Last year. For my birthday."

"She's got great taste." Brackett carried the rags through the door. "Sorry. I didn't think we'd be staying this long or I would have thought about clothes. That's the best I can do right now."

Sandburg dropped the towel and rummaged through the articles Brackett had left for him ... a white T-shirt and a pair of streamlined, split-side boxers. He dressed quickly even though everything was too big. The cotton-silk blend caressed his skin, floating over his body like a short caftan. He made a knot in the boxer's elastic, pulling it tight around his waist. Blair frowned. It was better than going naked but that was about it. He toweled his hair dry, brushed it out and fastened Jim's clip at the back of his neck. A tiny light of triumph flickered in his eyes. Brackett had swallowed the lie. He'd been able to keep something of his own after all.

Victory faltered and died, however, when he stepped back into the main room. Brackett was waiting for him holding a set of leg irons in his fist. Blair froze in the doorway, paralyzed. His blue eyes widened like an animal caught in on-coming headlights.

"Oh, come on," Brackett said. "You can't expect me to let you run around lose after that last escapade." He stretched the chain out in his hands. "Twenty-four inch length, carbon steel. You'll be able to walk just fine. But no running."

Blair shook his head.

Brackett sighed. "I don't want you getting hurt, professor. Things are about to get interesting and I won't be able to watch you every minute. We both know you'll run the first chance you get. It's part of the game, right?"

"No." Blair took a step back into the bathroom. The wet tile was like ice on his bare feet. It was nothing compared to the cold that ran through his veins.

"It's really for your own good." Brackett walked towards him.

"No. Don't chain me up."

"It won't hurt you," Brackett told him, his voice low. Soothing. He took Blair's arm.

Sandburg balked, grabbing onto the door frame. He squeezed his eyes shut. "No!" The word came louder, stronger.

Brackett stopped. "What's the problem?"

"I'm not kidding, man." Blair tried to control the shaking. "You've read our case files. You know about Lash, don't you? David Lash?" His nails dug into the wood. "Don't do this, man. I can't take it."

"Maybe not, but I think you'll survive." Brackett pulled Blair's hands free. He slipped his arm around the Guide's shoulders, walking him towards the fireplace. "I know I'll rest easier."

"Okay, okay ... fine," Blair hissed out through chattering teeth. "You want to deal with a full scale panic attack here. Go right ahead."

"I think I can handle it."

"Well, I can't." Blair held onto him, grabbing Brackett's sweater as the man pushed him down into the chair. "Don't. Please. I am hanging on by a thread here, man. You don't know. I promise - I swear I won't run. Just don't - don't chain me up."

"You're really scared."

"Scared?" Blair bit back a laugh that felt too much like a scream. "Scared just doesn't really cover it, man."

"I didn't know you had a thing about being chained up."

"I didn't either. Not 'till I saw those in your hands."

"Try and believe me, Mr. Sandburg." Brackett held Blair's gaze with his own. "I'm truly sorry about this."

He knelt down. In one smooth motion, he grasped Blair's ankle and fastened the cuff. Working quickly, he secured the other manacle before Blair had a chance to react.

Sandburg stared at the chain, disbelief and horror locked on his face as tight as the iron that bound his legs. Brackett watched him struggle to maintain control, saw it crumble under the battery of self-imposed sleep deprivation and starvation, fear and grief. An impressive display. He'd never expected the professor to hold out this long. Blair shook his head, lips parted, breathing in short, ragged gasps ... in but not out.

Not until the scream. Brackett stood and backed away. He took another, involuntary step back even as Blair pitched forward, grasping the chain in his fists, tearing at it. The Rogue had heard the sound of pain before, he knew the sound of death. This was very similar.

But with one major difference. This time, Brackett felt it. Blair's scream clawed its way up the back of his spine and exploded at the base of his skull. His particular psychosis left him without the ability to feel, an asset in his line of work. But this ... this was like being gut-punched. Slowly, he lifted his hand and placed it over his stomach. The sensation faded quickly enough but it wasn't his imagination. He'd actually felt something.

The Connection ... that had to be it. Sentinel and Guide. Brackett frowned. Unable to remove the chains, Sandburg had curled in on himself, crouched in front of the fire. He sobbed, shuddered, struck his forehead against the floor boards once. Again. A low, wounded noise came steadily from his throat.

Brackett felt the hair lift along his arms, the back of his neck. His immediate instinct was to stop this, to do whatever was necessary to bring relief. Well, it made sense that no Sentinel would allow a Guide to be harmed. But apparently, it wasn't just policy, the response was encoded into the genetic system.

Kneeling down, taking Blair up in his arms, Brackett wondered if the professor had realized that yet. He took the key from his pocket and displayed it before terrified blue eyes. He very deliberately unlocked the shackles, grabbed them and spun them away across the floor. They crashed into the far wall with a loud, metallic clatter. Brackett turned Blair in his arms, enfolding the near-convulsing body. Holding him. Stroking him.

And the Guide, helpless to prevent him, mindless with panic, held him back. Opened to him.

Brackett gasped. A slim thread of current blazed to life between them, as strong as lust but nothing like it. It was as if a door had opened inside Lee Brackett, a passage that had never seen light before. He could feel the strength pouring out of him, channeling into the receptor he held in his arms.

Be careful what you wish for, the voice snaked through the back of his mind. You might just get it....

Immediately, Brackett pulled himself out of it, pulled himself away. He was the one who was supposed to do the taking. He was the one with the power. The Rogue scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with panic. Shock. Fear. Real fear, the kind that rocked the soul.

The connection flickered, then faded. Brackett backed away, his head spinning. Every sense was heightened ... filled. For one incredible moment, he was totally online. Everything worked. A sound of pleasure and triumph spilled from his throat. It was as if he'd never been alive before.

But the intensity kept building. Suddenly, firelight flared with bomb-blast intensity. Night sounds of birds and insects, a wind-blown branch slapping against the side of the cabin, even the pulse of his own blood crashed through his skull with the force of a nail hammer. Scent became so acute and disproportionate it became taste. Nauseating. As for touch ... God. The weave of his clothing scraped his body like sandpaper.

Sensory overload blazed through him like a rocket. Then died. When he came back to himself, Brackett found himself on the other side of the room. On his knees. It was cold away from the fire but he was sweating as if he'd just walked out of a tropical forest.

His eyes caught and held Blair's body, collapsed and still by the hearth. His first inclination was to run. Forget his plan, forget the whole sentinel business. He wanted his old life back.

No ... he wanted the power back and the ability to control it. Use it. Own it.

Dark, colorless eyes narrowed taking the panic and twisting it into something else. Word games aside, Brackett knew who the bastard was in this room. And he knew he could be far worse to get what he wanted. There was no use fighting his true nature.

Longing welled inside him. He needed the Guide. He needed the Sentinel out of the picture. He could do whatever he had to in order to make this game work. Ellison would have to believe Sandburg was beyond his reach, he'd have to think his partner was dead. And he'd have to think it was by his own hand, through his own failure. It was the only way to put an end to any search and rescue effort on the Sentinel's part and give Lee Brackett the time he needed.

And Blair Sandburg would have to understand that Jim Ellison could be dead in seconds, that his partner only survived through the graces of Lee Brackett's will and his participation as Guide to a new Sentinel. The Rogue's eyes flickered shut. He would dangle their reunion like the proverbial carrot; that would keep the Guide focused, cooperative if not willing. Hope would keep the professor going.

Hope would allow Brackett to use him and use him and use him, any way he wanted, at any time....

Until, when it was over, he didn't need him anymore.

Until he could kill him.

* * *

At eight-forty-five the next morning, Jim Ellison and Simon Banks were seated with Jack Kelso at the rear booth in the sun-splashed diner across from the loft. Waiting. The waitress walked over to clear breakfast dishes and refill thick, white china mugs. She offered them a quick smile then hurried on to finish her rounds.

"Are you sure your contact is going to show?" Simon asked.

"Don't worry," Kelso said, edging his wheelchair closer as he reached for the cream. "He'll be here."

"He's late," Jim growled around a clenched jaw.

Kelso shook his head. "If I know Frost, he's nearby, checking us out. He's very careful."

"Who is this guy?" Simon asked.

"Sterling Frost," Kelso said slowly, stirring the cream into his coffee. Jim and Simon watched him struggle with how much he should tell them. "He's with the Company."

"We already know that," Simon said impatiently. "What's his background? We're not dealing with some desk-bound bureaucrat suffering from James Bond delusions, are we?"

"No, no," Kelso responded quickly. "Frost is the real thing. He's one of the scariest men I've ever met. Frost does the kind of work most bureaucrats don't want to know about. He's a sanitation engineer."

"What?" Simon said, thoroughly confused.

"He's a Cleaner," Jim snapped out. "Government hire, paid to kill or clean up what's left behind after the current blood bath. God, Jack, this is Sandburg we're talking about here."

"Who is presently being held by Lee Brackett." Kelso shifted his chair so that he could watch the front of the diner. He continued to talk, staring out the front window as he spoke. "Sterling Frost has been with the agency since he was in his teens. The story goes that he killed his parents when he was fifteen-years old. He took them both out, then covered the scene. Everyone knew he did it. Nobody could prove it, not even after they found the bodies. The agency offered him a job - training, full benefits, the works. And more."

"What kind of more?" Simon asked.

"They offered to take care of his sister."

"His sister," Jim said. "What did they do for her?"

"They provided the basics - food, clothing, shelter and education. A home. And they also kept her out of the business."

"I see," Jim said. And did.

"Look, it was a rotten family. Sadistic, brutal." Kelso shook his head, grim. "The parents were no loss to this world. The boy put up with a lot, covering for his sister. He tried to protect her. But a child can only do so much, you know? When the old man went back on his word and went after the girl, Frost made him pay for it. Both of them. The mother was just as bad."

Jim nodded, wrapping his hands around the coffee cup, letting the warmth ease into his fingers. He still felt like hell. Dr. Mutts and staff hadn't wanted to release him and, given any other choice, he would have stayed. Getting showered, shaved and dressed had been an ordeal. Regulation had him leaving the hospital in a wheelchair nowhere near as nice as Jack Kelso's. Out of the chair, Jim walked like an old man - painfully slow. Careful of every move. The short trip from Simon's car to the diner had left him dizzy and short of breath. He had to do better if he and Blair were going to survive this.

"You know how it goes," Jack was saying. "Dysfunctional homes are almost anything but. They function very well, completely self-isolated. They might as well be living on the moon as next door. Kids from those kind of families, a lot of them stay shell-shocked, maybe turn to drugs or sex or gangs; they can't do anything except breed more of their own and keep waiting for the next fist to fall. Some of them turn out to be monsters. But a surprising amount of them go the other way and become caretakers. They try to save what they never had - Doctors. Teachers. Soldiers. Police officers. They nurture, serve and protect."

"So what's the deal here?" Jim looked up from the steam rising from his cup. "Why is Frost talking to us when no one else will?"

"Brackett killed Frost's sister," Jack returned meeting flint blue eyes. "Make no mistake, the Feds know Brackett was responsible for the explosion at the hospital. But they still think the escape was botched. They believe the fire took him out, too. They had a body, no one survived the blast area and the fire afterwards...." He took in a deep, swallow of coffee. Cleared his throat. "Frost's sister was working at the clinic the day Brackett made his escape. She was a licensed therapist specializing in the effects of violent behavior."

"Saving the monsters," Simon murmured. "Trying to find out what made them tick, how to make them stop."

"Trying to find out how to save her brother," Jack corrected gently. "Those two were bonded in blood. You grow up in a war zone, it can pull you together even while it's tearing you apart."

"Jesus." Simon winced, shook his head.

"Lynnett never married," Kelso continued softly. "She said the whole marriage-family thing, well - it was something she just couldn't handle. I think she wanted it, wanted to be normal - that's what she said. Even when she'd laugh and say there was no such thing as 'normal....'"

Jim and Simon remained silent. Waiting. Letting Kelso take his time.

A long moment passed before Jack looked up again. "Yeah, I knew her. I loved her. There's payback in this for me as well. I think Blair might call this 'karma in action.'" He tried for a laugh, pulled off a smile. It disappeared quickly. "If it's true - if Brackett is still alive, he won't be for long."

"No," Jim said with absolute certainty. "He won't."

"You talk like you mean it, Ranger. I almost believe you."

A shadow dropped over the table blocking the diner's bright window. A shadow with a voice.

Jim gazed up into tombstone eyes, grayed-blue eyes belonging to a gray man ... gray suit, gray coat, expensive and impeccably tailored so the weapons wouldn't show. Sterling Frost had pale brown hair. He seemed tall, about six-four, but it could have been the angle of perception. He was light skinned as if he didn't get out in the sun too often. Rangy. Athletic. Capable, Jim understood. It was impossible to say how old Frost was. He could have been as young as thirty or as old as fifty. There were no lines in that face, no indication that the man had ever laughed, ever cried.

His eyes were dead. They gave nothing, felt nothing; they were as bleak as unmarked stone. Simon shivered; he'd seen more life in a reptile.

"I know who you are." Sterling Frost pulled a chair away from a nearby table and sat down.

"And now we know you," Jim said.

"Jack likes to talk," Frost replied without inflection.

Simon frowned. "And you don't?"

"No." Frost sat back in his chair, keeping an eye on the table, the door, the rest of the room. "I've seen the tape. He crushed you, Ranger. Now you're up and walking again."

"I don't crush easy," Jim said.

"I was told you were difficult."

"By who?"

"By people who know." Frost turned stone eyes on Jim. Suddenly it was if they were the only people in the room. "You were with the Company but you left. Like Lee Brackett."

"No." Jim shook his head. "If you think that, you don't know me. I hope your other information is better than that."

"I know you've got soft spots. Targets."

"And you don't?" Jim asked.

"Not any more."

"What do you mean by 'targets'?" Simon demanded.

"He means Sandburg," Jim explained gruffly.

"You, too." Blue-gray lasered in on Simon Banks. "And there are others. Ellison wants to be a loner but he's not. That's the problem."

Blue eyes flashed to cobalt. Jim's sixty-seconds of civility were over. "Save the analysis for someone who gives a damn. Can you help us here or not?"

"Hold on, Jim," Simon broke in sharply. He turned to Frost. "Let's just get to business, all right?"

Silence covered the table as the waitress reappeared. Frost placed an order for coffee. They waited until it was served before he spoke.

"Like I said, I studied your information," Frost said. His voice held as much warmth as his eyes - none. "I ran some tests. The voice prints match. Lee Brackett is alive."

"But the Feds still say he's dead," Simon objected.

"Bureaucrats like simple answers. They want to believe Brackett's dead. So they do."

"You could tell them different," Simon declared. "Make them listen."

"So I could watch them bungle the job just like they did before?"

"No," Jim shook his head, still angry. "You bungled it. You're responsible."

Something deadly shifted in Frost's expression.

"Brackett faked his illness," Jim said. "He paid someone to get him into that hospital, then get him out. He killed your sister and he escaped and you never caught on."

"How do you know that?"

"Because that's what you do. You checked the site yourself - personally - because it was personal. Lee Brackett got past you and you know it. You know you screwed up," Jim blazed. His hands went to fists on the table. "Listen, I am sorry for your loss. But you let Brackett get away. Now he's got my partner, my brother. You owe me, Frost."

"What if that were true? What do you expect me to do about it?"

"Help me get Sandburg back. Work with us."

Frost shook his head. "I work alone."

"Help us." Jim sucked in a deep breath. Pleading did not come easy to him. "Just help us track Brackett. You've got the sources, the background intelligence. You can help us find Sandburg and get him out of there."

"That's what I don't understand," Frost said, genuinely curious. "Revenge isn't Brackett's game. Why would he trade you for your partner? It doesn't compute."

"It doesn't have to," Jim growled. "Brackett's a sick SOB. He likes to play with people's heads."

"There's no denying that." Frost agreed. "From all accounts, your roommate is a nice kid. People like him. But he's been gone three days. You get him back now, he's not going to be the same."

"He's tougher than you know ... tougher than anyone knows. Blair will be all right. Once I get him home, he'll be fine." Muscles bunched along Ellison's jaw. "If you had a chance to bring your sister home - any way, any shape - you'd go for it, wouldn't you?"

"Home? Well see, that's the difference between us, Ranger," Frost said pleasantly. "I'd have never brought her home again. I would've killed her first myself."

The table dropped into silence. Sterling Frost finished his coffee. He took out a five and laid it beside his mug, then got to his feet. "You'll hear from me," he said. Then dropped a hand on Kelso's shoulder, leaning towards him. "Be seeing you, Jack."

"God," Kelso breathed out, watching him leave. "I hope not."

* * *

Curled in the chair by the fire, Blair watched Lee Brackett approach. He pulled the afghan tighter around his shoulders, eyes wide and wary.

"You've got to eat." Brackett held out plate of sandwiches and an unopened container of bottled water. "It's not drugged," he promised. "You want me to taste it first?"

Blair said nothing.

The Rogue regarded him seriously. "You're going to make yourself sick."

Anger flashed in blue eyes. And whose fault would that be, headcase?

"Well ... I see there's still some fight left in you yet." Brackett set the food and water on the floor within easy reach of his captive's current refuge. "Are you cold? Do you want me to build the fire back up?"

Blair turned his head away, focusing on the far wall.

"All right," Brackett sighed, moving towards the other room. "Suit yourself. Just remember to behave yourself as well, okay?" He paused at the doorway. "By the way ... Ellison checked out of the hospital this morning. Captain Banks picked up him up. They had breakfast with Jack Kelso. Looks like we'll all be on the move again soon."

Blair was startled into speech. "How is he?"

"I'll guess we'll get a chance to find out later," Brackett told him. Then shrugged. "If he still wants you back."

"That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Blair sighed. "What are you on now?"

"Just high on life, sweetheart. How about you? You want to live, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then mind your manners, don't piss me off and we won't have to have a repeat of last night's entertainment."

Blair watched him disappear into the next room, equal parts dread, hope and relief warring within his heart. The man had a mind like a Celtic knot, totally twisted. But it wasn't hard to figure the game plan. Something nasty was about to happen, something Brackett was planning to throw in Jim's face to start the game up again. And Blair knew he had a starring role.

His first instinct was to run - except there was nowhere to run to. That had been made perfectly clear last night. Despite the sleep that had claimed him, he was still exhausted. Blair's body was one constant ache. Performing an eight-foot belly flop into a mud pit certainly didn't help the situation. Man, he still tasted grit.

His attention drifted to the plate left behind on the floor. He'd stopped being hungry a long time ago but there really wasn't any choice; he had to eat. Starving himself wouldn't help.

Blair picked up the plate and water. In some other lifetime, he remembered arguing with Jim about where they'd go for dinner. Somehow, he'd believed that if he held out long enough, Jim would come. They'd still make that dinner.

Don't go there, man.... Blair almost moaned aloud. He set the plate down fast on the arm of the chair when his hands started to shake. Don't you even think about that.

Determined, Blair picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Chewed. Misery made it hard to swallow. Bread tasted like styrofoam, the stuffing a mixture of cardboard and wax that settled like a lump of ash in his stomach. He twisted the cap off the water and took a drink.

The cold, sweet liquid tasted almost normal. Another reminder of home. Blair closed his eyes, battling the pain of memory. Then shook himself. No. It was good to remember home, good to think of Jim and what they had together. How good it would be when they were back together. Jim was so cool, in the best sense of the word. Calm and stable and tough. Safe. Jim was the core. The outside stuff didn't matter, the bizarre cases, the work.

Blair Sandburg had always lived with bizarre. Life with Naomi meant life on the edge; his mother had a flair for chaos, an up-the-establishment - experience-all - embrace-all philosophy guaranteed to accelerate living into non-stop confusion at any given moment. Oh, there was always some worthy cause at the bottom of Naomi's escapades. But long ago, Blair had learned that the 'cause' was usually an excuse to ditch whatever rut his mother had found herself trapped in.

Heading into the university, taking up the life of the academic, felt almost like retreat, cannibal death cults and all. Correctimundo. It was a retreat ... from his mother's wildness. Blair loved her sense of adventure and romance. It was just hard to embrace the sensation-at-any-costs ideology on a permanent basis.

Not when that meant going hungry or relying on the will of strangers for shelter. Not when that meant being scared, being hurt. Or watching other people - like Naomi herself - being scared or hurt. Or worse. Worse was always an option in Naomi-land. Growing up, most people assumed Blair and Naomi were siblings on first introduction, a concept that delighted Naomi no end. "We're bashing down the stereotypes," she liked to crow.

So, okay, motherhood was not Naomi's bag and the times she found herself sucked into the role were as much a surprise to her as they were to Blair. That didn't make her a bad person, it didn't mean he didn't love her with all his heart. But it helped define what Blair wanted and didn't want in his life.

Right now, the want translated to Jim Ellison. Jim's mother had been almost non-existent in her child's life; his father had been ... well, his father had been a total dick. But, like Blair, that combination had clarified the life path he had chosen.

The job didn't matter. Near death experiences with Carasco and Kincaid - even David Lash didn't matter. Jim kept Blair sane; he kept him whole. Jim was stability and honesty. Reliability. Mr. Law and Order, Blair thought and smiled. Jim protected him from what he had been and from what he feared he might be again.

Blair sighed, at peace with his conclusions. Jim's presence had felt so close to him last night; he remembered dreaming ... sleeping by a lake of fire, Jim's jaguar by his side - watching him, guarding him. It wasn't the first time he'd dreamed of Jim's totem animal although he'd never discussed it with the Sentinel. It just seemed ... too personal. Blair hadn't meant to fall asleep. Exhaustion had claimed him after that business with the chains. Actually, Blair winced, it had kind of buried him; he didn't remember anything once Brackett had snapped the chains on his ankles. He had lost it. Yes. Absolutely. The terror he'd experienced was still only a heartbeat away. It would be real easy to fall into that again.

A tiny grin flickered across Blair's face when he considered how that might throw a curve in Brackett's plans. It faded when he thought of how it would affect Jim. Brackett wouldn't hesitate to show him off like some beaten puppy just to watch Jim twitch. The sense of dread returned, now joined to self-loathing. Brackett could break him ... correction, was breaking him. Sandwich forgotten, Blair chewed on his thumbnail, not that there was much left to gnaw on. He fought back the panic that threatened to overwhelm him again. Knowledge is power.... he reminded himself. Man, you need some kind of edge here. Anything....

Slowly, Blair pushed himself up from the chair. Winced and nearly fell. His legs were so cramped and shaky, they didn't want to hold him. He tried to get the circulation going, but the bruises hurt too much to touch. Gradually, he staggered forward, hugging the wall, trying to avoid the creaks of the floor. Making his way to Brackett's room.

He heard the Rogue's voice on the other side of the door followed by another, less-distinct tone. He couldn't quite catch the question.

But Brackett's answer came through clearly enough. "Everything will be back on track by tomorrow. You'll be able to see the Sentinel in action when he searches for his Guide. Then you'll know exactly how good he is and what a benefit he might be to your concerns. Afterwards, we'll start the bidding. Just remember," the voice dropped, a warning tone. "Everyone only gets one bid. Better make sure it's a good one."

Brackett chuckled briefly in response to a heavily-accented response. Blair tried to pinpoint the dialect ... Arabic? Mediterranean? ... as the Rogue continued, "No, that was just the entry fee. It allows you into the game. Sorry, but it's non-refundable. We're playing by American rules. Well, at least we're playing by my rules."

Blair's eyes widened in shock; a strange, lethargic numbness froze him in place. He was still asleep, right? This was just a nightmare. And nightmares weren't real - just a trick of the mind. It wasn't happening.

But it was ... Lee Brackett was planning to sell Jim on the open market - to the Chinese, the Russians, the Feds - it didn't make any difference. Brackett kept no loyalties other than to himself. This whole ordeal had been set up to show Jim off, to demonstrate a Sentinel's abilities. And use his Guide as bait for the trap.

Blair almost moaned aloud. Caught himself. Cut it off. He looked about to find himself crouched outside of the door. Instinct took over as Brackett finished the call, driving him into action. Blair ran lightly across the room and back to his chair, seating himself before the door opened again. Composing himself. That sick son of a bitch, he couldn't let this happen. He just couldn't! But what ...

Brackett reentered the main room, securing the door behind him. Then hesitated, peering at Blair over his shoulder. "Why, Mr. Sandburg, I can hear your heart jackhammering all the way over here," he said. "What have you been up to?"

Blair was glad to be sitting down. He could feel every bone in his body turn to mush. "You can hear me?"

"Loud and clear." Brackett moved towards him slowly; every shadow in the room seemed to follow in his wake. "You don't remember much about last night, do you?"

"What do you mean?" Blair dug his heels in the chair, forcing himself against the back. "What are you talking about?"

"You brought me over," Brackett told him. "It all came back - hearing, sight, taste, touch ... scent. You're afraid. I can smell it on you." He placed his hands on the chair arms, leaning over Blair, caging him in the seat. "So, I'll just ask you one more time, little Guide ... what have you been up to?"